Shen of the Sea: A Book for Children

by Arthur Bowie Chrisman

King Tan Ki, seated comfortably in a sedan chair, was being carried through the Street of The Hill Where The Monkey Bit Mang. He had no thought of danger. Peril had no place in his mind. The street seemed a street of peace. When lo—from a paper-covered door there came a large missile, striking a slave and falling into the King’s lap. Instantly the body-guard rushed to the terrible house and battered in the door. But King Tan Ki felt more curiosity than alarm. He examined the object that had so unceremoniously been hurled into the sedan. At once his interest was quickened. The King knew good carvings—whether they came from old masters, or from hands unknown. Here was a block carved with superlative art. Tan Ki wished to know more of the artist who carved it.

Ching Chi was still kneeling, still expecting instant death, when the King’s chamberlain rushed in. The Chamberlain uttered a sharp order. The body-guards grasped Ching Chi and hastened him out of the house, to kneel at the King’s sedan. Ah Mee fired a last volley of broken toys at the retreating chamberlain. . . . Not especially nice of him, perhaps, but then, no one had forbidden it.

Fortune had smiled her prettiest upon the house of Ching Chi. King Tan Ki was immensely pleased with the old engraver’s work. The odds and ends of toys that had been fashioned for Ah Mee, now graced the palace. There they were appreciated. Every day Ching Chi worked faithfully, carving plaques and panels and medallions for the King. He was wealthy. Upon his little skull-cap was a red button. He was a mandarin, if you please. Only mandarins of the highest class may wear ruby buttons on their caps. . . . And Ah Mee was worse than ever.

To say it again, for emphasis, Ah Mee was worse than ever—if possible. He dabbled in all the hundred-and-one varieties of mischief. All day long it was “Ah Mee, don’t do that.” “Ah Mee, don’t do the other.” “Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.” Papa Ching was so tired of saying “Don’t” that his tongue hurt every time he used the word. Occasionally he changed his talk and said the opposite of what he really meant. Thus he would say, “That’s right, little darling, fill papa’s boots with hop toads and muddy terrapins, and that will make papa happy.” Or, “Pray take another jar, my precious. Eat all the jam you possibly can. Six jars is not at all too much.” For Ah Mee doted on jam. It was a passion with him. He started the day on jam, finished the day on jam. Every time a back was turned, his fingers sought the jam pot. Indeed, rather frequently he ate so much jam that there were pains . . . and the doctor.

Ching Chi took a bird cage from the wall and hung it on his arm. (In that land when gentlemen go for a stroll they usually carry their pet larks, instead of their pet chous.) At the door he paused and said to Ah Mee: “Little pearl in the palm, please refrain from too much mischief. Don’t [there it was again] be any worse than you are really compelled to be. Of course, it’s quite proper for you to put arsenic in Mother’s tea, and to hit baby sister with the axe again. And you may burn the house if you feel so inclined. . . . I want you to have plenty of innocent fun. But don’t [again] be bad. For instance, don’t, I beg of you, don’t get in those jars of jam any more.”

Off went Ching Chi with his lark singing blithely.

Ah Mee was quite puzzled. “Don’t get in the jars of jam.” How in the world could he get in the little jars? It was silly. He was much larger than any one of the jars. But perhaps Tieh tieh meant not put a hand in the jars. That must be it. Ah Mee made a stern resolve to keep his hands out. Not so much as a finger should go in those jars. . . .

Obedient Ah Mee arranged several of his father’s carven plaques on the floor, and tilted a jar. The plaques were beautifully decorated flat pieces of wood, somewhat larger than dinner plates. They made reasonably good dishes for the stiff jam. Surrounded by little mountains of jam, Ah Mee sat on the floor and . . . how the mountains disappeared. Really, it was fairish tasting jam.

When Ching Chi came home and discovered his carvings smeared with black and sticky jam, that good soul fell into a passion. First he screamed. Next he howled. Then he seized the plaques and flung them from him, flung them with all his strength. Flinging seems to have been a family failing.