hard-hearted official in the tax collector's department. In the performance of his duties, he arrived at a house where the owner pleaded too great poverty to pay his tithe. "All right," responded Sugar Prince cheerfully; "I'll stay in the house and board with you until you find enough money." Far from seeming unjust, this double taxation only worried the poor man into setting his wits to work to provide proper entertainment for his unexpected guest. He gave the best room to the tax gatherer, who soon retired. But not to sleep. The ceaseless chatter of a hen under his window kept him awake. Finally he leaned his head out to discover what annoyed her, and was surprised to hear her speaking thus: "My dear little ones, our master has an unbidden guest for whom he must provide food. To-morrow morning I shall be killed for this purpose. Dear little ones, it grieves me deeply to leave you while you are yet so inexperienced in the ways of the wide world. I have nothing to bequeath you but my parting advice. Above, be watchful lest the hawk pounce upon you; beneath, be watchful that no one treads upon you. Be mod erate in your appetite, that disease may not overtake you; children of the same mother, remember never to have aught but words of love for each other." Sugar Prince was so disturbed by this display of wisdom that he was unable to sleep. "If a short-lived, insignificant fowl exhibits so much understanding, and plans so clearly for the future, how should man plan! I will resign my official position, and seek a secluded spot where I may devote the remainder of my life's hours to study and reflection." In pursuance of this resolution, the tax gatherer bade adieu to his friends and departed. He had not proceeded far when he was met by a roaring tiger. Without fear, he jumped upon the animal's back, seized his mane, and rode proudly away to his hermit nook, thus winning the worship of the people as the god of riches. The image of wrinkled-forehead Confucius is occasionally seen in a temple, but has few worshipers beside school-children, who are the only literati of San Francisco Chinatown. A favorite story is the legend of Choy San. Choy San was wonderfully devoted to his parents. One day, when absent from home, he heard his mother was dead. This news so grieved him that he wept tears of blood. To inspire the Chinese child with proper ideas of filial devotion this legend of the tears of blood has been handed down from generation to generation, and the boy, Choy San, deified. His image is common to all temples, usually standing inside the main entrance, and may always be known by two red streaks of paints over his cheeks. Buddha is represented bareheaded, one foot terminating in turtle shape, the other as a lizard. Buddha would once have drowned but for a kindly disposed lizard and turtle, which upheld him by his feet until assistance came. "Kum Tah Foo Yen"-Golden-FlowerWoman-the goddess of children, is to be found everywhere. In temples she is recognized by her portly figure, with a child in each arm. In homes she will be found under the bed-with an array of food and incense before her-where the infant is brought to tender its first worship. Golden Flower, too, grants offspring to her favorites, and exercises a mother's care over it for a number of years. As most of the Chinese deities have had exciting adventures, the experience of this goddess will not be surprising. One day, while she was standing on a bit of matting by the river-side, a demon of the water, who had long awaited an opportunity of bringing universal woe upon the world, seized the matting, and drew it with the goddess into the water. Four ducks saw the wicked act, and though powerless to punish the demon, saved Golden Flower's life by taking the corners of the matting in their bills and guiding it safely to the shore. No sooner had she landed than she vowed solemnly never to eat of duck's meat again. So in the perpetual sacrifice before her, there is a conspicuous absence of the baked-in-lard water-fowl. "The powerful Chinese and American god" is a California invention, but worshiped none the less sincerely. As yet, this youthful deity has not been dignified with an image; only his name, "Choy Sun," and attributes, are printed on red paper. Near Choy Sun is the image of a tiger, worshiped by gamblers. His open mouth is always filled with chopped raw pork, and over his head lie slices of raw pork or bacon. Though the "kitchen god" is not found in a temple, his presence in each home and place of business is so universal that a description of the principal deities would be imperfect without a passing notice of him and his work. Kitchen god is by occupation a spy. For twelve months he remains in the house, taking strict note of every transaction, public or private. At midnight of New-Year's eve he departs for heavenly realms, and there relates to his principal the history of the past year. The people would gladly do without kitchen god, but are obliged to endure the necessary infliction of his presence. This "tattle-tale" Chinese Mercury has acquired as many contemptible traits of character as a modern supervisor. A good dinner or a handful of cash hushes him from reporting many an evil deed; but woe unto the man who fails to fee and feast him! Were his heart as pure as snow, his deeds worthy of a saint, they will be blackened until he appear a demon by greedy, avaricious, revengeful kitchen god. Let it be ever so smoked and greasy and dingy and odorous, a Chinese temple is a fanciful affair. Those