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One whom I knew, and who had pass'd his youth
Amongst Celestials, vouching for its truth,
Told me this story, which I give you here;
He paid Ah-Ching some thirty pounds a year
As cook and housekeeper, who did his best
To satisfy his master's just behest.
Though somewhat portly and accounted sage,
Ah-Ching display'd no outward signs of age,
Was call'd “the Boy,” and, ever spruce and keen,
Scrubbed at his pots and kept his kettles clean,
Active and “merry as a marriage bell;”
So, for a while, all went supremely well.
But, one fine day, at pipe of early bird,
Sounds of discordant chattering were heard,
Banging of doors and clattering of clogs,
Mingled with barking of the household dogs.
Then, when my friend uprose, and, looking out,
Strove to discover what 'twas all about,
Behold, a crowd of pig-tails in a row,
Ranged by Ah-Ching outside the bungalow,
Waiting to see the master. “Who are these?” . . .
Whereon Ah-Ching (only he spoke Chinese)
Made answer thus: “These are my next-of-kin,
My father's relatives;” then, with a grin,
“They come to bear me hence before I die—
My brother's son, Ah-Foo, will tell you why.”
On this Ah-Foo advanced: “You see,” he said,
“Where we to wait until Ah-Ching was dead,
'Twould come so very hard upon us all
To bear the outlay of his funeral.
Perhaps you know not what we most desire
Is, to repose in peace, when we expire,
Beside the other members of our race
Within our own ancestral burial-place.
Now, as it happens, where our kindred lie
Is miles away, upon the Wi-hai-wi.
Ah-Ching is getting on,—past sixty-five;
'Twere most important he should go alive,
And travel, thus, at less expensive rate
Than if convey'd as parcel, charged by weight.
He feels this strongly, so to-day we come
To bear him, living, to his final home,
Where, just without the wall which fences in
The place of tombs pertaining to our kin,
He can, with other patient souls, await
What cannot fail, ere long, to be his fate.
Pay us his wages, which shall go to swell
His list of comforts at his last hotel.
This time's convenient to us; he must go!”
Ah-Ching smiled blandly: “It is even so!”
In vain remonstrance; with his bundles made
Ah-Ching departed, not one whit dismay'd:
“I weigh quite sixteen stone,” he laugh'd; “'Tis clear
If they had waited I had cost them dear!”

Years pass'd away, and then, I know not why,
My friend moved northward, near the Wi-hai-wi,
When, being of a most inquiring mind,
He set himself industriously to find
Ah-Ching's last resting-place, if but to look
Upon the tombstone of his former cook.
His patience was rewarded, but this pain
Spared to his heart: he saw Ah-Ching again,
Grown somewhat stouter (for, as now his weight
No longer influenced his future fate,
What need to stint?); he drove a thriving trade,
And even there, in sight of pick and spade
Stuck in the quicklime heap outside the gate
Which barr'd him still from sharing the estate
Apportion'd to his sleeping kith and kin,
Had married a new wife, and kept an inn,
Where other pilgrims, on like errand bound,
Could cat and drink whilst waiting above ground,
And then, a placid countenance to keep,
Puff at the pipe which yields the “poppied sleep”
And gives a foretaste of that perfect rest
Which waits them in some few short years at best.

My friend laugh'd gaily as he told his tale,—
It seem'd so strange that, just without the pale
Dividing quick from dead, this man should dwell,
Take him a wife, and set up an hotel,
Where those condemned, as he was, did not shrink
From taking pleasure in their meat and drink
Amidst such grim reminders of the end.
“It shows their stolid nature,” said my friend.
“Yet what” (I asked him) “can the diff'rence be
Between these poor Chinese and you and me,
Who, likewise, for a while, without the gate
Of Death's dark citadel are doom'd to wait,
And who should strive, with calm, contented mind,
To make the best of all the good we find?
Surely this is the wisdom of the wise!”
“I see” (laugh'd he) “you wish to moralise!”