Korean Tales / Being a collection of stories translated from the Korean folk lore, together with introductory chapters descriptive of Korea

by Horace Newton Allen

II.

When Nahl Bo heard of the wonderful change taking place at his brother’s establishment, he went himself to look into the matter. He found the report not exaggerated, and began to upbraid his brother with dishonest methods, which accusation the brother stoutly denied, and further demanded where, and of whom, he could steal a house, such rich garments, fine furniture, and have it removed in a day to the site of his former hovel. Nahl Bo demanded an explanation, and Hyung Bo frankly told him how he had saved the bird from the snake and had bound up its broken limbs, so that it recovered; how the bird in return brought him a seed engraved with gold characters, instructing him how to plant and rear it; and how, having done so, the four gourds were born on the stalk, and from them, on ripening, had appeared these rich gifts. The ill-favored brother even then persisted in his charges, and in a gruff, ugly manner accused Hyung Bo of being worse than a thief in keeping all these fine goods, instead of dutifully sharing them with his elder brother. This insinuation of undutiful conduct really annoyed Hyung Bo, who, in his kindness of heart, forgave this unbrotherly senior, his former ill conduct, and thinking only of his own present good fortune, he kindly bestowed considerable gifts upon the undeserving brother, and doubtless would have done more but that the covetous man espyed the fair maiden, and at once insisted on having her. This was too much even for the patient Hyung Bo, who refused with a determination remarkable for him. A quarrel ensued, during which the elder brother took his departure in a rage, fully determined to use the secret of his brother’s success for all it was worth in securing rich gifts for himself.

Going home he struck at all the birds he could see, and ordered his servants to do the same. After killing many, he succeeded in catching one, and, breaking its legs, he took fish-skin and bound them up in splints, laying the little sufferer in a warm place, till it recovered and flew away, bandages and all. The result was as expected. The bird being questioned by the bird king concerning its crooked legs, related its story, dwelling, however, on the man’s cruelty in killing so many birds and then breaking its own legs. The king understood thoroughly, and gave the little cripple a seed to present to the wicked man on its return in the spring.

Springtime came, and one day, as Nahl Bo was sitting cross-legged in the little room opening on the veranda off his court, he heard a familiar bird-song. Dropping his long pipe, he threw open the paper windows, and there, sure enough, sat a crooked-legged bird on the clothes line, bearing a seed in its mouth. Nahl Bo would let no one touch it, but as the bird dropped the seed and flew away, he jumped out so eagerly that he forgot to slip his shoes on, and got his clean white stockings all befouled. He secured the seed, however, and felt that his fortune was made. He planted it carefully, as directed, and gave it his personal attention.

The vines were most luxurious. They grew with great rapidity, till they had well nigh covered the whole of his large house and out-buildings. Instead of one gourd, or even four, as in the brother’s case, the new vines bore twelve gourds, which grew and grew till the great beams of his house fairly groaned under their weight, and he had to block them in place to keep them from rolling off the roofs. He had to hire men to guard them carefully, for now that the source of Hyung Bo’s riches was understood, every one was anxious for a gourd. They did not know the secret, however, which Nahl Bo concealed through selfishness, and Hyung through fear that every one would take to killing and maiming birds as his wicked brother had done.

Maintaining a guard was expensive, and the plant so loosened the roof tiles, by the tendrils searching for earth and moisture in the great layer of clay under the tiles, that the rainy season made great havoc with his house. Large portions of plaster from the inside fell upon the paper ceilings, which in turn gave way, letting the dirty water drip into the rooms, and making the house almost uninhabitable. At last, however, the plants could do no more harm; the frost had come, the vines had shrivelled away, and the enormous ripe gourds were carefully lowered, amid the yelling of a score of coolies, as each seemed to get in the others' way trying to manipulate the ropes and poles with which the gourds were let down to the ground. Once inside the court, and the great doors locked, Nahl Bo felt relieved, and shutting out every one but a carpenter and his assistant, he prepared for the great surprise which he knew must await him, in spite of his most vivid dreams.

The carpenter insisted upon the enormous sum of 1,000 cash for opening each gourd, and as he was too impatient to await the arrival of another, and as he expected to be of princely wealth in a few moments, Nahl Bo agreed to the exorbitant price. Whereupon, carefully bracing a gourd, the men began sawing it through. It seemed a long time before the gourd fell in halves. When it did, out came a party of rope-dancers, such as perform at fairs and public places. Nahl Bo was unprepared for any such surprise as this, and fancied it must be some great mistake. They sang and danced about as well as the crowded condition of the court would allow, and the family looked on complacently, supposing that the band had been sent to celebrate their coming good fortune. But Nahl Bo soon had enough of this. He wanted to get at his riches, and seeing that the actors were about to stretch their ropes for a more extensive performance, he ordered them to cease and take their departure. To his amazement, however, they refused to do this, until he had paid them 5,000 cash for their trouble. “You sent for us and we came,” said the leader. “Now pay us, or we will live with you till you do.” There was no help for it, and with great reluctance and some foreboding, he gave them the money and dismissed them. Then Nahl Bo turned to the carpenter, who chanced to be a man with an ugly visage, made uglier by a great hare-lip. “You,” he said, “are the cause of all this. Before you entered this court these gourds were filled with gold, and your ugly face has changed it to beggars.”

Number two was opened with no better results, for out came a body of Buddhist priests, begging for their temple, and promising many sons in return for offerings of suitable merit. Although disgusted beyond measure, Nahl Bo still had faith in the gourds, and to get rid of the priests, lest they should see his riches, he gave them also 5,000 cash.

As soon as the priests were gone, gourd number three was opened, with still poorer results, for out came a procession of paid mourners followed by a corpse borne by bearers. The mourners wept as loudly as possible, and all was in a perfect uproar. When ordered to go, the mourners declared they must have money for mourning, and to pay for burying the body. Seeing no possible help for it, 5,000 cash was finally given them, and they went out with the bier. Then Nahl Bo’s wife came into the court, and began to abuse the hare-lipped man for bringing upon them all this trouble. Whereupon the latter became angry and demanded his money that he might leave. They had no intention of giving up the search as yet, however, and, as it was too late to change carpenters, the ugly fellow was paid for the work already done, and given an advance on that yet remaining. He therefore set to work upon the fourth gourd, which Nahl Bo watched with feverish anxiety.

From this one there came a band of gee sang, or dancing girls. There was one woman from each province, and each had her song and dance. One sang of the yang wang, or wind god; another of the wang jay, or pan deity; one sang of the sung jee, or money that is placed as a christening on the roof tree of every house. There was the cuckoo song. The song of the ancient tree that has lived so long that its heart is dead and gone, leaving but a hollow space, yet the leaves spring forth every spring-tide. The song of laughter and mourning, with an injunction to see to it that the rice offering be made to the departed spirits. To the king of the sun and stars a song was sung. And last of all, one votary sang of the twelve months that make the year, the twelve hours that make the day, the thirty days that make the month, and of the new year’s birth, as the old year dies, taking with it their ills to be buried in the past, and reminding all people to celebrate the New Year holidays by donning clean clothes and feasting on good food, that the following year may be to them one of plenty and prosperity. Having finished their songs and their graceful posturing and waving of their gay silk banners, the gee sang demanded their pay, which had to be given them, reducing the family wealth 5,000 cash more.

The wife now tried to persuade Nahl Bo to stop and not open more, but the hare-lip man offered to open the next for 500 cash, as he was secretly enjoying the sport. So the fifth was opened a little, when a yellow-looking substance was seen inside, which was taken to be gold, and they hurriedly opened it completely. But instead of gold, out came an acrobatic pair,—being a strong man with a youth dressed to represent a girl. The man danced about, holding his young companion balanced upon his shoulders, singing meanwhile a song of an ancient king, whose riotous living was so distasteful to his subjects that he built him a cavernous palace, the floor of which was covered with quicksilver, the walls were decorated with jewels, and myriad lamps turned the darkness into day. Here were to be found the choicest viands and wines, with bands of music to entertain the feasters: most beautiful women; and he enjoyed himself most luxuriously until his enemy, learning the secret, threw open the cavern to the light of day, when all of the beautiful women immediately disappeared in the sun’s rays.

Before he could get these people to discontinue their performance, Nahl Bo had to give them also 5,000 cash. Yet in spite of all his ill luck, he decided to open another. Which being done, a jester came forth, demanding the expense money for his long journey. This was finally given him, for Nahl Bo had hit upon what he deemed a clever expedient. He took the wise fool aside, and asked him to use his wisdom in pointing out to him which of these gourds contained gold. Whereupon the jester looked wise, tapped several gourds, and motioned to each one as being filled with gold.

The seventh was therefore opened, and a lot of yamen runners came forth, followed by an official. Nahl Bo tried to run from what he knew must mean an exorbitant “squeeze,” but he was caught and beaten for his indiscretion. The official called for his valise, and took from it a paper, which his secretary read, announcing that Nahl Bo was the serf of this lord and must hereafter pay to him a heavy tribute. At this they groaned in their hearts, and the wife declared that even now the money was all gone, even to the last cash, while the rabble which had collected had stolen nearly every thing worth removing. Yet the officer’s servants demanded pay for their services, and they had to be given a note secured on the property before they would leave. Matters were now so serious that they could not be made much worse, and it was decided to open each remaining gourd, that if there were any gold they might have it.

When the next one was opened a bevy of moo tang women (soothsayers) came forth, offering to drive away the spirit of disease and restore the sick to health. They arranged their banners for their usual dancing ceremony, brought forth their drums, with which to exorcise the demons, and called for rice to offer to the spirits and clothes to burn for the spirits' apparel.

“Get out!” roared Nahl Bo. “I am not sick except for the visitation of such as yourselves, who are forever burdening the poor, and demanding pay for your supposed services. Away with you, and befool some other pah sak ye (eight month’s man—fool) if you can. I want none of your services.”

They were no easier to drive away, however, than were the other annoying visitors that had come with his supposed good fortune. He had finally to pay them as he had the others; and dejectedly he sat, scarcely noticing the opening of the ninth gourd.

The latter proved to contain a juggler, and the exasperated Nahl Bo, seeing but one small man, determined to make short work of him. Seizing him by his topknot of hair, he was about to drag him to the door, when the dexterous fellow, catching his tormentor by the thighs, threw him headlong over his own back, nearly breaking his neck, and causing him to lie stunned for a time, while the expert bound him hand and foot, and stood him on his head, so that the wife was glad to pay the fellow and dismiss him ere the life should be departed from her lord.

On opening the tenth a party of blind men came out, picking their way with their long sticks, while their sightless orbs were raised towards the unseen heavens. They offered to tell the fortunes of the family. But, while their services might have been demanded earlier, the case was now too desperate for any such help. The old men tinkled their little bells, and chanted some poetry addressed to the four good spirits stationed at the four corners of the earth, where they patiently stand bearing the world upon their shoulders; and to the distant heavens that arch over and fold the earth in their embrace, where the two meet at the far horizon (as pictured in the Korean flag). The blind men threw their dice, and, fearing lest they should prophesy death, Nahl Bo quickly paid and dismissed them.

