I need your advice,” replied Whitehead, picking up the beetle and leaping on to the dog’s back.
But alas! just as they were nearing the farther shore, the excited cat forgot her wisdom for a moment. A fish suddenly leaped out of the water directly under her nose. It was too great a temptation. Snap! went her jaws in a vain effort to land the scaly treasure, and the golden beetle sank to the bottom of the river.
“There!” said the dog angrily, “what did I tell you? Now all our trouble has been in vain—all on account of your stupidity.”
For a time there was a bitter dispute, and the companions called each other some very bad names—such as turtle and rabbit. Just as they were starting away from the river, disappointed and discouraged, a friendly frog who had by chance heard their conversation offered to fetch the treasure from the bottom of the stream. No sooner said than done, and after thanking this accommodating animal profusely, they turned homeward once more.
When they reached the cottage the door was shut, and, bark as he would, Blackfoot could not persuade his master to open it. There was the sound of loud wailing inside.
“Mistress is broken-hearted,” whispered the cat, “I will go to her and make her happy.”
So saying, she sprang lightly through a hole in the paper window, which, alas! was too small and too far from the ground for the faithful dog to enter.
A sad sight greeted the gaze of whitehead. The son was lying on the bed unconscious, almost dead for want of food, while his mother, in despair, was rocking backwards and forwards wringing her wrinkled hands and crying at the top of her voice for someone to come and save them.
“Here I am, mistress,” cried Whitehead, “and here is the treasure you are weeping for. I have rescued it and brought it back to you.”
The widow, wild with joy at sight of the beetle, seized the cat in her scrawny arms and hugged the pet tightly to her bosom.
“Breakfast, son, breakfast! wake up from your swoon! Fortune has come again. we are saved from starvation!”
Soon a steaming hot meal was ready, and you may well imagine how the old woman and her son, heaping praises upon Whitehead, filled the beast’s platter with good things, but never a word did they say of the faithful dog, who remained outside sniffing the fragrant odors and waiting in sad wonder, for all this time the artful cat had said nothing of Blackfoot’s part in the rescue of the golden beetle.
At last, when breakfast was over, slipping away from the others, whitehead jumped out through the hole in the window.
“Oh, my dear Blackfoot,” she began laughingly, “you should have been inside to see what a feast they gave me! Mistress was so delighted at my bringing back her treasure that she could not give me enough to eat, nor say enough kind things about me. Too bad, old fellow, that you are hungry. You’d better run out into the street and hunt up a bone.”
Maddened by the shameful treachery of his companion, the enraged dog sprang upon the cat and in a few seconds had shaken her to death.
“So dies the one who forgets a friend and who loses honor,” he cried sadly, as he stood over the body of his companion.
Rushing out into the street, he proclaimed the treachery of whitehead to the members of his tribe, at the same time advising that all self-respecting dogs should from that time onwards make war upon the feline race.
And that is why the descendants of old Blackfoot, whether in China or in the great countries of the west, have waged continual war upon the children and grandchildren of white-head, for a thousand generations of dogs have fought them and hated them with a great and lasting hatred.
“Woe is me!” he cried at last, his sorrow getting the better of his usual calmness. “I have picked up the great capital and moved it from the South to Beijing and have built here a mighty city. I have surrounded my city with a wall, even thicker and greater than the famous wall of China. I have constructed in this city scores of temples and palaces. I have had the wise men and scholars compile a great book of wisdom, made up of 23,000 volumes, the largest and most wonderful collection of learning ever gathered together by the hands of men. I have built watch-towers, bridges, and giant monuments, and now, alas! as I approach the end of my days as ruler of the Middle Kingdom there is nothing more to be done for my people. Better far that I should even now close my tired eyes forever and mount up on high to be the guest of the dragon, than live on in idleness, giving to my children an example of uselessness and sloth.”
“But, your Majesty,” began one of Yongluo’s most faithful courtiers, named Minglin, falling upon his knees and knocking his head three times on the ground, “if you would only deign to listen to your humble slave, I would dare to suggest a great gift for which the many people of Beijing, your children, would rise up and bless you both now and in future generations.”
“Only tell me of such a gift and I will not only grant it to the imperial city, but as a sign of thanksgiving to you for your sage counsel I will bestow upon you the royal peacock feather.”
“It is not for one of my small virtues,” replied the delighted official, “to wear the feather when others so much wiser are denied it, but if it please your Majesty, remember that in the northern district of the city there has been erected a bell-tower which as yet remains empty. The people of the city need a giant bell to sound out the fleeting hours of the day, that they may be urged on to perform their labors and not be idle. The water-clock already marks the hours, but there is no bell to proclaim them to the populace.”
“A good suggestion in sooth,” answered the emperor, smiling, “and yet who is there among us that has skill enough in bell-craft to do the task you propose? I am told that to cast a bell worthy of our imperial city requires the genius of a poet and the skill of an astronomer.”
“True, most mighty one, and yet permit me to say that Guanyou, who so skillfully molded the imperial cannon, can also cast a giant bell. He alone of all your subjects is worthy of the task, for he alone can do it justice.”
Now, the official who proposed the name of Guanyou to the emperor had two objects in so doing. He wished to quiet the grief of Yongluo, who was mourning because he had nothing left to do for his people, and, at the same time, to raise Guanyou to high rank, for Guanyou’s only daughter had for several years been betrothed to Minglin’s only son, and it would be a great stroke of luck for Minglin if his daughter-in-law’s father should come under direct favor of the emperor.
“Depend upon it, Guanyou can do the work better than any other man within the length and breadth of your empire,” continued Minglin, again bowing low three times.
“Then summon Guanyou at once to my presence, that I may confer with him about this important business.”
In great glee Minglin arose and backed himself away from the golden throne, for it would have been very improper for him to turn his coat-tails on the Son of Heaven.
But it was with no little fear that Guanyou undertook the casting of the great bell.