owned by the wealthier companies are as clean, perhaps, as possible where there is a constant stream of worshipers coming and going. The gilded carvings are always ingenious and ornamental. The decorations of artificial flowers, draperies of Turkey red, and bright gold inscriptions on gray-green ground are exceeding picturesque. The altar curtains of solid colored silk, so heavily embroidered that but little of the original material is visible, captivate the eye of feminine visitors, who know how much labor has been employed in following and working the intricate tracings. The liberal offerings of food and in cense are always arranged tastefully. The vessels that contain them are of burnished steel. A large steel urn is constantly filled with the ashes of burned punk and sandalwood. They bring in no inconsiderable revenue to the companies, from the sale to superstitious women and children, who consider the ash consecrated, and therefore powerful in driving away disease and devils. The bona fide money that is frequently burned in offerings at the shrine of god or goddess is carefully gathered from the ashes, and made into charms for children to wear as a protection from certain ills and misfortunes. At the sides of the temples are ranged red or black staffs surmounted by steel ornaments. Some of them serve no other purpose than to add to the supposed beauty of temple and procession. Eight of them are symbolical of the eight angels who assist weak humanity occasionally with their magic instruments of power. Originally the band was composed of a mystic seven, all sworn to celibacy; but during a short sojourn on earth, one angel, forgetful of his vows, was rash enough to fall deeply in love with a mortal maiden, and in a very unangelic sort of way he announced his intention of marrying her. In vain did his six associates remonstrate; so they were obliged to fall back upon their only plan of preserving their magic band. They captured the maid, wafted her to heavenly spheres, and invested her with equal power with themselves. So when number seven threw off the yoke of angelhood and hastened to earth to wed his love, he roamed disconsolately through the wide world in fruitless search for her. Glad enough was he to be recalled to his home in the clouds, renew the ties of brotherhood, and accept his love with a fraternal affection. The sister was christened "Han Seen Koo," and presented with a lily which would unroll itself at her command, and form a beautiful pathway over mountain or ocean to the uttermost corner of the earth. No one of the eight angels is higher in authority than another, but all live in a state of perpetual equality. One carries a fire was returning home from a long journey, when East-Ocean-Holy-King-the Chinese Neptune-seized it, and would never have parted with it but for the eight angels, who, in obedience to their chivalrous instinct, hastened to assist the prince to regain the precious flower. bottle, "Foo Lo," which-small and delicate tune happening either to it or to him. He -carries enough fire to fill the heavens; he is worshiped by smiths. Another owns a pair of wooden bones, which he claps for a signal to send troops. A flute is used for the same purpose by a third angel; he is worshiped by musicians. The fourth has a flying sword, which can cut off entire armies at one blow; he is worshiped by barbers. The fifth angel waves a fan, and the waters of the ocean follow its motion; he is also able to raise the dead to life, or destroy the living. The sixth bears a brush, which he uses in collecting or clearing clouds and thunder. The last of the band owns a syringe, with which he occasionally pumps the ocean dry. This magic band and its wonderful exploits are the subject of numerous stories and theatrical plays. A scene from an oft acted drama is so popular with the people that no family is too poor to own a colored engraving of it. At every move, one's eyes rest upon eight angels upholding a human being in waves of clouds. The unpracticed eye of the outside barbarian may detect no difference in the general appearance of human freight and the angels; but is convinced of his error when gravely assured by his guide that they are "heapee not alla same." Though this picture of the eight angels crossing the ocean is so common, no one will admit that it receives worship. Your friend will shrug his shoulders and smile incredulously when he asserts: "O, some women, perhaps, believe it; but you know I'm too intelligent for that. No man puts any faith in such a humbug." As proof of his skepticism, he then grows more and more enthusiastic in his praises of the eight angels, more and more indignant if his auditor happens to smile or make contradictory remark while he is relating the LEGEND OF THE FLOWER EVERLASTING. Once upon a time a prince of China owned a vase of flowers, which would not only live forever, but also add to the life and happiness of its possessor. The prince always carried it with him in his travels, for fear of misfor While syringe angel and fan angel worked like a modern fire brigade to drain the water from the ocean, "Brudder Bones" and flute angels signaled for troops to vanquish the sea armies. Flying-sword drew his magic weapon with speed and precision. Firebottle uncorked his lightning. Brush angel gathered a mass of clouds, and in the midst of the din and confusion the prince slipped his magic flower away, and made his escape by retreating up the pathway spread out for him by lily angel. As this result was victory