The next gourd was opened but a trifle, that they might first determine as to the wisdom of letting out its contents. Before they could determine, however, a voice like thunder was heard from within, and the huge form of a giant arose, splitting open the gourd as he came forth. In his anger he seized poor Nahl Bo and tossed him upon his shoulders as though he would carry him away. Whereupon the wife plead with tears for his release, and gladly gave an order for the amount of the ransom. After which the monster allowed the frightened man to fall to the ground, nearly breaking his aching bones in the fall.

The carpenter did not relish the sport any longer; it seemed to be getting entirely too dangerous. He thereupon demanded the balance of his pay, which they finally agreed to give him, providing he would open the last remaining gourd. For the desperate people hoped to find this at least in sufficient condition that they might cook or make soup of it, since they had no food left at all and no money, while the other gourds were so spoiled by the tramping of the feet of their unbidden guests, as to be totally unfit for food.

The man did as requested, but had only sawed a very little when the gourd split open as though it were rotten, while a most awful stench arose, driving every one from the premises. This was followed by a gale of wind, so severe as to destroy the buildings, which, in falling, took fire from the kang, and while the once prosperous man looked on in helpless misery, the last of his remaining property was swept forever from him.

The seed that had brought prosperity to his honest, deserving brother had turned prosperity into ruin to the cruel, covetous Nahl Bo, who now had to subsist upon the charity of his kind brother, whom he had formerly treated so cruelly.

CHUN YANG,

THE FAITHFUL DANCING-GIRL WIFE.

In the city of Nam Won, in Chull Lah Do (the southern province of Korea), lived the Prefect Ye Tung Uhi. He was the happy father of a son of some sixteen years of age. Being an only child the boy was naturally much petted. He was not an ordinary young man, however, for in addition to a handsome, manly face and stalwart figure, he possessed a bright, quick mind, and was naturally clever. A more dutiful son could not be found. He occupied a house in the rear of his father’s quarters, and devoted himself to his books, going regularly each evening to make his obeisance to his father, and express his wish that pleasant, refreshing sleep might come to him; then, in the morning, before breakfasting, he was wont to go and enquire how the new day had found his father.

The Prefect was but recently appointed to rule over the Nam Won district when the events about to be recorded occurred. The winter months had been spent mostly indoors, but as the mild spring weather approached and the buds began to open to the singing of the joyful birds, Ye Toh Ryung, or Toh Ryung, the son, felt that he must get out and enjoy nature. Like an animal that has buried itself in a hole in the earth, he came forth rejoicing; the bright yellow birds welcomed him from the willow trees, the soft breezes fanned his cheeks, and the freshness of the air exhilarated him. He called his pang san (valet) and asked him concerning the neighboring views. The servant was a native of the district, and knew the place well; he enumerated the various places especially prized for their scenery, but concluded with: “But of all rare views, ‘Kang Hal Loo’ is the rarest. Officers from the eight provinces come to enjoy the scenery, and the temple is covered with verses they have left in praise of the place.” “Very well, then, we will go there,” said Toh Ryung “Go you and clean up the place for my reception.”

The servant hurried off to order the temple swept and spread with clean mats, while his young master sauntered along almost intoxicated by the freshness and new life of every thing around him. Arrived at the place, after a long, tedious ascent of the mountain side, he flung himself upon a huge bolster-like cushion, and with half-closed eyes, drank in the beauty of the scene along with the balmy, perfume-laden spring zephyrs. He called his servant, and congratulated him upon his taste, declaring that were the gods in search of a fine view, they could not find a place that would surpass this; to which the man answered:

“That is true; so true, in fact, that it is well known that the spirits do frequent this place for its beauty.”

As he said this, Toh Ryung had raised himself, and was leaning on one arm, gazing out toward one side, when, as though it were one of the spirits just mentioned, the vision of a beautiful girl shot up into the air and soon fell back out of sight in the shrubbery of an adjoining court-yard. He could just get a confused picture of an angelic face, surrounded by hair like the black thunder-cloud, a neck of ravishing beauty, and a dazzle of bright silks,—when the whole had vanished. He was dumb with amazement, for he felt sure he must have seen one of the spirits said to frequent the place; but before he could speak, the vision arose again, and he then had time to see that it was but a beautiful girl swinging in her dooryard. He did not move, he scarcely breathed, but sat with bulging eyes absorbing the prettiest view he had ever seen. He noted the handsome, laughing face, the silken black hair, held back in a coil by a huge coral pin; he saw the jewels sparkling on the gay robes, the dainty white hands and full round arms, from which the breezes blew back the sleeves; and as she flew higher in her wild sport, oh, joy! two little shoeless feet encased in white stockings, shot up among the peach blossoms, causing them to fall in showers all about her. In the midst of the sport her hairpin loosened and fell, allowing her raven locks to float about her shoulders; but, alas! the costly ornament fell on a rock and broke, for Toh Ryung could hear the sharp click where he sat. This ended the sport, and the little maid disappeared, all unconscious of the agitation she had caused in a young man’s breast by her harmless spring exercise.

After some silence, the young man asked his servant if he had seen any thing, for even yet he feared his mind had been wandering close to the dreamland. After some joking, the servant confessed to having seen the girl swinging, whereupon his master demanded her name. “She is Uhl Mahs' daughter, a gee sang (public dancing girl) of this city; her name is Chun Yang Ye”—fragrant spring. “I yah! superb; I can see her then, and have her sing and dance for me,” exclaimed Toh Ryung. “Go and call her at once, you slave.”

The man ran, over good road and bad alike, up hill and down, panting as he went; for while the back of the women’s quarters of the adjoining compound was near at hand, the entrance had to be reached by a long circuit. Arriving out of breath, he pounded at the gate, calling the girl by name.

“Who is that calls me?” she enquired when the noise had attracted her attention.

“Oh, never mind who,” answered the exhausted man, “it is great business; open the door.”

“Who are you, and what do you want?”

“I am nobody, and I want nothing; but Ye Toh Ryung is the Governor’s son, and he wants to see the Fragrant Spring.”

“Who told Ye Toh Ryung my name?”

“Never mind who told him; if you did not want him to know you, then why did you swing so publicly? The great man’s son came here to rest and see the beautiful views; he saw you swinging, and can see nothing since. You must go, but you need not fear. He is a gentleman, and will treat you nicely; if your dancing pleases him as did your swinging, he may present you with rich gifts, for he is his father’s only son.”

Regretting in her proud spirit that fates had placed her in a profession where she was expected to entertain the nobility whether it suited her or not, the girl combed and arranged her hair, tightened her sash, smoothed her disordered clothes, and prepared to look as any vain woman would wish who was about to be presented to the handsomest and most gifted young nobleman of the province. She followed the servant slowly till they reached Toh Ryung’s stopping place. She waited while the servant announced her arrival, for a gee sang must not enter a nobleman’s presence unbidden. Toh Ryung was too excited to invite her in, however, and his servant had to prompt him, when, laughing at his own agitation, he pleasantly bade her enter and sit down.

“What is your name?” asked he.

“My name is Chun Yang Ye,” she said, with a voice that resembled silver jingling in a pouch.

“How old are you?”

“My age is just twice eight years.”

“Ah ha!” laughed the now composed boy, “how fortunate; you are twice eight, and I am four fours. We are of the same age. Your name, Fragrant Spring, is the same as your face—very beautiful. Your cheeks are like the petals of the mah hah that ushers in the soft spring. Your eyes are like those of the eagle sitting on the ancient tree, but soft and gentle as the moonlight,” ran on the enraptured youth. “When is your birthday?”

“My birthday occurs at midnight on the eighth day of the fourth moon,” modestly replied the flattered girl, who was quickly succumbing to the charms of the ardent and handsome young fellow, whose heart she could see was already her own.

“Is it possible?” exclaimed he; “that is the date of the lantern festival, and it is also my own birthday, only I was born at eleven instead of twelve. I am sorry I was not born at twelve now. But it doesn’t matter. Surely the gods had some motive in sending us into the world at the same time, and thus bringing us together at our sixteenth spring-tide. Heaven must have intended us to be man and wife”; and he bade her sit still as she started as though to take her departure. Then he began to plead with her, pacing the room in his excitement, till his attendant likened the sound to the combat of ancient warriors. “This chance meeting of ours has a meaning,” he argued. “Often when the buds were bursting, or when the forest trees were turning to fire and blood, have I played and supped with pretty gee sang, watched them dance, and wrote them verses, but never before have I lost my heart; never before have I seen any one so incomparably beautiful. You are no common mortal. You were destined to be my wife; you must be mine, you must marry me.”

She wrinkled her fair brow and thought, for she was no silly, foolish thing, and while her heart was almost, if not quite won by this tempestuous lover, yet she saw where his blind love would not let him see. “You know,” she said, “the son of a nobleman may not marry a gee sang without the consent of his parents. I know I am a gee sang by name, the fates have so ordained, but, nevertheless, I am an honorable woman, always have been, and expect to remain so.”

“Certainly,” he answered, “we cannot celebrate the ‘six customs ceremony’ (parental arrangements, exchange of letters, contracts, exchange of presents, preliminary visits, ceremony proper), but we can be privately married just the same.”

“No, it cannot be. Your father would not consent, and should we be privately married, and your father be ordered to duty at some other place, you would not dare take me with you. Then you would marry the daughter of some nobleman, and I would be forgotten. It must not, cannot be,” and she arose to depart. “Stay, stay,” he begged. “You do me an injustice. I will never forsake you, or marry another. I swear it. And a yang ban (noble) has but one mouth, he cannot speak two ways. Even should we leave this place I will take you with me, or return soon to you. You must not refuse me.”

“But suppose you change your mind or forget your promises; words fly out of the mouth and are soon lost, ink and paper are more lasting; give me your promises in writing,” she says.

Instantly the young man took up paper and brush; having rubbed the ink well, he wrote: “A memorandum. Desiring to enjoy the spring scenery, I came to Kang Hal Loo. There I saw for the first time my heaven-sent bride. Meeting for the first time, I pledge myself for one hundred years; to be her faithful husband. Should I change, show this paper to the magistrate.” Folding up the manuscript with care he handed it to her. While putting it into her pocket she said: “Speech has no legs, yet it can travel many thousands of miles. Suppose this matter should reach your father’s ears, what would you do?”

“Never fear; my father was once young, who knows but I may be following the example of his early days. I have contracted with you, and we now are married, even my father cannot change it. Should he discover our alliance and disown me, I will still be yours, and together we shall live and die.”

She arose to go, and pointing with her jade-like hand to a clump of bamboos, said: “There is my house; as I cannot come to you, you must come to me and make my mother’s house your home, as much as your duty to your parents will allow.”

As the sun began to burn red above the mountains' peaks, they bade each other a fond adieu, and each departed for home accompanied by their respective attendants.

Ye Toh Ryung went to his room, which now seemed a prison-like place instead of the pleasant study he had found it. He took up a book, but reading was no satisfaction, every word seemed to transform itself into Chun or Yang. Every thought was of the little maid of the spring fragrance. He changed his books, but it was no use, he could not even keep them right side up, not to mention using them properly. Instead of singing off his lessons as usual, he kept singing, Chun Yang Ye poh go sip so (I want to see the spring fragrance), till his father, hearing the confused sounds, sent to ascertain what was the matter with his son. The boy was singing, “As the parched earth cries for rain after the seven years' drought, so my heart pants for my Chun Yang Ye, whose face to me is like the rays of the sun upon the earth after a nine years' rain.” He paid no heed to the servants, and soon his father sent his private secretary, demanding what it was the boy desired so much that he should keep singing. “I want to see, I want to see.” Toh Ryung answered that he was reading an uninteresting book, and looking for another. Though he remained more quiet after this, he still was all impatience to be off to his sweetheart-wife, and calling his attendant, he sent him out to see how near the sun was to setting. Enjoying the sport, the man returned, saying the sun was now high over head.

