At last Meng Hu grew tired of making wolf howls. He tried his voice at imitating the calls of other animals. A cow—“Am-oo-ooh.” Sun-awakening rooster—“Cockadoodledoo.” A tiger; Meng Hu gave the buzzing sound of pleasure, the open-mouthed roar of anger, the coughing “woof” of pain. He found it easy to give the various calls of hou erh (the monkey). He squealed in a manner most pig-like. He imitated the “Onkee Onkee” of his master’s donkey. He gave the neigh of a horse.
Day after day Meng Hu practiced in the hills, imitating the calls of many animals, usually in a low voice so that his sheep would receive no fright. Lonesomeness no longer oppressed him. He had a toy more entrancing than a lute with ivory bands. He was wolf, and tiger, and clucking biddy by turns. He knew all cries of the wild.
A train of coolies trudged along the road below. Meng Hu, seeing them, thought to have great fun. He placed his hands trumpet fashion to his mouth and gave the wolves’ hunting song: “Ow-w-w-w-wh.” Instantly the coolies flung down their burdens and ran as fast as men can run to the village. Those scary fellows had no wish to help fatten a famine-maddened wolf. Naturally, their fright lent great powers to their imaginations. Not only had they heard the wolf—they had seen him—as large as the Emperor’s battle horse. And the flock owners had better see about their sheep. A dozen sheep would be only a trifling morsel for that huge beast. This large—holding their hands high in air.
How the village hubbubbed with excitement. Such a collection of spears and scythes and warlike jingals as rushed to the wolf-haunted hills.
When Meng Hu saw half of the village’s population drawing near in a glorious gleam of weapons, he realized what had happened. Beyond a doubt, he would be questioned. Had he seen the wolf? They would ask him that. No—he hadn’t seen the wolf, but most certainly he had heard it. Perhaps the beast was hiding in the thicket. Then hunt for it. That would prevent suspicion.
The villagers came up to find Meng Hu bravely poking with his staff in the bushes. Oh, but they praised him. “See,” said the villagers, “brave Meng Hu all alone hunts the wolf. How courageous is Meng Hu. His heart is as bold as the heart of Mi Tze—he who pulled the King’s beard. Valiant Meng Hu is an added honor to the Village of Two Roads Meeting—renowned for its heroic men.”
Meng Hu said nothing—just then. When alone, he brayed like a donkey. It was so funny, so laughably ridiculous. He had fooled the wisest men of Two Roads Meeting Village.
For the next several days Meng gave the villagers plenty of violent exercise. He had them come puffing up the hill at all hours. “Ow-w-w-w-w-w-wh.” One long-drawn-out howl was sufficient to set scythes and spears in motion.
But the villagers were not so gullible as one might think. They had eyes. Why was it that they never saw the wolf? Never a glimpse could they catch of the rogue. And there were no tracks to be found. Suspicion dawned. Could it be that someone was making sport of Two Roads Meeting Village? Several men hid in the bushes. Meng Hu was seen to climb a rock that overhung the lowland. He raised his hands to form a trumpet. “Ow-w-w-w-w-wh.” The wolf.
“Oho,” said the men, of whom the flock owner was one. “Aha. So it was you all the time.” They rushed upon Meng Hu and gave him a good taste of bamboo sauce, which is served upon the back, and sounds “Swish, thump. Swish, thump.” The flock owner then paid Meng what few cash were due and bade him, “Chu pa (Away with you). And don’t dare ever to return. Hsiao tsai tzu (You young animal).”