The Chinese Wonder Book. Norman Hinsdale Pitman
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Название: The Chinese Wonder Book
Автор: Norman Hinsdale Pitman
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Природа и животные
isbn: 9781462908660
isbn:
‘I… I fell and hurt myself.’
‘Where’s your other sister?’
‘She had to return to take care of the empty house.’
So the snake did not suspect anything. But later, when they sat down to eat, suddenly from outside flew a pretty little bird with a beautiful voice. The bird circled above the oldest sister’s head and sang:
‘Shame, shame, shame! Eat my food and wear my clothes! Shame, shame, shame on you!’
The two older sisters were afraid that their scheme would be exposed, so they quickly grabbed the bird and killed it. They then cooked the bird and shared its meat. But the second sister choked to death on a bone. Enraged, the remaining sister ate the rest of the bird and buried the bones she’d spat out in the yard.
The next morning, a bamboo grove shot up in the yard. whenever the wind blew over the towering green grove, the bamboo would sing:
‘Shame, shame, shame! Eat my food and wear my clothes! Shame, shame, shame on you!’
The sister was both angry and afraid at the same time, so she cut down the bamboo and made it into a chair. when the snake sat on it, nothing happened. But as soon as the sister sat on it, it collapsed, and she fell and died.”
There was always a momentary silence when my mother finished the story; then we all went to bed anxiously awaiting the next time she would retell the story. It was a story with a sad ending, because the youngest daughter died, so why did we want to hear it over and over again? Looking back now, I realize that it was not just because of the moral lesson that evildoers will be punished, but also because of the power of fairytales to transport us to a world of wonders.
Like the stories my mother told us, the wondrous tales collected in this volume have delighted generations of Chinese children, who have heard them from their parents, their grandparents, older siblings, or a particularly good storyteller. They could live in a spacious family compound in a big city or in a hovel at the edge of a remote village. There could be mosquito coils and palm fans, or perhaps air-conditioning and ice-cream to accompany the age-old tradition of whiling away a lazy summer evening with a story; the eager audience might be huddled around a fire or gathered on a heated brick bed on a cold winter night. These tales can serve to teach a moral lesson, like my mother’s The Gentleman Snake, or they may simply satisfy the needs of audiences and storytellers to let their imaginations run wild. we like them no matter what, as children and as adults, as listeners and—why not?—as storytellers ourselves.
“Oh, the gods will provide. I’ll find a few coppers somewhere,” replied the boy, trying to speak cheerfully, although in his heart he also had not the slightest idea in which direction to turn.
The winter had been a hard one: extreme cold, deep snow, and violent winds. The wang house had suffered greatly. The roof had fallen in, weighed down by heavy snow. Then a hurricane had blown a wall over, and Mingli, the son, up all night and exposed to a bitter cold wind, had caught pneumonia. Long days of illness followed, with the spending of extra money for medicine. All their scant savings had soon melted away, and at the shop where Mingli had been employed his place was filled by another. When at last he arose from his sick-bed he was too weak for hard labor and there seemed to be no work in the neighboring villages for him to do. Night after night he came home, trying not to be discouraged, but in his heart feeling the deep pangs of sorrow that come to the good son who sees his mother suffering for want of food and clothing.
“Bless his good heart!” said the poor widow after he had gone. “No mother ever had a better boy. I hope he is right in saying the gods will provide. It has been getting so much worse these past few weeks that it seems now as if my stomach were as empty as a rich man’s brain. why, even the rats have deserted our cottage, and there’s nothing left for poor Tabby, while old Blackfoot is nearly dead from starvation.”
When the old woman referred to the sorrows of her pets, her remarks were answered by a pitiful mewing and woebegone barking from the corner where the two unfed creatures were curled up together trying to keep warm.
Just then there was a loud knocking at the gate. When the widow Wang called out, “Come in!” she was surprised to see an old bald-headed priest standing in the doorway. “Sorry, but we have nothing,” she went on, feeling sure the visitor had come in search of food. “We have fed on scraps these two weeks—on scraps and scrapings—and now we are living on the memories of what we used to have when my son’s father was living. Our cat was so fat she couldn’t climb to the roof. Now look at her. You can hardly see her, she’s so thin. No, I’m sorry we can’t help you, friend priest, but you see how it is.”
“I didn’t come for alms,” cried the clean-shaven one, looking at her kindly, “but only to see what I could do to help you. The gods have listened long to the prayers of your devoted son. They honor him because he has not waited until you die to do sacrifice for you. They have seen how faithfully he has served you ever since his illness, and now, when he is worn out and unable to work, they are resolved to reward him for his virtue. You likewise have been a good mother and shall receive the gift I am now bringing.”
“What do you mean?” faltered Mrs. Wang, hardly believing her ears at hearing a priest speak of bestowing mercies. “Have you come here to laugh at our misfortunes?”
“By no means. Here in my hand I hold a tiny golden beetle which you will find has a magic power greater than any you ever dreamed of. I will leave this precious thing with you, a present from the god of filial conduct.”
“Yes, it will sell for a good sum,” murmured the other, looking closely at the trinket, “and will give us millet for several days. Thanks, good priest, for your kindness.”
“But you must by no means sell this golden beetle, for it has the power to fill your stomachs as long as you live.”
The widow stared in open-mouthed wonder at the priest’s surprising words.
“Yes, you must not doubt me, but listen carefully to what I tell you. whenever you wish food, you have only to place this ornament in a kettle of boiling water, saying over and over again the names of what you want to eat. In three minutes take off the lid, and there will be your dinner, smoking hot, and cooked more perfectly than any food you have ever eaten.”
“May I try it now?” she asked eagerly.
“As soon as I am gone.”
When the door was shut, the old woman hurriedly kindled a fire, boiled some water, and then dropped in the golden beetle, repeating these words again and again:
“Dumplings, dumplings, come to me,
I am thin as thin can be.
Dumplings, dumplings, smoking hot,
Dumplings, dumplings, fill the pot.”
Would those three minutes never pass? Could the priest have told the truth? Her old head was nearly wild with excitement as clouds of steam rose from the kettle. Off came СКАЧАТЬ