“Begone,” said he, “can any one hold back the sun; it had reached the mountain tops before I came home.”

At last the servant brought his dinner, for which he had no appetite. He could ill abide the long delay between the dinner hour and the regular time for his father’s retiring. The time did come, however, and when the lights were extinguished and his father had gone to sleep, he took his trusty servant, and, scaling the back wall, they hurried to the house of Chun Yang Ye.

As they approached they heard someone playing the harp, and singing of the “dull pace of the hours when one’s lover is away.” Being admitted, they met the mother, who, with some distrust, received Toh Ryung’s assurances and sent him to her daughter’s apartments.

The house pleased him; it was neat and well-appointed. The public room, facing the court, was lighted by a blue lantern, which in the mellow light resembled a pleasure barge drifting on the spring flood. Banners of poetry hung upon the walls. Upon the door leading to Chun Yang’s little parlor hung a banner inscribed with verses to her ancestors and descendants, praying that “a century be short to span her life and happiness, and that her children’s children be blessed with prosperity for a thousand years.” Through the open windows could be seen moonlight glimpses of the little garden of the swinging girl. There was a miniature lake almost filled with lotus plants, where two sleepy swans floated with heads beneath their wings, while the occasional gleam of a gold or silver scale showed that the water was inhabited. A summer-house on the water’s edge was almost covered with fragrant spring blossoms, the whole being enclosed in a little grove of bamboo and willows, that shut out the view of outsiders.

While gazing at this restful sight, Chun Yang Ye herself came out, and all was lost in the lustre of her greater beauty. She asked him into her little parlor, where was a profusion of choice carved cabinets and ornaments of jade and metal, while richly embroidered mats covered the highly-polished floor. She was so delighted that she took both his hands in her pretty, white, soft ones, and gazing longingly into each other’s eyes, she led him into another room, where, on a low table, a most elegant lunch was spread. They sat down on the floor and surveyed the loaded table. There were fruits preserved in sugar, candied nuts arranged in many dainty, nested boxes; sweet pickles and confections, pears that had grown in the warmth of a summer now dead, and grapes that had been saved from decay by the same sun that had called them forth. Quaint old bottles with long, twisted necks, contained choice medicated wines, to be drunk from the little crackled cups, such as the ancients used.

Pouring out a cup, she sang to him: “This is the elixir of youth; drinking this, may you never grow old; though ten thousand years pass over your head, may you stand like the mountain that never changes.” He drank half of the cup’s contents, and praised her sweet voice, asking for another song. She sang: “Let us drain the cup while we may. In the grave who will be our cup-bearer. While we are young let us play. When old, mirth gives place to care. The flowers can bloom but a few days at best, and must then die, that the seed may be born. The moon is no sooner full than it begins to wane, that the young moon may rise.”

The sentiments suited him, the wine exhilarated him, and his spirits rose. He drained his cup, and called for more wine and song; but she restrained him. They ate the dainty food, and more wine and song followed. She talked of the sweet contract they had made, and anon they pledged themselves anew. Not content with promises for this short life, they went into the future, and he yielded readily to her request, that when death should at last o’ertake them, she would enter a flower, while he would become a butterfly, coming and resting on her bosom, and feasting off her fragrant sweetness.

The father did not know of his son’s recent alliance, though the young man honestly went and removed Chun Yang’s name from the list of the district gee sang, kept in his father’s office; for, now that she was a married woman, she need no longer go out with the dancing-girls. Every morning, as before, the dutiful son presented himself before his father, with respectful inquiries after his health, and his rest the preceding night. But, nevertheless, each night the young man’s apartments were deserted, while he spent the time in the house of his wife.

Thus the months rolled on with amazing speed. The lovers were in paradise. The father enjoyed his work, and labored hard for the betterment of the condition of his subjects. Never before had so large a tribute been sent by this district. Yet the people were not burdened as much as when far less of their products reached the government granaries. The honest integrity of the officer reached the King in many reports, and when a vacancy occurred at the head of the Treasury Department, he was raised to be Ho Joh Pansa (Secretary of Finance). Delighted, the father sent for his son and told him the news, but, to his amazement, the young man had naught to say, in fact he seemed as one struck dumb, as well he might. Within himself there was a great tumult; his heart beat so violently as to seem perceptible, and at times it arose and filled his throat, cutting off any speech he might wish to utter. Surprised at the conduct of his son, the father bade him go and inform his mother, that she might order the packing to commence.

He went; but soon found a chance to fly to Chun Yang, who, at first, was much concerned for his health, as his looks denoted a serious illness. When he had made her understand, however, despair seized her, and they gazed at each other in mute dismay and utter helplessness. At last she seemed to awaken from her stupor, and, in an agony of despair, she beat her breast, and moaned: “Oh, how can we separate. We must die, we cannot live apart”; and tears coming to her relief, she cried: “If we say good-by, it will be forever; we can never meet again. Oh, I feared it; we have been too happy—too happy. The one who made this order is a murderer; it must be my death. If you go to Seoul and leave me, I must die. I am but a poor weak woman, and I cannot live without you.”

He took her, and laying her head on his breast, tried to soothe her. “Don’t cry so bitterly,” he begged; “my heart is almost broken now. I cannot bear it. I wish it could always be spring-time; but this is only like the cruel winter that, lingering in the mountain, sometimes sweeps down the valley, drives out the spring, and kills the blossoms. We will not give up and die, though. We have contracted for one hundred years, and this will be but a bitter separation that will make our speedy reunion more blissful.”

“Oh,” she says, “but how can I live here alone, with you in Seoul? Just think of the long, tedious summer days, the long and lonely winter nights. I must see no one. I cannot know of you, for who will tell me, and how am I to endure it?”

“Had not my father been given this great honor, we would perhaps not have been parted; as it is I must go, there is no help for it, but you must believe me when I promise I will come again. Here, take this crystal mirror as a pledge that I will keep my word”; and he gave her his pocket-mirror of rock crystal.

“Promise me when you will return,” said she; and then, without awaiting an answer, she sang: “When the sear and withered trunk begins to bloom, and the dead bird sings in the branches, then my lover will come to me. When the river flows over the eastern mountains, then may I see him glide along in his ship to me.” He chided her for her lack of faith, and assured her again it was as hard for one as the other. After a time she became more reconciled, and taking off her jade ring, gave it to him for a keepsake, saying: “My love, like this ring, knows no end. You must go, alas! but my love will go with you, and may it protect you when crossing wild mountains and distant rivers, and bring you again safely to me. If you go to Seoul, you must not trifle, but take your books, study hard, and enter the examinations, then, perhaps, you may obtain rank and come to me. I will stand with my hand shading my eyes, ever watching for your return.”

Promising to cherish her speech, with her image in his breast, they made their final adieu, and tore apart.

The long journey seemed like a funeral to the lover. Everywhere her image rose before him. He could think of nothing else; but by the time he arrived at the capital he had made up his mind as to his future course, and from that day forth his parents wondered at his stern, determined manner. He shut himself up in his room with his books. He would neither go out, or form acquaintances among the young noblemen of the gay city. Thus he spent months in hard study, taking no note of passing events.

In the meantime a new magistrate came to Nam Won. He was a hard-faced, hard-hearted politician. He associated with the dissolute, and devoted himself to riotous living, instead of caring for the welfare of the people. He had not been long in the place till he had heard so much of the matchless beauty of Chun Yang Ye that he determined to see, and if, as reported, marry her. Accordingly he called the clerk of the yamen, and asked concerning “the beautiful gee sang Chun Yang Ye.” The clerk answered that such a name had appeared on the records of the dancing girls, but that it had been removed, as she had contracted a marriage with the son of the previous magistrate, and was now a lady of position and respectability.

“You lying rascal!” yelled the enraged officer, who could ill brook any interference with plans he had formed. “A nobleman’s son cannot really marry a dancing girl; leave my presence at once, and summon this remarkable ‘lady’ to appear before me.” The clerk could only do as he was bidden, and, summoning the yamen runners, he sent to the house of Chun Yang Ye to acquaint her with the official order.

The runners, being natives of the locality, were loath to do as commanded, and when the fair young woman gave them “wine money” they willingly agreed to report her “too sick to attend the court.” Upon doing so, however, the wrath of their master came down upon them. They were well beaten, and then commanded to go with a chair and bring the woman, sick or well, while if they disobeyed him a second time they would be put to death.

Of course they went, but after they had explained to Chun Yang Ye their treatment, her beauty and concern for their safety so affected them, that they offered to go back without her, and face their doom. She would not hear to their being sacrificed for her sake, and prepared to accompany them. She disordered her hair, soiled her fair face, and clad herself in dingy, ill-fitting gowns, which, however, seemed only to cause her natural beauty the more to shine forth. She wept bitterly on entering the yamen, which fired the anger of the official. He ordered her to stop her crying or be beaten, and then as he looked at her disordered and tear-stained face, that resembled choice jade spattered with mud, he found that her beauty was not overstated.

“What does your conduct mean?” said he. “Why have you not presented yourself at this office with the other gee sang?”

“Because, though born a gee sang, I am by marriage a lady, and not subject to the rules of my former profession,” she answered.

“Hush!” roared the Prefect. “No more of this nonsense. Present yourself here with the other gee sang, or pay the penalty.”

“Never” she bravely cried. “A thousand deaths first. You have no right to exact such a thing of me. You are the King’s servant, and should see that the laws are executed, rather than violated.”

The man was fairly beside himself with wrath at this, and ordered her chained and thrown into prison at once. The people all wept with her, which but increased her oppressor’s anger, and calling the jailer he ordered him to treat her with especial rigor, and be extra vigilant lest some sympathizers should assist her to escape. The jailer promised, but nevertheless he made things as easy for her as was possible under the circumstances. Her mother came and moaned over her daughter’s condition, declaring that she was foolish in clinging to her faithless husband, who had brought all this trouble upon them. The neighbors, however, upbraided the old woman for her words, and assured the daughter that she had done just right, and would yet be rewarded. They brought presents of food, and endeavored to make her condition slightly less miserable by their attentions.

She passed the night in bowing before Heaven and calling on the gods and her husband to release her, and in the morning when her mother came, she answered the latter’s inquiries as to whether she was alive or not, in a feeble voice which alarmed her parent.

“I am still alive, but surely dying. I can never see my Toh Ryung again; but when I am dead you must take my body to Seoul and bury it near the road over which he travels the most, that even in death I may be near him, though separated in life.” Again the mother scolded her for her devotion and for making the contract that binds her strongly to such a man. She could stand it no longer, and begged her mother that she would go away and come to see her no more if she had no pleasanter speech than such to make. “I followed the dictates of my heart and my mind. I did what was right. Can I foretell the future? Because the sun shines to-day are we assured that to-morrow it will shine? The deed is done. I do not regret it; leave me to my grief, but do not add to it by your unkindness.”

