The two stars, called Niou-Lang, the Shepherd, and Tsi-Nu, the Weaver, are situated, the first on the eastern shore of the Milky Way—the Tien-Ho, as we call it, or River of Heaven—and the other on the western shore. According to ancient astronomical observations they only meet once a year, and this meeting is supposed to take place in the night of the seventh day of the seventh moon.
Legend pretends that the Shepherd was married to the Weaving Woman, and that to punish them for some fault committed in the celestial regions—a fault analogous to that of Adam and Eve—the sovereign of the skies separated them eternally. Once only in the year did he allow them to see each other for an instant by crossing the stream of water which, during the rest of the year, put an insurmountable barrier between their loves. On that day the magpies, carrying straw in their beaks, go and build a bridge over the river, which enables the lovers to cross over dry-footed. I will add that on that day the magpies moult. A quantity of other legends naturally have been grafted on to this one. Thus it is said that the rain which falls on the eve of this feast cleans the chariot of heaven; whilst if it rains on the day itself, it is said that that is the tears of joy of the two lovers; if on the morrow, it is their tears of sorrow at their fresh separation. The feasts celebrated on this occasion vary slightly according to the locality. The object of some of the celebrations is to beg of the Weaving Woman for skill at the loom; others take advantage of the fact that on the day of their reunion the two stars are more friendly disposed, and implore their pity.
A table is usually spread on these occasions on the balcony of the pavilion, and laid with fruits, flowers, wine, candles, and incense. Low prayers are whispered. Those who pray are young women whose husbands are absent. Those who wish to become skilful workwomen close a spider up in a box. When they open the box on the morrow they can tell from the appearance of the web, which the spider has spun in the meanwhile, whether the Weaving Woman has heard their prayers or not. If the web is neat and regular they may hope for skill also.
Formerly, under the reign of the Thangs, this anniversary was celebrated with considerable splendour in the palace of the Emperor. It is said that towers about 1000 feet in height—about that of the Eiffel Tower—were constructed of silk for the occasion, and that on these towers the favourites of the Emperor made music and song in honour of celestial loves. Girls vied with one another who should soonest thread, by the light of the moon, needles with nine eyelets, and the winner was proclaimed the most skilful of all.
A poem says:
“It is easier to thread needles by moonlight than to hold a thread straight while the wind is blowing.”
There has been very much poetry written about this feast. Some of the poems are in praise of the skill of the Weaving Woman; others lament her too ephemeral happiness; but the most numerous are those in which the luckless in love envy the lot of the lovers untied in heaven, and pray them to favour them, so that they also may have a time of meeting, however short. The most celebrated of these poems is one written by a sceptical philosopher, who says:
“They are immortals, and yet they fear the water.
I am inclined to doubt that they are very skilful people.”