"And here, if you like, the Cricket DID chime in! with a Chirrup, Chirrup, Chirrup of such magnitude, by the way of chorus, with a voice so astoundingly disproportionate to its size, as compared with the Kettle, (size! you couldn't see it!) that if it had then and there burst itself like an overcharged gun, if it had fallen a victim on the spot, and chirruped its little body into fifty pieces it would have seemed a natural and inevitable consequence for which it had expressly labored." . . .
"There was all the excitement of a race about it. Chirp, chirp, chirp! Cricket a mile ahead. Hum, hum, hum-m-m! Kettle making play in the distance, like a great top. Chirp, chirp, chirp!—Cricket round the corner. Hum, hum, hum! Kettle sticking to him in his own way, no idea of giving in. Chirp, chirp, chirp ! Cricket fresher than ever. Hum, hum, hum-m-m! Kettle slow and steady. Chirp, chirp, chirp! Cricket going to finish him. Hum, hum, hum! Kettle not to be finished. Until at last, they got so jumbled up together, in the hurry-skurry, helter-skelter of the match, that whether the Kettle chirped or the Cricket hummed, or the Cricket chirped and the Kettle hummed, or the Cricket chirped and the Kettle hummed, or the both chirped and both hummed, it would have taken a clearer head than yours or mine to have decided with anything like certainty. But of this there is no doubt, that the Kettle and the Cricket, at one and the same moment, and by some power of amalgamation best known to themselves, sent each his fireside song of comfort streaming into a ray of the candle that shone through the window, and a long way down the lane. And this light, bursting on a certain person who on the instant, approached towards it through the gloom, expressed the whole thing to him, literally in a twinkling, and cried, 'Welcome home, old fellow! Welcome home, my boy!"
CHAPTER IX.
"The willow-pattern that we knew
In childhood. with its bridge of blue,
Leading to unknown thoroughfares."
——Keramos, Longfellow.
Peradventure some who read these rambling paragraphs may be the fortunate possessor of a few pieces of that willow-pattern, blue or pink china table ware which was but too lightly esteemed when it was a common heritage of English and American families. If not, a vivid remembrance of the ware and of the fancies which it inspired, must be little less prized by those who cherish such associations with home and childhood. We are tempted here to recall some of our own reminiscences of old china, which the impatient reader may excusably skip for more serious matter.
From the semi-aquatic summer-house with roof curving upward like an inverted umbrella, imprinted upon a favorite tea-plate, we often sallied forth in fancy to explore the Chinese world as portrayed in blue or pink upon earthen table-ware of the olden time. And what a world! How artfully adapted to childish notions, how convenient for bird's-eye views, this arrangement of lofty mountain peaks, deep gorges, and rocks of fantastic forms, tangled up with examples of nature subdued by Chinese art in landscape gardening and ornate architecture. In the near distance (far and near are the same in Chinese art), we behold a slender streak of waterfall descending from mountain peaks a thousand feet or height by comparison; a broad flight of stone stairs leading up to a palace or temple of intricate construction and marvellous ornamentation; a majestic river a mile or two in width, winding serenely by these wonders of nature and art, but submitting to be spanned by a single arch of bridge, perhaps thrice the length of the Chinaman advancing over its camel-humped back, who placidly regards from under his ruffle-edged umbrella the pleasure boats floating beneath him. A little group of high- born Chinese ladies in holiday attire are seated in a garden of potted plants on the river's bank, drinking tea, flirting their fans, and doubtless talking over the latest Court gossip. Nearby is a willow, not the stiff, ugly tree now seen upon tame and degenerate imitations of real old China pottery, but a graceful weeping-willow, whose drooping branches sweep the opposite shore, as sublimely indifferent to distance as the untrammeled artist himself.
No hint here of imperative human toil, or of human need, or of anything but present enjoyment and rest; it is a picture of contented, comfortable existence, for dreamy contemplation, amid a grouping of art and nature that calmly defies probability and challenges the impossible.
But perhaps the Chinese artist had more justification for his incredible fancies than we have imagined. Strange contradictions occur in China, judged by our conventional standards, and there are surprises and incongruities even in their actual landscapes, which are unsuspected by thousands of our intelligent countrymen. Some examples of such departure from our notions of natural and of artificial scenery are given in the illustrations of this work.
CHAPTER X.
"The east wind fans a gentle breeze,
The streams and trees glory in the brightness of the spring.
The bright sun illuminates the green shrubs,
And the falling flowers are scattered and fly away,
The solitary cloud retreats to the hollow hill;
The birds return to their leafy haunts:
Every being has a refuge whither he may turn;
I alone have nothing to which to cling.
So, seated opposite the moon shining o'er the cliff,
I drink and sing to the fragrant blossoms."