Thus the days lengthened into months, but she seemed like one dead, and took no thought of time or its flight. She was really ill, and would have died but for the kindness of the jailer. At last one night she dreamed that she was in her own room, dressing, and using the little mirror Toh Ryung had given her, when, without apparent cause, it suddenly broke in halves. She awoke, startled, and felt sure that death was now to liberate her from her sorrows, for what other meaning could the strange occurrence have than that her body was thus to be broken. Although anxious to die and be free, she could not bear the thought of leaving this world without a last look at her loved husband whose hands alone could close her eyes when her spirit had departed. Pondering much upon the dream, she called the jailer and asked him to summon a blind man, as she wished her fortune told. The jailer did so. It was no trouble, for almost as she spoke they heard one picking his way along the street with his long stick, and uttering his peculiar call. He came in and sat down, when they soon discovered that they were friends, for before the man became blind he had been in comfortable circumstances, and had known her father intimately. She therefore asked him to be to her as a kind father, and faithfully tell her when and how death would come to her. He said: “When the blossoms fade and fall they do not die, their life simply enters the seed to bloom again. Death to you would but liberate your spirit to shine again in a fairer body.”

She thanked him for his kind generalities, but was impatient, and telling her dream, she begged a careful interpretation of it. He promptly answered, that to be an ill omen a mirror in breaking must make a noise. And on further questioning, he found that in her dream a bird had flown into the room just as the mirror was breaking.

“I see,” said he. “The bird was bearer of good news, and the breaking of the mirror, which Toh Ryung gave you, indicates that the news concerned him; let us see.” Thereupon he arranged a bunch of sticks, shook them well, while uttering his chant, and threw them upon the floor. Then he soon answered that the news was good. “Your husband has done well. He has passed his examinations, been promoted, and will soon come to you.”

She was too happy to believe it, thinking the old man had made it up to please his old friend’s distressed child. Yet she cherished the dream and the interpretation in her breast, finding in it solace to her weary, troubled heart.

In the meantime Ye Toh Ryung had continued his studious work day and night, to the anxiety of his parents. Just as he began to feel well prepared for the contest he awaited, a royal proclamation announced, that owing to the fact that peace reigned throughout the whole country, that the closing year had been one of prosperity, and no national calamity had befallen the country, His Gracious Majesty had ordered a grand guaga, or competitive examination, to be held. As soon as it became known, literary pilgrims began to pour in from all parts of the country, bent on improving their condition.

The day of the examination found a vast host seated on the grass in front of the pavilion where His Majesty and his officers were. Ye Toh Ryung was given as a subject for his composition, “A lad playing in the shade of a pine tree is questioned by an aged wayfarer.”

The young man long rubbed his ink-stick on the stone, thinking very intently meanwhile, but when he began to write in the beautiful characters for which he was noted he seemed inspired, and the composition rolled forth as though he had committed it from the ancient classics. He made the boy express such sentiments of reverence to age as would have charmed the ancients, and the wisdom he put into the conversation was worthy of a king. The matter came so freely that his task was soon finished; in fact many were still wrinkling their brows in preliminary thought, while he was carefully folding up his paper, concealing his name so that the author should not be recognized till the paper had been judged on its merits. He tossed his composition into the pen, and it was at once inspected, being the first one, and remarkably quickly done. When His Majesty heard it read, and saw the perfect characters, he was astonished. Such excellence in writing, composition, and sentiment was unparalleled, and before any other papers were received it was known that none could excel this one. The writer’s name was ascertained, and the King was delighted to learn that ‘twas the son of his favorite officer. The young man was sent for, and received the congratulations of his King. The latter gave him the usual three glasses of wine, which he drank with modesty. He was then given a wreath of flowers from the King’s own hands; the court hat was presented to him, with lateral wings, denoting the rapidity—as the flight of a bird—with which he must execute his Sovereign’s commands. Richly embroidered breast-plates were given him, to be worn over the front and back of his court robes. He then went forth, riding on a gayly caparisoned horse, preceded by a band of palace musicians and attendants. Everywhere he was greeted with the cheers of the populace, as for three days he devoted his time to this public display. This duty having been fulfilled, he devotedly went to the graves of his ancestors, and prostrated himself with offerings before them, bemoaning the fact that they could not be present to rejoice in his success. He then presented himself before his King, humbly thanking him for his gracious condescension in bestowing such great honors upon one so utterly unworthy.

His Sovereign was pleased, and told the young man to strive to imitate the example of his honest father. He then asked him what position he wished. Ye Toh Ryung answered that he wished no other position than one that would enable him to be of service to his King. “The year has been one of great prosperity,” said he. “The plentiful harvest will tempt corrupt men to oppress the people to their own advantage. I would like, therefore, should it meet with Your Majesty’s approval, to undertake the arduous duties of Ussa”—government inspector.

He said this as he knew he would then be free to go in search of his wife, while he could also do much good at the same time. The King was delighted, and had his appointment—a private one naturally—made at once, giving him the peculiar seal of the office.

The new Ussa disguised himself as a beggar, putting on straw sandals, a broken hat, underneath which his hair, uncombed and without the encircling band to hold it in place, streamed out in all directions. He wore no white strip in the neck of his shabby gown, and with dirty face he certainly presented a beggarly appearance. Presenting himself at the stables outside of the city, where horses and attendants are provided for the ussas, he soon arranged matters by showing his seal, and with proper attendants started on his journey towards his former home in the southern province.

Arriving at his destination, he remained outside in a miserable hamlet while his servants went into the city to investigate the people and learn the news.

It was spring-time again. The buds were bursting, the birds were singing, and in the warm valley a band of farmers were plowing with lazy bulls, and singing, meanwhile, a grateful song in praise of their just King, their peaceful, prosperous country, and their full stomachs. As the Ussa came along in his disguise he began to jest with them, but they did not like him, and were rude in their jokes at his expense; when an old man, evidently the father, cautioned them to be careful. “Don’t you see,” said he, “this man’s speech is only half made up of our common talk; he is playing a part. I think he must be a gentleman in disguise.” The Ussa drew the old man into conversation, asking about various local events, and finally questioning him concerning the character of the Prefect. “Is he just or oppressive, drunken or sober? Does he devote himself to his duties, or give himself up to riotous living?” “Our Magistrate we know little of. His heart is as hard and unbending as the dead heart of the ancient oak. He cares not for the people; the people care not for him but to avoid him. He extorts rice and money unjustly, and spends his ill-gotten gains in riotous living. He has imprisoned and beaten the fair Chun Yang Ye because she repulsed him, and she now lies near to death in the prison, because she married and is true to the poor dog of a son of our former just magistrate.”

Ye Toh Ryung was stung by these unjust remarks, filled with the deepest anxiety for his wife, and the bitterest resentment toward the brute of an official, whom, he promised himself, soon to bring to justice. As he moved away, too full of emotion for further conversation, he heard the farmers singing, “Why are some men born to riches, others born to toil, some to marry and live in peace, others too poor to possess a hut.”

He walked away meditating. He had placed himself down on the people’s level, and began to feel with them. Thus meditating he crossed a valley, through which a cheery mountain brook rushed merrily along. Near its banks, in front of a poor hut, sat an aged man twisting twine. Accosting him, the old man paid no attention; he repeated his salutation, when the old man, surveying him from head to foot, said: “In the government service age does not count for much, there rank is every thing; an aged man may have to bow to a younger, who is his superior officer. ’Tis not so in the country, however; here age alone is respected. Then why am I addressed thus by such a miserable looking stripling?” The young man asked his elder’s pardon, and then requested him to answer a question. “I hear,” says he, “that the new Magistrate is about to marry the gee sang, Chun Yang Ye; is it true?”

“Don’t mention her name,” said the old man, angrily. “You are not worthy to speak of her. She is dying in prison, because of her loyal devotion to the brute beast who married and deserted her.”

Ye Toh Ryung could hear no more. He hurried from the place, and finding his attendants, announced his intention of going at once into the city, lest the officials should hear of his presence and prepare for him. Entering the city, he went direct to Chun Yang Ye’s house. It presented little of the former pleasant appearance. Most of the rich furniture had been sold to buy comforts for the imprisoned girl. The mother, seeing him come, and supposing him to be a beggar, almost shrieked at him to get away. “Are you such a stranger, that you don’t know the news? My only child is imprisoned, my husband long since dead, my property almost gone, and you come to me for alms. Begone, and learn the news of the town.”

“Look! Don’t you know me? I am Ye Toh Ryung, your son-in-law,” he said.

“Ye Toh Ryung, and a beggar! Oh, it cannot be. Our only hope is in you, and now you are worse than helpless. My poor girl will die.”

“What is the matter with her?” said he, pretending.

The woman related the history of the past months in full, not sparing the man in the least, giving him such a rating as only a woman can. He then asked to be taken to the prison, and she accompanied him with a strange feeling of gratification in her heart that after all she was right, and her daughter’s confidence was ill-placed. Arriving at the prison, the mother expressed her feelings by calling to her daughter: “Here is your wonderful husband. You have been so anxious to simply see Ye Toh Ryung before you die; here he is; look at the beggar, and see what your devotion amounts to! Curse him and send him away.”

The Ussa called to her, and she recognized the voice. “I surely must be dreaming again,” she said, as she tried to arise; but she had the huge neck-encircling board upon her shoulders that marked the latest of her tormentor’s acts of oppression, and could not get up. Stung by the pain and the calmness of her lover’s voice, she sarcastically asked: “Why have you not come to me? Have you been so busy in official life? Have the rivers been so deep and rapid that you dared not cross them? Did you go so far away that it has required all this time to retrace your steps?” And then, regretting her harsh words, she said: “I cannot tell my rapture. I had expected to have to go to Heaven to meet you, and now you are here. Get them to unbind my feet, and remove this yoke from my neck, that I may come to you.”

He came to the little window through which food is passed, and looked upon her. As she saw his face and garb, she moaned: “Oh, what have we done to be so afflicted? You cannot help me now; we must die. Heaven has deserted us.”

“Yes,” he answered; “granting I am poor, yet should we not be happy in our reunion. I have come as I promised, and we will yet be happy. Do yourself no injury, but trust to me.”

She called her mother, who sneeringly inquired of what service she could be, now that the longed-for husband had returned in answer to her prayers. She paid no attention to these cruel words, but told her mother of certain jewels she had concealed in a case in her room. “Sell these,” she said, “and buy some food and raiment for my husband; take him home and care for him well. Have him sleep on my couch, and do not reproach him for what he cannot help.”

He went with the old woman, but soon left to confer with his attendants, who informed him that the next day was the birthday of the Magistrate, and that great preparations were being made for the celebration that would commence early. A great feast, when wine would flow like water, was to take place in the morning. The gee sang from the whole district were to perform for the assembled guests; bands of music were practising for the occasion, and the whole bade fair to be a great, riotous debauch, which would afford the Ussa just the opportunity the consummation of his plans awaited.

