Mount Tai, how was he to produce the wind. A good half hour—sixty minutes in that land—passed before he had an inspiration. Again he called for the royal tailor. "Procure," he told the tailor, "many bales of the stoutest silk. Then place some of your brawniest men outside yonder lattice, and have them rip the silk, tear it into strips—with all the noise possible." With which King Ho Chu entered the treasury to see how his gold was dwindling.
Huge-armed stalwarts stood outside Tiao Fu's window. Their hands clutched the woven silk. A pull. "Sh-r-r-r-r-iek. Pull. Sh-r-r-r-iek." For two days the brow of Tiao Fu was smooth and untroubled. She actually spoke kindly to the King. He, poor soul, didn't hear it. He was too busy wondering what the next task would be, and how expensive.
Scarcely a hundred bales of silk had been torn when Tiao Fu hurled her crown across the room and began to weep. "My dear, what's the trouble? What is the trouble?" questioned Ho Chu. "Is the wind too
