begin. A giant of a man walked to the center of the arena. He carried a circular two foot gong. He raised his arm. In his hand was the hammer. He was sufficiently familiar with dramatic intensity to pause for a moment before bringing his arm down. The spectators scarcely breathed as they waited. Then came the crash of the gong, rolling like thunder, echoing to the distant corners of the province. The beating of the gong drove away evil spirits.
And now four singers and five dancers entered the arena. All were slight of build and dressed to resemble Fairies. Delicate songs and gentle music, with occasional interludes of tinkling bells like unto those attached to the corners of Buddhist temples, that tinkle eerily in the mountain silences as the breeze taps out new melodies.
Ming Huang listened, deeply absorbed. In part, these musicians had been trained by him. His ear was keen. He had perfect pitch. At rehearsals, when one note was out of tune he recognized it at once. With infinite patience he corrected it. He was never provoked. Over and over again it was played in order to perfect it. And so Ming Huang was elated that morning when the music was as flawless as the pantomime of the dancers. As the Fairies departed, a new song broke forth, a tantalizing melody in which guitars, reed organs and "Ching" stones blended with the rhythm of castanets. This was called Hsia-shao, the music of the Shun. The dancers carried flutes which they played to the rhapsody
of the dance, a tune so joyous that it stirred the emo-