Early the next morning the disguised Ussa presented himself at the yamen gate, where the servants jeered at him, telling him: “This is no beggars' feast,” and driving him away. He hung around the street, however, listening to the music inside, and finally he made another attempt, which was more successful than the first, for the servants, thinking him crazy, tried to restrain him, when, in the melée, he made a passage and rushed through the inner gate into the court off the reception hall. The annoyed host, red with wine, ordered him at once ejected and the gate men whipped. His order was promptly obeyed, but Ye did not leave the place. He found a break in the outside wall, through which he climbed, and again presented himself before the feasters. While the Prefect was too blind with rage to be able to speak, the stranger said: “I am a beggar, give me food and drink that I, too, may enjoy myself.” The guests laughed at the man’s presumption, and thinking him crazy, they urged their host to humor him for their entertainment. To which he finally consented, and, sending him some food and wine, bade him stay in a corner and eat.

To the surprise of all, the fellow seemed still discontented, for he claimed that, as the other guests each had a fair gee sang to sing a wine song while they drank, he should be treated likewise. This amused the guests immensely, and they got the master to send one. The girl went with a poor grace, however, saying: “One would think from the looks of you that your poor throat would open to the wine without a song to oil it,” and sang him a song that wished him speedy death instead of long life.

After submitting to their taunts for some time, he said, “I thank you for your food and wine and the graciousness of my reception, in return for which I will amuse you by writing you some verses”; and, taking pencil and paper, he wrote: “The oil that enriches the food of the official is but the life blood of the down-trodden people, whose tears are of no more merit in the eyes of the oppressor than the drippings of a burning candle.”

When this was read, a troubled look passed over all; the guests shook their heads and assured their host that it meant ill to him. And each began to make excuses, saying that one and another engagement of importance called them hence. The host laughed and bade them be seated, while he ordered attendants to take the intruder and cast him into prison for his impudence. They came to do so, but the Ussa took out his official seal, giving the preconcerted signal meanwhile, which summoned his ready followers. At sight of the King’s seal terror blanched the faces of each of the half-drunken men. The wicked host tried to crawl under the house and escape, but he was at once caught and bound with chains. One of the guests in fleeing through an attic-way caught his topknot of hair in a rat-hole, and stood for some time yelling for mercy, supposing that his captors had him. It was as though an earthquake had shaken the house; all was the wildest confusion.

The Ussa put on decent clothes and gave his orders in a calm manner. He sent the Magistrate to the capital at once, and began to look further into the affairs of the office. Soon, however, he sent a chair for Chun Yang Ye, delegating his own servants, and commanding them not to explain what had happened. She supposed that the Magistrate, full of wine, had sent for her, intending to kill her, and she begged the amused servants to call her Toh Ryung to come and stay with her. They assured her that he could not come, as already he too was at the yamen, and she feared that harm had befallen him on her account.

They removed her shackles and bore her to the yamen, where the Ussa addressed her in a changed voice, commanding her to look up and answer her charges. She refused to look up or speak, feeling that the sooner death came the better. Failing in this way, he then asked her in his own voice to just glance at him. Surprised she looked up, and her dazed eyes saw her lover standing there in his proper guise, and with a delighted cry she tried to run to him, but fainted in the attempt, and was borne in his arms to a room. Just then the old woman, coming along with food, which she had brought as a last service to her daughter, heard the good news from the excited throng outside, and dashing away her dishes and their contents, she tore around for joy, crying: “What a delightful birthday surprise for a cruel magistrate!”

All the people rejoiced with the daughter, but no one seemed to think the old mother deserved such good fortune. The Ussa’s conduct was approved at court. A new magistrate was appointed. The marriage was publicly solemnized at Seoul, and the Ussa was raised to a high position, in which he was just to the people, who loved him for his virtues, while the country rang with the praises of his faithful wife, who became the mother of many children.

SIM CHUNG,

THE DUTIFUL DAUGHTER.

Sim Hyun, or Mr. Sim, was highly esteemed in the Korean village in which he resided. He belonged to the Yang Ban, or gentleman class, and when he walked forth it was with the stately swinging stride of the gentleman, while if he bestrode his favorite donkey, or was carried in his chair, a runner went ahead calling out to the commoners to clear the road. His rank was not high, and though greatly esteemed as a scholar, his income would scarcely allow of his taking the position he was fitted to occupy.

His parents had been very fortunate in betrothing him to a remarkably beautiful and accomplished maiden, daughter of a neighboring gentleman. She was noted for beauty and grace, while her mental qualities were the subject of continual admiration. She could not only read and write her native ernmun, but was skilled in Chinese characters, while her embroidered shoes, pockets, and other feminine articles were the pride of her mother and friends. She had embroidered a set of historic panels, which her father sent to the King. His Majesty mentioned her skill with marked commendation, and had the panels made up into a screen which for some time stood behind his mat, and continually called forth his admiration.

Sim had not seemed very demonstrative in regard to his approaching nuptials, but once he laid his eyes upon his betrothed, as she unveiled at the ceremony, he was completely captivated, and brooked with poor grace the formalities that had to be gone through before he could claim her as his constant companion.

It was an exceptionally happy union, the pair being intellectually suited to each other, and each apparently possessing the bodily attributes necessary to charm the other. There was never a sign of disgust or disappointment at the choice their parents had made for them. They used to wander out into the little garden off the women’s quarters, and sit in the moonlight, planning for the future, and enjoying the products of each other’s well stored mind. It was their pet desire to have a son, and all their plans seemed to centre around this one ambition; the years came and went, however, but their coveted blessing was withheld, the wife consulted priestesses, and the husband, from long and great disappointment, grew sad at heart and cared but little for mingling with the world, which he thought regarded him with shame. He took to books and began to confine himself to his own apartments, letting his poor wife stay neglected and alone in the apartments of the women. From much study, lack of exercise, and failing appetite, he grew thin and emaciated, and his eyes began to show the wear of over-work and innutrition. The effect upon his wife was also bad, but, with a woman’s fortitude and patience, she bore up and hoped in spite of constant disappointment. She worried over her husband’s condition and felt ashamed that she had no name in the world, other than the wife of Sim, while she wished to be known as the mother of the Sim of whom they had both dreamed by day and by night till dreams had almost left them.

After fifteen years of childless waiting, the wife of Sim dreamed again; this time her vision was a brilliant one, and in it she saw a star come down to her from the skies above; the dream awakened her, and she sent for her husband to tell him that she knew their blessing was about to come to them; she was right, a child was given to them, but, to their great dismay, it was only a girl. Heaven had kindly prepared the way for the little visitor, however; for after fifteen years weary waiting, they were not going to look with serious disfavor upon a girl, however much their hopes had been placed upon the advent of a son.

The child grew, and the parents were united as they only could be by such a precious bond. The ills of childhood seemed not to like the little one, even the virus of small-pox, that was duly placed in her nostril, failed to innoculate her, and her pretty skin remained fresh and soft like velvet, and totally free from the marks of the dread disease.

At three years of age she bade fair to far surpass her mother’s noted beauty and accomplishments. Her cheeks were full-blown roses, and whenever she opened her dainty curved mouth, ripples of silvery laughter, or words of mature wisdom, were sure to be given forth. The hearts of the parents, that had previously been full of tears, were now light, and full of contentment and joy; while they were constantly filled with pride by the reports of the wonderful wisdom of their child that continually came to them. The father forgot that his offspring was not a boy, and had his child continually by his side to guide his footsteps, as his feeble eyes refused to perform their office.

Just as their joy seemed too great to be lasting, it was suddenly checked by the death of the mother, which plunged them into a deep grief from which the father emerged totally blind. It soon became a question as to where the daily food was to come from; little by little household trinkets were given to the brokers to dispose of, and in ten years they had used up the homestead, and all it contained.

The father was now compelled to ask alms, and as his daughter was grown to womanhood, she could no longer direct his footsteps as he wandered out in the darkness of the blind.[1] One day in his journeying he fell into a deep ditch, from which he could not extricate himself. After remaining in this deplorable condition for some time he heard a step, and called out for assistance, saying: “I am blind, not drunk,” whereupon the passing stranger said: “I know full well you are not drunk. True, you are blind, yet not incurably so.”

“Why, who are you that you know so much about me?” asked the blind man.

“I am the old priest of the temple in the mountain fortress.”

“Well, what is this that you say about my not being permanently blind?”

“I am a prophet, and I have had a vision concerning you. In case you make an offering of three hundred bags of rice to the Buddha of our temple, you will be restored to sight, you will be given rank and dignity, while your daughter will become the first woman in all Korea.”

“But I am poor, as well as blind,” was the reply. “How can I promise such a princely offering?”

“You may give me your order for it, and pay it along as you are able,” said the priest.

“Very well, give me pencil and paper,” whereupon they retired to a house, and the blind man gave his order for the costly price of his sight. Returning home weary, bruised, and hungry, he smiled to himself, in spite of his ill condition, at the thought of his giving an order for so much rice when he had not a grain of it to eat.

He obtained, finally, a little work in pounding rice in the stone mortars. It was hard labor for one who had lived as he had done; but it kept them from starving, and his daughter prepared his food for him as nicely as she knew how. One night, as the dinner was spread on the little, low table before him, sitting on the floor, the priest came and demanded his pay; the old blind man lost his appetite for his dinner, and refused to eat. He had to explain to his daughter the compact he had made with the priest, and, while she was filled with grief, and dismayed at the enormity of the price, she yet seemed to have some hope that it might be accomplished and his sight restored.

That night, after her midnight bath, she lay down on a mat in the open air, and gazed up to heaven, to which she prayed that her poor father might be restored to health and sight. While thus engaged, she fell asleep and dreamed that her mother came down from heaven to comfort her, and told her not to worry, that a means would be found for the payment of the rice, and that soon all would be happy again in the little family.

The next day she chanced to hear of the wants of a great merchant who sailed in his large boats to China for trade, but was greatly distressed by an evil spirit that lived in the water through which he must pass. For some time, it was stated, he had not been able to take his boats over this dangerous place, and his loss therefrom was very great. At last it was reported that he was willing and anxious to appease the spirit by making the offering the wise men had deemed necessary. Priests had told him that the sacrifice of a young maiden to the spirit would quiet it and remove the trouble. He was, therefore, anxious to find the proper person, and had offered a great sum to obtain such an one.

Sim Chung (our heroine), hearing of this, decided that it must be the fulfilment of her dream, and having determined to go and offer herself, she put on old clothes and fasted while journeying, that she might look wan and haggard, like one in mourning. She had previously prepared food for her father, and explained to him that she wished to go and bow at her mother’s grave, in return to her for having appeared to her in a dream.

When the merchant saw the applicant, he was at once struck with her beauty and dignity of carriage, in spite of her attempt to disguise herself. He said that it was not in his heart to kill people especially maidens of such worth as she seemed to be. He advised her not to apply; but she told her story and said she would give herself for the three hundred bags of rice. “Ah! now I see the true nobility of your character. I did not know that such filial piety existed outside the works of the ancients. I will send to my master and secure the rice,” said the man, who happened to be but an overseer for a greater merchant.