for the eight angels, they ceased warfare, refilled the ocean beds with their salt water, brought back the sunshine, dispersed the troops, and then joined in conducting the prince's chariot in triumph and safety to his own dominions. Like ancient Greece, China has its deities of the heaven and of the earth and of the water under the earth. Like ancient Egypt, she disposes of her idols in groups of three, and deifies certain animals. But the train of romantic fancy that springs up at the bare mention of ancient mythology is ruthlessly wrecked by a visit to the temples of Joss. The panorama of weirdly beautiful idol-worshiping scenes which unrolls itself before the vision is abruptly ended at sight of a filthy, bleary-eyed Chinaman performing the prescribed devotions of ten thousand ages. In vain will the inquirer seek for a golden art bonanza in the depths of Chinese mythology. Instead of exquisitely carved marble, it sends forth a myriad of images, grotesque, hideous, and out of proportion. In place of rare paintings and glowing recitals of exploit in immortal verse, it gives crude, gaudy sketches without spirit or artistic touch, and a few fables and legends faded and garbled till even the priests can scarcely relate them. There is no fascinating love story-love and Teutonic paganism, unless the customs stories have no prominence in Chinese and education of centuries, which have taught literature. Is it the degradation of woman that "when a girl is born she sleeps upon to the level of the beast of the field that the ground, is merely wrapped up in a cloth, strips the multitude of gross and repelling plays with a tile, and is incapable of acting superstitions of charm? What divests this either virtuously or viciously? She has nothancient religion of the poetic fancies and ing to think of but preparing food, making solemn grandeur of Grecian and Egyptian wine, and not vexing her parents." L. A. Littleton. VOL. I.-41. A SONG. ACROSS the ocean, flying free, My senses as the one who sent Between two souls that love? What more Desire can you now have to soar And flit from utmost shore to shore, Since you have seen my dear one's face, And known her tenderness and grace? IX. ANNETTA THEY had walked some distance down the open street under the open sky when Annetta said, sighing deeply: "I was feeling everything intensely-the strangeness and awfulness of death, the double strangeness and awfulness of sudden death-when that man bustled forward with his dreadful air of being upon an errand so common as to have become a mere matter of business." Mr. Treston, whom Annetta-her countenance wistfully expressing her need of sympathy-openly regarded, contented himself and her by smiling gently, comprehendingly. No words could have soothed like that radiant silence. "How strange that Tom could criticise him as he did!" she thought. She became impulsively certain that whatever trouble Mr. Treston may have had in his life-his countenance bore the impress of some sorrowno sourness toward either sex had resulted therefrom. They reached the house. "You do not care to be present at the inquest?" Annetta asked. "Not I. Doubtless Bartmore will know where to look for me when it is over." Annetta ushered him into the parlor, and tossing aside gloves and hat, tacitly begged his assistance in removing her snugly fitting out-door jacket. Her manners showed a glad and growing unconstraint in his society. "Everything will soon be going on in the old way, I hope," she said, her face brightening into his. "I was so tired of the old Now I sigh for what I used to call way. the every-dayness." Annetta's smiling. which she could not fathom beneath that measured expression of praise. How much or how little had this man with his keen penetration been able to read of that character which she was only learning slowly and painfully to distrust? Knowing what schemes her brother had frankly talked over, she became uneasy; nor could she at all subdue her nervousness until Treston begged her to play for him. There was something "Choose what you please," he said, in answer to a question of hers. "I am familiar neither with the great composers nor with their compositions-a phase of ignorance I trust some day to be quit of. But music has its message for me which can reach me through no other medium." To judge from his countenance when Bartmore, boiling over with the unmelodious haste and bustle of life, burst in upon them, the message was one of peace. Treston had then been sitting for an hour at least in an atmosphere thrilled by Mendelssohn's tenderest chords. Why had Annetta selected, scarce consciously, those plaintive Lieder? Tom did by no means appreciate what he chanced to hear. "That must be the tune the old cow died on, Netta," he cried, taking dominant possession of the room, after his wont. Then, as his sister swung softly about: "What ails you, sis? You look as if you'd lost your best friend. You mustn't get too melancholy. I can plainly see that things are preying on your mind." Annetta answered nothing; but she wondered wistfully how Tom could endure such scenes as the one he had just left without being touched, saddened, softened. Had They talked a while cheerfully and frankly, he stood but now over the stark clay that until Treston exclaimed: yesterday laughed and loved and lived with no pale forecast of the hour when he, too, must lie stark clay? "What a cordial fellow your brother is!" His tone was not unsuited to the ascription of cordiality; yet a shadow dimmed He went on gayly: |