Prince Chin took long to decide upon his course. So long it took him that Han grew impatient and sat down to write again. While he wrote, a strong wind broke upon the camp. The papers on Han’s table were lifted high in air. Higher and higher they swirled, higher than an eagle—for the Shen of Storms to read. Han’s golden knife, resting on a paper, was lifted by the wind, transported far over the foeman’s camp.
Immediately an idea seethed in the leader’s mind. If a small piece of paper could carry a knife, might not a large piece carry the knife’s owner? Especially, when that owner happened to be not much more weighty than a three-day bean cake? It seemed reasonable. Again the little general took spears from his soldiers. The iron points were removed and the long bamboo shafts were bound together in a frame. Over the frame was fastened tough bamboo paper in many sheets. Away from prying enemy eyes, the queer contrivance was sent into air. It proved sky-worthy, lifting its maker to a fearsome height. Thus was the feng cheng invented. Thus was the kite, little brother of the aeroplane, invented by Han Hsin.
The night showed no moon. Not a star had been lighted. The wind blew strong, with an eerie whistling. It was such a night as demons walk about their mischief, and honest men keep under their quilts. Out of the sky above the enemy camp came a great flapping sound. Could it be a dragon? All eyes peered upward through the darkness. . . . Two red eyes appeared. . . . Nothing more could be seen. . . . Only the two evil eyes. A voice came from the sky. “Return to your homes,” boomed the voice. “The battle is lost. Return to your homes, ere they too are lost.” The men of Chin shook with their fear. The Shen of the sky had spoken. They had heard his voice. They had heard the flapping of his wings. They had seen his red and terrible eyes. How could the men of Chin know that the words they heard were uttered by Han Hsin? How could they know that the flapping was caused by a man-made thing, later to be named “feng cheng” (kite)? And how could they know that the eyes were mere bottles filled with insects called “Bright at night (Fireflies)”? The men of Chin could not know. They loosened the ropes of their tents—and the tents came down.
Prince Chin tried in vain to hold his followers. No longer followers were they. They were fugitives, fleeing to their homes. Only a few hundred remained true to their prince. Doubly armed with the weapons that had been thrown away, they ascended a steep and rocky hill, there to make their last great fight.
But Han Hsin had anticipated just such action, and had prepared for it. Unseen, he had slipped through the enemy lines and climbed the hill. With a brush dipped in honey he wrote words upon a stone. As he wrote, came hungry ants. The ants came—to aid—and to feast. Soon the stone was black with a crawling multitude.
Prince Chin scaled the hill to its summit. Ten thousand swords could not dislodge him from those rocks. He would make the enemy pay a red price for success. . . . His gaze fell upon the rock. . . . He saw a host of ants forming characters that read “The Battle is Lost.” His men also beheld, and they said, “The ant is wisest of all animals. Let us crawl in the dust, for we are conquered.”
So, Han Hsin victored over the three hostile armies. His country was invaded no more. In time it became really his country, for he ruled it—as a King—ruled it well. But now his wise rule is forgotten. He is remembered as the man who first made kites.