She got the rice and took it to the priest in a long procession of one hundred and fifty ponies, each laboring under two heavy bags; the debt cancelled and her doom fixed, she felt the relaxation and grief necessarily consequent upon such a condition. She could not explain to her father, she mourned over the loneliness that would come to him after she was gone, and wondered how he would support himself after she was removed and until his sight should be restored. She lay down and prayed to heaven, saying: “I am only fourteen years old, and have but four more hours to live. What will become of my poor father? Oh! who will care for him? Kind heaven, protect him when I am gone.” Wild with grief she went and sat on her father’s knee, but could not control her sobs and tears; whereupon he asked her what the trouble could be. Having made up her mind that the time had come, and that the deed was done and could not be remedied, she decided to tell him, and tried to break it gently; but when the whole truth dawned upon the poor old man it nearly killed him. He clasped her close to his bosom, and crying: “My child, my daughter, my only comfort, I will not let you go. What will eyes be to me if I can no longer look upon your lovely face?” They mingled their tears and sobs, and the neighbors, hearing the commotion in the usually quiet hut, came to see what was the trouble. Upon ascertaining the reason of the old man’s grief, they united in the general wailing. Sim Chung begged them to come and care for the old man when she could look after him no more, and they agreed to do so. While the wailing and heart breaking was going on, a stranger rode up on a donkey and asked for the Sim family. He came just in time to see what the act was costing the poor people. He comforted the girl by giving her a cheque for fifty bags of rice for the support of the father when his daughter should be no more. She took it gratefully and gave it to the neighbors to keep in trust; she then prepared herself, took a last farewell, and left her fainting father to go to her bed in the sea.

In due time the boat that bore Sim Chung, at the head of a procession of boats, arrived at the place where the evil spirit reigned. She was dressed in bridal garments furnished by the merchant. On her arrival at the place, the kind merchant tried once more to appease the spirit by an offering of eatables, but it was useless, whereupon Sim Chung prayed to heaven, bade them all good-by, and leaped into the sea. Above, all was quiet, the waves subsided, the sea became like a lake, and the boats passed on their way unmolested.

When Sim Chung regained her consciousness she was seated in a little boat drawn by fishes, and pretty maidens were giving her to drink from a carved jade bottle. She asked them who they were, and where she was going. They answered: “We are servants of the King of the Sea, and we are taking you to his palace.”

Sim Chung wondered if this was death, and thought it very pleasant if it were. They passed through forests of waving plants, and saw great lazy fish feeding about in the water, till at last they reached the confines of the palace. Her amazement was then unbounded, for the massive walls were composed of precious stones, such as she had only heretofore seen used as ornaments. Pearls were used to cover the heads of nails in the great doors through which they passed, and everywhere there seemed a most costly and lavish display of the precious gems and metals, while the walks were made of polished black marble that shone in the water. The light, as it passed through the water, seemed to form most beautifully colored clouds, and the rainbow colors were everywhere disporting themselves.

Soon a mighty noise was heard, and they moved aside, while the King passed by preceded by an army with gayly colored and beautifully embroidered satin banners, each bearer blowing on an enormous shell. The King was borne in a golden chair on the shoulders of one hundred men, followed by one hundred musicians and as many more beautiful “dancing girls,” with wonderful head-dresses and rich costumes.

Sim Chung objected to going before such an august king, but she was assured of kind treatment, and, after being properly dressed by the sea maids, in garments suitable for the palace of the Sea King, she was borne in a chair on the shoulders of eunuchs to the King’s apartments. The King treated her with great respect, and all the maidens and eunuchs bowed before her. She protested that she was not worthy of such attention. “I am,” she said, “but the daughter of a beggar, for whom I thought I was giving my life when rescued by these maidens. I am in no way worthy of your respect.”

The King smiled a little, and said: “Ah! I know more of you than you know of yourself. You must know that I am the Sea King, and that we know full well the doings of the stars which shine in the heaven above, for they continually visit us on light evenings. Well, you were once a star. Many say a beautiful one, for you had many admirers. You favored one star more than the others, and, in your attentions to him, you abused your office as cup-bearer to the King of Heaven, and let your lover have free access to all of the choice wines of the palace. In this way, before you were aware of it, the peculiar and choice brands that the King especially liked were consumed, and, upon examination, your fault became known. As punishment, the King decided to banish you to earth, but fearing to send you both at once, lest you might be drawn together there, he sent your lover first, and after keeping you in prison for a long time, you were sent as daughter to your former lover. He is the man you claim as father. Heaven has seen your filial piety, however, and repents. You will be hereafter most highly favored, as a reward for your dutiful conduct.” He then sent her to fine apartments prepared for her, where she was to rest and recuperate before going back to earth.

After a due period of waiting and feasting on royal food, Sim Chung’s beauty was more than restored. She had developed into a complete woman, and her beauty was dazzling; her cheeks seemed colored by the beautiful tints of the waters through which she moved with ease and comfort, while her mind blossomed forth like a flower in the rare society of the Sea King and his peculiarly gifted people.

When the proper time arrived for her departure for the world she had left, a large and beautiful flower was brought into her chamber. It was so arranged that Sim Chung could conceal herself inside of it, while the delicious perfume and the juice of the plant were ample nourishment. When she had bidden good-by to her peculiar friends and taken her place inside the flower, it was conveyed to the surface of the sea, at the place where she had plunged in. She had not waited long in this strange position before a boat bore in sight. It proved to be the vessel of her friend the merchant. As he drew near his old place of danger he marvelled much at sight of such a beautiful plant, growing and blossoming in such a strange place, where once only evil was to be expected. He was also well-nigh intoxicated by the powerful perfume exhaled from the plant. Steering close he managed to secure the flower and place it safely in his boat, congratulating himself on securing so valuable and curious a present for his King. For he decided at once to present it at the palace if he could succeed in getting it safely there.

The plan succeeded, the strange plant with its stranger tenant was duly presented to His Majesty, who was delighted with the gift, and spent his time gazing upon it to the exclusion of state business. He had a glass house prepared for it in an inner court, and seemed never to tire of watching his new treasure.

At night, when all was quiet, Sim Chung was wont to come forth and rest herself by walking in the moonlight. But, on one occasion, the King, being indisposed and restless, thought he would go to breathe the rich perfume of the strange flower and rest himself. In this way he chanced to see Sim Chung before she could conceal herself, and, of course, his surprise was unbounded. He accosted her, not without fear, demanding who she might be. She, being also afraid, took refuge in her flower, when, to the amazement of both, the flower vanished, leaving her standing alone where it had been but a moment before. The King was about to flee, at this point, but she called to him not to fear, that she was but a human being, and no spirit as he doubtless supposed. The King drew near, and was at once lost in admiration of her matchless beauty, when a great noise was heard outside, and eunuchs came, stating that all the generals with the heads of departments were asking for an audience on very important business. His Majesty very reluctantly went to see what it all meant. An officer versed in astronomy stated that they had, on the previous night, observed a brilliant star descend from heaven and alight upon the palace, and that they believed it boded good to the royal family. Then the King told of the flower, and the wonderful apparition he had seen in the divine maiden. It so happened that the queen was deceased, and it was soon decided that the King should take this remarkable maiden for his wife. The marriage was announced, and preparations all made. As the lady was without parents, supposably, the ceremony took place at the royal wedding hall, and was an occasion of great state.

Never was man more charmed by woman than in this case. The King would not leave her by day or night, and the business of state was almost totally neglected. At last Sim Chung chided her husband, telling him it was not manly for the King to spend all his time in the women’s quarters; that if he cared so little for the rule as to neglect it altogether, others might find occasion to usurp his place. She enjoined upon him the necessity of giving the days to his business, and being content to spend the nights with her. He saw her wisdom, and remarked upon it, promising to abide by her advice.

After some time spent in such luxury, Sim Chung became lonely and mourned for her poor father, but despaired of being able to see him. She knew not if he were alive or dead, and the more she thought of it the more she mourned, till tears were in her heart continually, and not infrequently overflowed from her beautiful eyes. The King chanced to see her weeping, and was solicitous to know the cause of her sorrow, whereupon she answered that she was oppressed by a strange dream concerning a poor blind man, and was desirous of alleviating in some way the sufferings of the many blind men in the country. Again the King marvelled at her great heart, and offered to do any thing towards carrying out her noble purpose. Together they agreed that they would summon all the blind men of the country to a great feast, at which they should be properly clothed, amply fed, and treated each to a present of cash.

The edict was issued, and on the day appointed for the feast, the Queen secreted herself in a pavilion, from which she could look down and fully observe the strange assemblage. She watched the first day, but saw no one who resembled her lost parent; again the second day she held her earnest vigil, but in vain. She was about to give up her quest as useless and mourn over the loss of her father, when, as the feast was closing on the third day, a feeble old man in rags came tottering up. The attendants, having served so many, were treating this poor fellow with neglect, and were about to drive him away as too late when the Queen ordered them whipped and the old man properly fed.

He seemed well-nigh starved, and grasped at the food set before him with the eagerness of an animal. There seemed to be something about this forlorn creature that arrested and engaged the attention of the Queen, and the attendants, noticing this, were careful to clothe him with extra care. When sufficient time had elapsed for the satisfying of his hunger, he was ordered brought to the Queen’s pavilion, where Her Majesty scrutinized him closely for a few moments, and then, to the surprise and dismay of all her attendants, she screamed: “My father! my father!” and fell at his feet senseless. Her maids hurried off to tell the King of the strange conduct of their mistress, and he came to see for himself. By rubbing her limbs and applying strong-smelling medicines to her nostrils, the fainting Queen was restored to consciousness, and allowed to tell her peculiar and interesting story. The King had heard much of it previously. But the poor old blind man could barely collect his senses sufficiently to grasp the situation. As the full truth began to dawn upon him, he cried: “Oh! my child, can the dead come back to us? I hear your voice; I feel your form; but how can I know it is you, for I have no eyes? Away with these sightless orbs!” And he tore at his eyes with his nails, when to his utter amazement and joy, the scales fell away, and he stood rejoicing in his sight once more.

His Majesty was overjoyed to have his lovely Queen restored to her wonted happy frame of mind. He made the old man an officer of high rank, appointed him a fine house, and had him married to the accomplished daughter of an officer of suitable rank, thereby fulfilling the last of the prophecy of both the aged priest and the King of the Sea.

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[1] After reaching girlhood persons of respectability are not seen on the streets in Korea. [↑]

HONG KIL TONG;

OR, THE ADVENTURES OF AN ABUSED BOY.

During the reign of the third king in Korea there lived a noble of high rank and noted family, by name Hong. His title was Ye Cho Pansa. He had two sons by his wife and one by one of his concubines. The latter son was very remarkable from his birth to his death, and he it is who forms the subject of this history.

