this is considered tragedy indeed. Her husband had longed for a son but he had not taken a secondary wife. Not always does a woman of China live little better than a slave existence, under the thumb of her mother-in-law. On the contrary, history records many instances of women completely dominating men, for example the love of the King of Wu for Hsi Shih, and Ming Huang's adoration of Yang Kwei-fei who permitted herself to be hanged to save her Emperor. This happened twelve hundred years ago but it is still lamented by poets as "the everlasting wrong." Usually the love which a Chinese has for his wife is something precious which he keeps within the walls of his garden. Truly written are the words, "A woman's hair draws more than a team of oxen."
One day when Lin Mie had been working long hours in the fields, she stopped for a moment to rest beneath a willow tree. A misty rain was falling, the soft, gentle rain of China that is unlike any other rain the world over. The air was fragrantly cool, and very silent, as though all nature were poised on tip-toe. Lin Mie was so very tired. Her arms ached and she folded them in her lap. Whether she slept or not she did not know but suddenly she realized that she was holding a sleeping child in her arms, a very little boy, about three years old. His hair was jet black, his nose was well-formed, his complexion was so pale he might not have been a Chinese at all. He was so handsome, like the child about whom she had always dreamed. Then he opened his eyes, they were blue, as blue as the early evening sky. This frightened her, for a person with blue eyes in China is usually blind. The child smiled and the radiance of his smile put the sun to shame.
"Mama," he said, and snuggled up to her.
"Who are you, little one?" she asked gently.
"I'm your boy," said he, "and you haven't given me a name. Besides I'm hungry. I haven't had morning rice."
So she took him into the house and cooked for him. As he ate she clasped her hands the table before her. Was it only her imagination? Her hands were pale and delicately beautiful, not a trace of toil did they show. Even the nails were pointed and unbroken.
The boy said, "The rice is good."
"Rice is life," she said, "and life is good." They named the boy Lin Mu, or rather the mother did, for Lin Wong showed a strange reluctance to call the boy his son, though he was happy that the little one had chosen to live with them. The name was very appropriate for Mu meant tree and by coincidence the family name, Lin, meant forest. And the mother thought, "My boy is indeed like a young tree, slim and strong enough to stand against a typhoon." Her happiness was complete, her eyes were large with wonder that such good fortune had befallen her.
One night as she made ready for sleep, there was a gorgeous bed where the old mattress had formerly been on the bare floor. And the sheets were of silk, petal soft. On the teakwood chair beside the bed was a sleeping-robe of caressive softness. She undressed and put on the silk robe and slipped between the fragrant sheets. She was so happy she wondered if this were all a dream and she would soon awaken to stern reality. Then her little boy crept into her arms, "Let me stay with you until papa comes," he whispered.
Lin Wong sat smoking before the door until his pipe was exhausted. He retired in the dark. When his body came in contact with the silken sheets, he disliked them immensely, for they were as slippery, he thought, as snake's skin. He was irked by the softness of the bed. After a sleepless hour, he tried the floor and slept at once.
During the following days, the mother seemed to grow younger and slenderer. But little change was to be noticed in the father, Lin Wong.
"How I wish that I could have a water-buffalo to do my plowing," he said. He thought seldom of his bodily comfort but constantly of his fields of millet, rice and turnips. They were a source of pleasure to him, as important as his heart or his lungs.
