o take
of rice beneath our rooftree; but she is here. She was brought before
me, a little peasant girl, dressed in faded blue trousers and a jacket
that had been many times to the washing pool. Her black hair was
coiled in the girlhood knot at the side of the head, and in it she had
stuck a pumpkin blossom. She was such a pretty little country flower,
and looked so helpless, I drew her to me and questioned her. She told
me there were many within their compound wall: grandmother, father,
mother, brothers, sisters, uncles and cousins. The rice was gone, the
heavy clothing and all of value in the pawn-shop. Death was all around
them, and they watched each day as he drew nearer-- nearer. Then
came the buyers of girls. They had money that would buy rice for the
winter and mean life to all. But the mother would not listen. She was
told over and over that the price of one would save the many. Her
nights were spent in weeping and her days in fearful watching. At last,
worn out, despairing, she went to a far-off temple to ask Kwan-yin, the
Mother of Mercies, for help in her great trouble. While she was gone,
Ho-tai was taken to the women in the boat at the water-gate, and
many pieces of silver were paid the father. When the stomach is
empty, pride is not strong, and there were many small bodies crying
for rice that could only be bought with the sacrifice of one. That night,
as they started down the canal, they saw on the tow-path a peasant
women, her dress open far below her throat, her hair loose and flying,
her eyes swollen and dry from over-weeping, moaning pitifully,
stumbling on in the darkness, searching for the boat that had been
anchored at the water-gate; but it was gone. Poor little Ho-tai! She
said, "It was my mother!" and as she told me, he face was wet with
bitter rain. I soothed her and told her we would make her happy, and I
made a little vow in my heart that I would find that mother and bring
peace to her heart again.

The summer wanes and autumn is upon us with all its mists and
shadows of purple and grey. The camphor-trees look from the
distance like great balls of fire, and the eucalyptus-tree, in its dress of
brilliant yellow, is a gaily painted court lady. If one short glimpse of
thee my heart could gladden, then all my soul would be filled with the
beauty of this time, these days of red and gold. But now I seek thee
the long night through, and turn to make my arm thy pillow-- but thou
art gone.

I am thy