King Yang Lang came with a golden torch. Greatly he was pleased that the loong had been routed.
But Princess Chin Uor was far from pleased. Indeed, she was fretful. From the floor she took a sliver of flint-hard clay. “My pies are all broken. All. All are broken,” mourned Princess Many Dimples. “I had placed them in the wing-dow. And the dragon knocked them down and broke them.” And beyond doubt so had he done. There were the pieces.
Still the King remained cheerful. His little daughter’s sadness passed unnoticed. His Majesty said: “Your pies, my daughter, are excellent food—let no one deny it—but even better are they to give warning of the dragon’s nearness. Your pies have provided me with a wonderful idea. Hereafter we need have no more fear of the loong. . . . Ho. General. Awaken your soldiers again. Let them march to the river.”
For a week the King’s army did no other labor than make mud pies. And liked it. The pies were given heat in giant ovens, were baked into stony hardness. Then they were placed throughout the palace, in windows, upon tables, chairs, upon chests and shelves, high and low and everywhere. Even on the chimney tops were rows of glistening pies. The slightest misstep by a prowling dragon would have caused a din most tremendous.
The royal dining table was a shining whiteness, covered with mud pies. So numerous were the pies of the princess that no room remained for food. But that was no cause for worry. The King merely ordered that his rice be placed upon a baked clay pie. Mandarins who visited the palace were much surprised at what they saw—a King eating from common clay. Nevertheless, their own tables were soon covered with Princess Chin Uor’s pies. For the King, of course, set all fashions.
And so, we modern peoples speak of our plates and cups and saucers as “China.” China? Is it? Yes, and no. China is merely our way of pronouncing Chin Uor. Our plates are merely thin copies of Princess Chin Uor’s pies.
