it is for the dead.

Whatever life has need of, it is here. Yet it is here in
sham, in effigy, in tortured compromise.
The dead have need of silk. Yet silk is dear, and
there are living backs to clothe.
The rolls are paper.... Do not look too close.

The dead I think will understand.
The carvings, too, the bearer-chair, the jade--yes,
they are paper; and the shining ingots, they are
tinsel.
Yet they are made with skill and loving care!
And if the priest knows--surely he must know!--
when they are burned they'll serve the dead as
well as verities.
So living mouths can feed.

The master of the shop is a pious man. He has attained
much honor and his white moustache droops
below his chin.
"Such an one" he says "I burned for my own father.
And such an one my son will burn for me.
For I am old, and half my life already dwells among
the dead."

And, as he speaks, behind him in the shop I feel the
presence of a hovering host, the myriads of the
immortal dead, the rulers of the spirit in this
land....

For in this kingdom of the dead they who are living
cling with fevered hands to the torn fringes of the
mighty past. And if they fail a little, compromise....

The dead I think will understand.

Soochow

My Servant

The feet of my servant thump on the floor. _Thump,_
they go, and _thump_--dully, deformedly.
My servant has shown me her feet.
The instep has been broken upward into a bony cushion.
The big toe is pointed as an awl. The small
toes are folded under the cushioned instep. Only
the heel is untouched.
The thing is white and bloodless with the pallor of
dead flesh.

But my servant is quite contented.
She smiles toothlessly and shows me how small are her
feet, her "golden lilies."

_Thump_, they go, and _thump!_

Wusih

The Feast

So this is the wedding feast!
The room is not large, but it is heavily crowded, filled
with small tables, filled with many human bodies.
About the walls are paintings and banners in sharp
colors; above our heads hang innumerable gaudy
lanterns of wood and paper. We sit in furs,
shivering with the cold.
The food passes endlessly, droll combinations in brown
gravies--roses, sugar, and lard--duck and
bamboo--lotus, chestnuts, and fish-eggs--an
"eight-precious pudding."
They tempt curiosity; my chop-sticks are busy. The
warm rice-wine trickles sparin