mand, "Arrange me a wedding with the maid Tiao Fu, of Kiang Sing." So all things were arranged and came to pass.
King Ho Chu was well pleased. Old Ching Chi was the happiest man living. The maid Tiao Fu was quite content—for a space. She had gowns of gorgeousness undreamed. She had slaves to kneel and knock their heads whenever she beckoned. She had priceless jewels and food of the rarest. Incidentally, she had in the King a doting husband. She had everything—everything—except rain. . . .
Is it not hard to believe that Tiao Fu grew homesick for the rains of Kiang Sing? It is a strain upon belief, yet it is true, indubitably. Tiao Fu longed for the rains of her drenched and soggy much be-drizzled Kiang Sing. Did the King present her with a new necklace—she threw it petulantly away, exclaiming that she wanted rain—"Oh, I wish it would rain," said Tiao Fu. "Why don't you make it rain?" "Then I will," said the King. He installed a myriad high-spouting fountains, at no slight drain