When Hong Pansa was the father of but two sons, he dreamed by night on one occasion that he heard the noise of thunder, and looking up he saw a huge dragon entering his apartment, which seemed too small to contain the whole of his enormous body. The dream was so startling as to awaken the sleeper, who at once saw that it was a good omen, and a token to him of a blessing about to be conferred. He hoped the blessing might prove to be another son, and went to impart the good news to his wife. She would not see him, however, as she was offended by his taking a concubine from the class of “dancing girls.” The great man was sad, and went away. Within the year, however, a son of marvellous beauty was born to one concubine, much to the annoyance of his wife and to himself, for he would have been glad to have the beautiful boy a full son, and eligible to office. The child was named Kil Tong, or Hong Kil Tong. He grew fast, and became more and more beautiful. He learned rapidly, and surprised every one by his remarkable ability. As he grew up he rebelled at being placed with the slaves, and at not being allowed to call his parent, father. The other children laughed and jeered at him, and made life very miserable. He refused longer to study of the duties of children to their parents. He upset his table in school, and declared he was going to be a soldier. One bright moonlight night Hong Pansa saw his son in the court-yard practising the arts of the soldier, and he asked him what it meant. Kil Tong answered that he was fitting himself to become a man that people should respect and fear. He said he knew that heaven had made all things for the use of men, if they found themselves capable of using them, and that the laws of men were only made to assist a few that could not otherwise do as they would; but that he was not inclined to submit to any such tyranny, but would become a great man in spite of his evil surroundings. “This is a most remarkable boy,” mused Hong Pansa. “What a pity that he is not my proper and legitimate son, that he might be an honor to my name. As it is, I fear he will cause me serious trouble.” He urged the boy to go to bed and sleep, but Kil Tong said it was useless, that if he went to bed he would think of his troubles till the tears washed sleep away from his eyes, and caused him to get up.

The wife of Hong Pansa and his other concubine (the dancing girl), seeing how much their lord and master thought of Kil Tong, grew to hate the latter intensely, and began to lay plans for ridding themselves of him. They called some mootang, or sorceresses, and explained to them that their happiness was disturbed by this son of a rival, and that peace could only be restored to their hearts by the death of this youth. The witches laughed and said: “Never mind. There is an old woman who lives by the east gate, tell her to come and prejudice the father. She can do it, and he will then look after his son.”

The old hag came as requested. Hong Pansa was then in the women’s apartments, telling them of the wonderful boy, much to their annoyance. A visitor was announced, and the old woman made a low bow outside. Hong Pansa asked her what her business was, and she stated that she had heard of his wonderful son, and came to see him, to foretell what his future was to be.

Kil Tong came as called, and on seeing him the hag bowed and said: “Send out all of the people.” She then stated: “This will be a very great man; if not a king, he will be greater than the king, and will avenge his early wrongs by killing all his family.” At this the father called to her to stop, and enjoined strict secrecy upon her. He sent Kil Tong at once to a strong room, and had him locked in for safe keeping.

The boy was very sad at this new state of affairs, but as his father let him have books, he got down to hard study, and learned the Chinese works on astronomy. He could not see his mother, and his unnatural father was too afraid to come near him. He made up his mind, however, that as soon as he could get out he would go to some far off country, where he was not known, and make his true power felt.

Meanwhile, the unnatural father was kept in a state of continual excitement by his wicked concubine, who was bent on the destruction of the son of her rival, and kept constantly before her master the great dangers that would come to him from being the parent of such a man as Kil Tong was destined to be, if allowed to live. She showed him that such power as the boy was destined to possess, would eventually result in his overthrowal, and with him his father’s house would be in disgrace, and, doubtless, would be abolished. While if this did not happen, the son was sure to kill his family, so that, in either case, it was the father’s clear duty to prevent any further trouble by putting the boy out of the way. Hong Pansa was finally persuaded that his concubine was right, and sent for the assassins to come and kill his son. But a spirit filled the father with disease, and he told the men to stay their work. Medicines failed to cure the disease, and the mootang women were called in by the concubine. They beat their drums and danced about the room, conjuring the spirit to leave, but it would not obey. At last they said, at the suggestion of the concubine, that Kil Tong was the cause of the disorder, and that with his death the spirit would cease troubling the father.

Again the assassins were sent for, and came with their swords, accompanied by the old hag from the east gate. While they were meditating on the death of Kil Tong, he was musing on the unjust laws of men who allowed sons to be born of concubines, but denied them rights that were enjoyed by other men.

While thus musing in the darkness of the night, he heard a crow caw three times and fly away. “This means something ill to me,” thought he; and just then his window was thrown open, and in stepped the assassins. They made at the boy, but he was not there. In their rage they wounded each other, and killed the old woman who was their guide. To their amazement the room had disappeared, and they were surrounded by high mountains. A mighty storm arose, and rocks flew through the air. They could not escape, and, in their terror, were about to give up, when music was heard, and a boy came riding by on a donkey, playing a flute. He took away their weapons, and showed himself to be Kil Tong. He promised not to kill them, as they begged for their lives, but only on condition that they should never try to kill another man. He told them that he would know if the promise was broken, and, in that event, he would instantly kill them.

Kil Tong went by night to see his father, who thought him a spirit, and was very much afraid. He gave his father medicine, which instantly cured him; and sending for his mother, bade her good-by, and started for an unknown country.

His father was very glad that the boy had escaped, and lost his affection for his wicked concubine. But the latter, with her mistress, was very angry, and tried in vain to devise some means to accomplish their evil purposes.

Kil Tong, free at last, journeyed to the south, and began to ascend the lonely mountains. Tigers were abundant, but he feared them not, and they seemed to avoid molesting him. After many days, he found himself high up on a barren peak enveloped by the clouds, and enjoyed the remoteness of the place, and the absence of men and obnoxious laws. He now felt himself a free man, and the equal of any, while he knew that heaven was smiling upon him and giving him powers not accorded to other men.

Through the clouds at some distance he thought he espied a huge stone door in the bare wall of rock. Going up to it, he found it to be indeed a movable door, and, opening it, he stepped inside, when, to his amazement, he found himself in an open plain, surrounded by high and inaccessible mountains. He saw before him over two hundred good houses, and many men, who, when they had somewhat recovered from their own surprise, came rushing upon him, apparently with evil intent. Laying hold upon him they asked him who he was, and why he came trespassing upon their ground. He said: “I am surprised to find myself in the presence of men. I am but the son of a concubine, and men, with their laws, are obnoxious to me. Therefore, I thought to get away from man entirely, and, for that reason, I wandered alone into these wild regions. But who are you, and why do you live in this lone spot? Perhaps we may have a kindred feeling.”

“We are called thieves,” was answered; “but we only despoil the hated official class of some of their ill-gotten gains. We are willing to help the poor unbeknown, but no man can enter our stronghold and depart alive, unless he has become one of us. To do so, however, he must prove himself to be strong in body and mind. If you can pass the examination and wish to join our party, well and good; otherwise you die.”

This suited Kil Tong immensely, and he consented to the conditions. They gave him various trials of strength, but he chose his own. Going up to a huge rock on which several men were seated, he laid hold of it and hurled it to some distance, to the dismay of the men, who fell from their seat, and to the surprised delight of all. He was at once installed a member, and a feast was ordered. The contract was sealed by mingling blood from the lips of all the members with blood similarly supplied by Kil Tong. He was then given a prominent seat and served to wine and food.

Kil Tong soon became desirous of giving to his comrades some manifestation of his courage. An opportunity presently offered. He heard the men bemoaning their inability to despoil a large and strong Buddhist temple not far distant. As was the rule, this temple in the mountains was well patronized by officials, who made it a place of retirement for pleasure and debauch, and in return the lazy, licentious priests were allowed to collect tribute from the poor people about, till they had become rich and powerful. The several attempts made by the robber band had proved unsuccessful, by virtue of the number and vigilance of the priests, together with the strength of their enclosure. Kil Tong agreed to assist them to accomplish their design or perish in the attempt, and such was their faith in him that they readily agreed to his plans.

On a given day Kil Tong, dressed in the red gown of a youth, just betrothed, covered himself with the dust of travel, and mounted on a donkey, with one robber disguised as a servant, made his way to the temple. He asked on arrival to be shown to the head priest, to whom he stated that he was the son of Hong Pansa, that his noble father having heard of the greatness of this temple, and the wisdom of its many priests, had decided to send him with a letter, which he produced, to be educated among their numbers. He also stated that a train of one hundred ponies loaded with rice had been sent as a present from his father to the priest, and he expected they would arrive before dark, as they did not wish to stop alone in the mountains, even though every pony was attended by a groom, who was armed for defense. The priests were delighted, and having read the letter, they never for a moment suspected that all was not right. A great feast was ordered in honor of their noble scholar, and all sat down before the tables, which were filled so high that one could hardly see his neighbor on the opposite side. They had scarcely seated themselves and indulged in the generous wine, when it was announced that the train of ponies laden with rice had arrived. Servants were sent to look after the tribute, and the eating and drinking went on. Suddenly Kil Tong clapped his hand, over his cheek with a cry of pain, which drew the attention of all. When, to the great mortification of the priests, he produced from his mouth a pebble, previously introduced on the sly, and exclaimed: “Is it to feed on stones that my father sent me to this place? What do you mean by setting such rice before a gentleman?”

The priests were filled with mortification and dismay, and bowed their shaven heads to the floor in humiliation. When at a sign from Kil Tong, a portion of the robbers, who had entered the court as grooms to the ponies, seized the bending priests and bound them as they were. The latter shouted for help, but the other robbers, who had been concealed in the bags, which were supposed to contain rice, seized the servants, while others were loading the ponies with jewels, rice, cash and whatever of value they could lay hands upon.

An old priest who was attending to the fires, seeing the uproar, made off quietly to the yamen near by and called for soldiers. The soldiers were sent after some delay, and Kil Tong, disguised as a priest, called to them to follow him down a by-path after the robbers. While he conveyed the soldiers over this rough path, the robbers made good their escape by the main road, and were soon joined in their stronghold by their youthful leader, who had left the soldiers groping helplessly in the dark among the rocks and trees in a direction opposite that taken by the robbers.

The priests soon found out that they had lost almost all their riches, and were at no loss in determining how the skilful affair had been planned and carried out. Kil Tong’s name was noised abroad, and it was soon known that he was heading a band of robbers, who, through his assistance, were able to do many marvellous things. The robber band were delighted at the success of his first undertaking, and made him their chief, with the consent of all. After sufficient time had elapsed for the full enjoyment of their last and greatest success, Kil Tong planned a new raid.

The Governor of a neighboring province was noted for his overbearing ways and the heavy burdens that he laid upon his subjects. He was very rich, but universally hated, and Kil Tong decided to avenge the people and humiliate the Governor, knowing that his work would be appreciated by the people, as were indeed his acts at the temple. He instructed his band to proceed singly to the Governor’s city—the local capital—at the time of a fair, when their coming would not cause comment. At a given time a portion of them were to set fire to a lot of straw-thatched huts outside the city gates, while the others repaired in a body to the Governor’s yamen. They did so. The Governor was borne in his chair to a place where he could witness the conflagration, which also drew away the most of the inhabitants. The robbers bound the remaining servants, and while some were securing money, jewels, and weapons, Kil Tong wrote on the walls: “The wicked Governor that robs the people is relieved of his ill-gotten gains by Kil Tong—the people’s avenger.”

Again the thieves made good their escape, and Kil Tong’s name became known everywhere. The Governor offered a great reward for his capture, but no one seemed desirous of encountering a robber of such boldness. At last the King offered a reward after consulting with his officers. When one of them said he would capture the thief alone, the King was astonished at his boldness and courage, and bade him be off and make the attempt. The officer was called the Pochang; he had charge of the prisons, and was a man of great courage.

The Pochang started on his search, disguised as a traveller. He took a donkey and servant, and after travelling many days he put up at a little inn, at the same time that another man on a donkey rode up. The latter was Kil Tong in disguise, and he soon entered into conversation with the man, whose mission was known to him.

