Chapter 3 No.3

My Dear One,

The hours of one day are as like each other as are twin blossoms

from the pear-tree. There is no news to tell thee. The mornings are

passed in the duties that come to all women who have the care of a

household, and the afternoons I am on the terrace with thy sister. But

first of all, thine August Mother must be made comfortable for her

sleep, and then the peace indeed is wonderful.

Mah-li and I take our embroidery and sit upon the terrace, where we

pass long hours watching the people in the valley below. The faint

blue smoke curls from a thousand dwellings, and we try to imagine

the lives of those who dwell beneath the rooftrees. We see the

peasants in their rice-fields; watch them dragging the rich mud from

the bottoms of the canal for fertilizing; hear the shrill whistle of the

duck man as, with long bamboo, he drives the great flock of ducks

homeward or sends them over the fields to search for insects. We see

the wedding procession far below, and can but faintly follow the great

covered chair of the bride and the train of servants carrying the

possessions to the new home. Often the wailing of the mourners in a

funeral comes to our ears, and we lean far over the balcony to watch

the coolie scatter the spirit money that will pay the dead man's way to

land of the Gods. But yesterday we saw the procession carrying the

merchant Wong to his resting-place of sycee spent upon his funeral.

Thy brothers tell me his sons made great boast that no man has been

buried with such pomp in all the province. But it only brings more

clearly the remembrance that he began this life a sampan coolie and

ended it with many millions. But his millions did not bring him

happiness. He laboured without ceasing, and then without living to

enjoy the fruit, worn out, departed, one knows not whither.

Yesterday we heard the clang-clang of a gong and saw the Taotai

pass by, his men carrying the boards and banners with his official

rank and virtues written upon them, and we counted the red umbrellas

and wondered if some poor peasant was in deep trouble.

It is beautiful here now. The hillside is purple with the autumn bloom

and air is filled with a golden haze. The red leaves drift slowly down

the canal and tell me that soon the winter winds will come. Outside

the walls the insects sing sleepily in grass, seeming to know that

their brief life is nearly spent. The wild geese on their southward flight

carry my thoughts to thee. All is sad, and sad as the clouded moon

my longing face, and my eyes are filled with tears. Not at twilight nor

at grey of dawn can I find happiness without thee, my lord, mine own,

and "endless are the days as trailing creepers."

Thy Wife.