paper-weight she gave your son, are there not
characters which read, '_Pure object of art belonging to Kao, of the
city of Pho-hai_'? That city no longer exists; but the memory of
Kao-pien remains, for he was governor of the province of Sze-tchouen,
and a mighty poet. And when he dwelt in the land of Chou, was not his
favorite the beautiful wanton Sie,--Sie-Thao, unmatched for grace among
all the women of her day? It was he who made her a gift of those
manuscripts of song; it was he who gave her those objects of rare art.
Sie-Thao died not as other women die. Her limbs may have crumbled to
dust; yet something of her still lives in this deep wood,--her Shadow
still haunts this shadowy place."

Tchang ceased to speak. A vague fear fell upon the three. The thin mists
of the morning made dim the distances of green, and deepened the ghostly
beauty of the woods. A faint breeze passed by, leaving a trail of
blossom-scent,--a last odor of dying flowers,--thin as that which clings
to the silk of a forgotten robe; and, as it passed, the trees seemed to
whisper across the silence, "_Sie-Thao_."

* * * * *

Fearing greatly for his son, Pelou sent the lad away at once to the
city of Kwang-tchau-fu. And there, in after years, Ming-Y obtained high
dignities and honors by reason of his talents and his learning; and he
married the daughter of an illustrious house, by whom he became the
father of sons and daughters famous for their virtues and their
accomplishments. Never could he forget Sie-Thao; and yet it is said that
he never spoke of her,--not even when his children begged him to tell
them the story of two beautiful objects that always lay upon his
writing-table: a lion of yellow jade, and a brush-case of carven agate.

[Illustration: Chinese calligraphy]

The Legend of Tchi-Niu

A SOUND OF GONGS, A SOUND OF SONG,--THE SONG OF THE BUILDERS
BUILDING THE DWELLINGS OF THE DEAD:--

_Khiu tchi ying-ying.
Tou tchi houng-houng.
Tch[)o] tchi tong-tong.
Si[)o] liu ping-ping._

THE LEGEND OF TCHI-NIU.

In the quaint commentary accompanying the text of that holy book of
Lao-tseu called _Kan-ing-p'ien_ may be found a little story so old that
the name of the one who first told it has been forgotten for a thousand
years, yet so beautiful that it lives still in the memory of four
hundred millions of people, like a prayer that, once learned,