The Frog
Never did the little Frog-man enter the great mansion owned by Fu Hsi. It stood gorgeous and majestic. Its great red roof was like a huge full-blossomed rose. It was a house of vast extent with many rooms and endless winding spacious halls. It was filled with all sorts of costly objects, fine porcelains from Kingtehchen, wondrous jades, carved tables of ebony wood, silk and satin draperies embroidered in countless colors with designs of houses and dragons, phoenix and flowers. The floors were softened by silk rugs of Pekin and Lientsin. But though the house was magnificent it was strangely silent, almost like an empty house despite the presence of numerous servants. No music was ever heard therein, no conversation of merry guests, no laughter or song. It was as though the great house was forever listening, listening for some voice in the garden. Perhaps it listened to the voice of the little Frog-man who loved to sing to the moon on purple nights when it rose like a great yellow-lantern in a sea of blue or perhaps it was enthralled by the plaintive voice of the wind in the willows.
Back at the tea-house of Pu Chiang the meditations continued. It is pleasant to have a problem to mull over as one imbibes one's tea. There was sufficient oddness about the little man to supply such a need. Where was Fu Hsi who had builded such a wonderful house and yet was unknown to everyone? What had become of him?
According to Pu Chiang, beautiful though it ap-
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