nd it to be a kitchen. An
oil can was over some ashes, and there were some queer, big kettles
near. In another place were Chinese children eating their breakfast.
One child had a Chinese cup, out of which she ate with chop-sticks.

Jo sat down on the edge of the village, and watched three women who
were setting off in a boat, intending to row out into the surf to
get kelp. Small fish lay drying all over the rocks by the sea-beach
near Jo, and a Chinaman was lifting up the fish, and letting them
drop again by the handful, while the wind blew away the straw or
grass that had become mixed with the fish while drying. Then the
fish were spread upon matting to dry further.

"Ho'lah!" the Chinaman said to Jo.

"Ho'lah!" responded Jo, and the conversation ceased.

For a few minutes Jo watched two or three Chinese boys who were
lying on the beach, sifting the white sand through their fingers,
hunting for the small, white "rice shells," that American people
often buy.

Presently, Jo pulled a sketch-book out of his pocket, and began to
draw the collection of queer huts that composed the Chinese village.
By and by the Chinaman who had been tossing fish, Quang Po, sat down
on the rocks. He looked at Jo for a time, and then came and glanced
over Jo's shoulder, smiling. The Chinamen of the village were used
to having artists come and plant their easels here and there on the
rocks or at the entrance of the narrow street, and draw the village
on their canvas. At such times, a small group of Chinamen usually
gathered about each artist, and made in their own tongue comments on
the drawing. No artist knew the nature of the criticisms made in his
very ears.

Jo smiled over his own drawing, as Quang Po inspected it.

"Wha' fo' you do that?" inquired Quang Po, mustering his English.

"This drawing?" questioned Jo. "Oh, you see, my cousin is an artist
on one of the city papers. He's older than I am, and he earns a good
deal of money. I'm going to learn to make pictures for papers, too.
Some day I'll have as good a position as my cousin has."

Quang Po looked puzzled. He did not understand. He always thought
American pictures strange. They were not made as Chinese pictures
were.

But Quang Po knew that once he had thought other American things
strange, too. Some Americans believed in teaching Chinese girls
wonderful stories and words from a wonderful Book. When Quang Po's
niece had been taught first by such an American, great was Q