“I goo,” said Kil Tong, as he sat down to eat, “this is a dangerous country. I have just been chased by the robber Kil Tong till the life is about gone out of me.”

“Kil Tong, did you say?” remarked Pochang. “I wish he would chase me. I am anxious to see the man of whom we hear so much.”

“Well, if you see him once you will be satisfied,” replied Kil Tong.

“Why?” asked the Pochang. “Is he such a fearful-looking man as to frighten one by his aspect alone?”

“No; on the contrary he looks much as do ordinary mortals. But we know he is different, you see.”

“Exactly,” said the Pochang. “That is just the trouble. You are afraid of him before you see him. Just let me get a glimpse of him, and matters will be different, I think.”

“Well,” said Kil Tong, “you can be easily pleased, if that is all, for I dare say if you go back into the mountains here you will see him, and get acquainted with him too.”

“That is good. Will you show me the place?”

“Not I. I have seen enough of him to please me. I can tell you where to go, however, if you persist in your curiosity,” said the robber.

“Agreed!” exclaimed the officer. “Let us be off at once lest he escapes. And if you succeed in showing him to me, I will reward you for your work and protect you from the thief.”

After some objection by Kil Tong, who appeared to be reluctant to go, and insisted on at least finishing his dinner, they started off, with their servants, into the mountains. Night overtook them, much to the apparent dismay of the guide, who pretended to be very anxious to give up the quest. At length, however, they came to the stone door, which was open. Having entered the robber’s stronghold, the door closed behind them, and the guide disappeared, leaving the dismayed officer surrounded by the thieves. His courage had now left him, and he regretted his rashness. The robbers bound him securely and led him past their miniature city into an enclosure surrounded by houses which, by their bright colors, seemed to be the abode of royalty. He was conveyed into a large audience-chamber occupying the most extensive building of the collection, and there, on a sort of throne, in royal style, sat his guide. The Pochang saw his mistake, and fell on his face, begging for mercy. Kil Tong upbraided him for his impudence and arrogance and promised to let him off this time. Wine was brought, and all partook of it. That given to the officer was drugged, and he fell into a stupor soon after drinking it. While in this condition he was put into a bag and conveyed in a marvellous manner to a high mountain overlooking the capital. Here he found himself upon recovering from the effects of his potion; and not daring to face his sovereign with such a fabulous tale, he cast himself down from the high mountain, and was picked up dead, by passers-by, in the morning. Almost at the same time that His Majesty received word of the death of his officer, and was marvelling at the audacity of the murderer in bringing the body almost to the palace doors, came simultaneous reports of great depredations in each of the eight provinces. The trouble was in each case attributed to Kil Tong, and the fact that he was reported as being in eight far removed places at the same time caused great consternation.

Official orders were issued to each of the eight governors to catch and bring to the city, at once, the robber Kil Tong. These orders were so well obeyed that upon a certain day soon after, a guard came from each province bringing Kil Tong, and there in a line stood eight men alike in every respect.

The King on inquiry found that Kil Tong was the son of Hong Pansa, and the father was ordered into the royal presence. He came with his legitimate son, and bowed his head in shame to the ground. When asked what he meant by having a son who would cause such general misery and distress, he swooned away, and would have died had not one of the Kil Tongs produced some medicine which cured him. The son, however, acted as spokesman, and informed the King that Kil Tong was but the son of his father’s slave, that he was utterly incorrigible, and had fled from home when a mere boy. When asked to decide as to which was his true son, the father stated that his son had a scar on the left thigh. Instantly each of the eight men pulled up the baggy trousers and displayed a scar. The guard was commanded to remove the men and kill all of them; but when they attempted to do so the life had disappeared, and the men were found to be only figures in straw and wax.

Soon after this a letter was seen posted on the Palace gate, announcing that if the government would confer upon Kil Tong the rank of Pansa, as held by his father, and thus remove from him the stigma attaching to him as the son of a slave, he would stop his depredations. This proposition could not be entertained at first, but one of the counsel suggested that it might offer a solution of the vexed question, and they could yet be spared the disgrace of having an officer with such a record. For, as he proposed, men could be so stationed that when the newly-appointed officer came to make his bow before His Majesty, they could fall upon him and kill him before he arose. This plan was greeted with applause, and a decree was issued conferring the desired rank; proclamations to that effect being posted in public places, so that the news would reach Kil Tong. It did reach him, and he soon appeared at the city gate. A great crowd attended him as he rode to the Palace gates; but knowing the plans laid for him, as he passed through the gates and came near enough to be seen of the King, he was caught up in a cloud and borne away amid strange music; wholly discomfiting his enemies.

Some time after this occurrence the King was walking with a few eunuchs and attendants in the royal gardens. It was evening time, but the full moon furnished ample light. The atmosphere was tempered just to suit; it was neither cold nor warm, while it lacked nothing of the bracing character of a Korean autumn. The leaves were blood-red on the maples; the heavy cloak of climbing vines that enshrouded the great wall near by was also beautifully colored. These effects could even be seen by the bright moonlight, and seated on a hill-side the royal party were enjoying the tranquillity of the scene, when all were astonished by the sound of a flute played by some one up above them. Looking up among the tree-tops a man was seen descending toward them, seated upon the back of a gracefully moving stork. The King imagined it must be some heavenly being, and ordered the chief eunuch to make some proper salutation. But before this could be done, a voice was heard saying: “Fear not, O King. I am simply Hong Pansa [Kil Tong’s new title]. I have come to make my obeisance before your august presence and be confirmed in my rank.”

This he did, and no one attempted to molest him; seeing which, the King, feeling that it was useless longer to attempt to destroy a man who could read the unspoken thoughts of men, said:

“Why do you persist in troubling the country? I have removed from you now the stigma attached to your birth. What more will you have?”

“I wish,” said Kil Tong, with due humility, “to go to a distant land, and settle down to the pursuit of peace and happiness. If I may be granted three thousand bags of rice I will gladly go and trouble you no longer.”

“But how will you transport such an enormous quantity of rice?” asked the King.

“That can be arranged,” said Kil Tong. “If I may be but granted the order, I will remove the rice at daybreak.”

The order was given. Kil Tong went away as he came, and in the early morning a fleet of junks appeared off the royal granaries, took on the rice, and made away before the people were well aware of their presence.

Kil Tong now sailed for an island off the west coast. He found one uninhabited, and with his few followers he stored his riches, and brought many articles of value from his former hiding-places. His people he taught to till the soil, and all went well on the little island till the master made a trip to a neighboring island, which was famous for its deadly mineral poison,—a thing much prized for tipping the arrows with. Kil Tong wanted to get some of this poison, and made a visit to the island. While passing through the settled districts he casually noticed that many copies of a proclamation were posted up, offering a large reward to any one who would succeed in restoring to her father a young lady who had been stolen by a band of savage people who lived in the mountains.

Kil Tong journeyed on all day, and at night he found himself high up in the wild mountain regions, where the poison was abundant. Gazing about in making some preparations for passing the night in this place, he saw a light, and following it, he came to a house built below him on a ledge of rocks, and in an almost inaccessible position. He could see the interior of a large hall, where were gathered many hairy, shaggy-looking men, eating, drinking, and smoking. One old fellow, who seemed to be chief, was tormenting a young lady by trying to tear away her veil and expose her to the gaze of the barbarians assembled. Kil Tong could not stand this sight, and, taking a poisoned arrow, he sent it direct for the heart of the villain, but the distance was so great that he missed his mark sufficiently to only wound the arm. All were amazed, and in the confusion the girl escaped, and Kil Tong concealed himself for the night. He was seen next day by some of the savage band, who caught him, and demanded who he was and why he was found in the mountains. He answered that he was a physician, and had come up there to collect a certain rare medicine only known to exist in those mountains.

The robbers seemed rejoiced, and explained that their chief had been wounded by an arrow from the clouds, and asked him if he could cure him. Kil Tong was taken in and allowed to examine the chief, when he agreed to cure him within three days. Hastily mixing up some of the fresh poison, he put it into the wound, and the chief died almost at once. Great was the uproar when the death became known. All rushed at the doctor, and would have killed him, but Kil Tong, finding his own powers inadequate, summoned to his aid his old friends the spirits (quay sin), and swords flashed in the air, striking off heads at every blow, and not ceasing till the whole band lay weltering in their own blood.

Bursting open a door, Kil Tong saw two women sitting with covered faces, and supposing them to be of the same strange people, he was about to dispatch them on the spot, when one of them threw aside her veil and implored for mercy. Then it was that Kil Tong recognized the maiden whom he had rescued the previous evening. She was marvellously beautiful, and already he was deeply smitten with her maidenly charms. Her voice seemed like that of an angel of peace sent to quiet the hearts of rough men. As she modestly begged for her life, she told the story of her capture by the robbers, and how she had been dragged away to their den, and was only saved from insult by the interposition of some heavenly being, who had in pity smote the arm of her tormentor.

Great was Kil Tong’s joy at being able to explain his own part in the matter, and the maiden heart, already won by the manly beauty of her rescuer, now overflowed with gratitude and love. Remembering herself, however, she quickly veiled her face, but the mischief had been done; each had seen the other, and they could henceforth know no peace, except in each other’s presence.

The proclamations had made but little impression upon Kil Tong, and it was not till the lady had told her story that he remembered reading them. He at once took steps to remove the beautiful girl and her companion in distress, and not knowing but that other of the savages might return, he did not dare to make search for a chair and bearers, but mounting donkeys the little party set out for the home of the distressed parents, which they reached safely in due time. The father’s delight knew no bounds. He was a subject of Korea’s King, yet he possessed this island and ruled its people in his own right. And calling his subjects, he explained to them publicly the wonderful works of the stranger, to whom he betrothed his daughter, and to whom he gave his official position.

The people indulged in all manner of gay festivities in honor of the return of the lost daughter of their chief; in respect to the bravery of Kil Tong; and to celebrate his advent as their ruler.

In due season the marriage ceremonies were celebrated, and the impatient lovers were given to each other’s embrace. Their lives were full of happiness and prosperity. Other outlying islands were united under Kil Tong’s rule, and no desire or ambition remained ungratified. Yet there came a time when the husband grew sad, and tears swelled the heart of the young wife as she tried in vain to comfort him. He explained at last that he had a presentiment that his father was either dead or dying, and that it was his duty to go and mourn at the grave. With anguish at the thought of parting, the wife urged him to go. Taking a junk laden with handsome marble slabs for the grave and statuary to surround it, and followed by junks bearing three thousand bags of rice, he set out for the capital. Arriving, he cut off his hair, and repaired to his old home, where a servant admitted him on the supposition that he was a priest. He found his father was no more; but the body yet remained, because a suitable place could not be found for the burial. Thinking him to be a priest, Kil Tong was allowed to select the spot, and the burial took place with due ceremony. Then it was that the son revealed himself, and took his place with the mourners. The stone images and monuments were erected upon the nicely sodded grounds. Kil Tong sent the rice he had brought, to the government granaries in return for the King’s loan to him, and regretted that mourning would prevent his paying his respects to his King; he set out for his home with his true mother and his father’s legal wife. The latter did not survive long after the death of her husband, but the poor slave-mother of the bright boy was spared many years to enjoy the peace and quiet of her son’s bright home, and to be ministered to by her dutiful, loving children and their numerous offspring.

THE END.