CHUNG WAH.
BY SUSIE W. HASSELL.
He is a bright little ten-year-old who lives in a town away off West. You know by his name that he is Chinese, and I am afraid some of you have already turned up your noses in disgust, and have thought, “Bah! those dirty Chinamen! My mamma says it makes her sick to think of them, and papa’s glad they can’t come to our country any more.” But let me tell you about Chung Wah, and then you can decide the Chinese question for yourselves.
He is in the A class in Number Two, and in the schoolroom his yellow face is almost always bright with soap-suds and joy, for he is a wonderfully happy boy, and smiles all the time he is happy. His little black eyes look like apple-seeds, and snap whenever he winks. He wears great flapping brown pantaloons, which are covered to the knee by his pink calico aprons, but on Wednesday, when he speaks his piece, he has on a white apron, so stiffly starched that it rustles and cracks like paper. His low cloth shoes have no heels, but long, pointed, turned-up toes. Chung Wah is very quick at his lessons, and neat in his slate-work, so that when visitors come in his slate is one of the first the teacher shows them.
He has always loved to study, but last May, when the days commenced to be warm and bright, he must have grown a little tired of school, for, alas, a great many times he was seen on the street the whole day long. When questioned the next morning, he told the teacher: “My fadder send me to school an’ I no come.” I suppose he liked to pitch horseshoes with the other boys down in Chinatown, none of them had to go to school; or to follow old Sam Lee round the town as he gathered up the clothes for the wash-house. At any rate he played truant many days, until his teacher sent him up-stairs for the school superintendent to talk with him. Still the truancy was repeated, and he gave no excuse only, “I no likee come dat day.” At last, one morning, the superintendent whipped him for truancy, and poor little Chung Wah went down-stairs with both fists in his eyes and a very sore heart.
A CHINESE GARDEN.
That very afternoon, just before the tardy bell rang, who should walk into the superintendent’s room but Chung Wah, his face still downcast and troubled. He held a preserve jar, covered with Chinese characters, in one hand, and in the other a bright silk handkerchief, such as are sold in the Chinese shops. With an awkward little nod, just as if he were going to speak a piece in school, he said: “My fadder gib ’em to you. He say you heap good man. He likee you beat me ebly day I no go school.”
Brave little Mongolian! Do you think you clean, white boys and girls could have carried such a hard message as that so honestly?
Somehow, after he had said the words the lump in his throat seemed to grow easier, and, although the superintendent said some words not very comforting: “Well, Chung Wah, tell your father I will punish you when you are truant from school”—yet when the boy went down-stairs this time his face beamed as though it had never known a tear, and his little black cue bobbed merrily behind him.
A good many months have passed since then, and he has never deserved another whipping. I don’t believe he will. His teacher says he has a wise father, and that if there were more fathers like him there would be more good boys in school, but I say, brave little Chung Wah! The boy who can tell the truth when it is so hard to tell has a clean side to his heart, though his face may be very yellow.
What do you say, my white boys and girls? Would he be a bad playfellow for you?
If some fifteen or twenty years from now you should hear that the grown-up Chinaman, Chung Wah, fills well any position of honor and trust, don’t be surprised, but tell your boys and girls, “Oh, yes, when he was a little fellow he was brave enough to obey his father, and tell the whole truth.”
The Advance.