always asks about you. He wants very much to see you. I sent a message telling him the probable date of your arrival. He will be here soon."
A scene full of novelty and mystery suddenly flashed across my mind: a full moon, golden and yellow, hung in the sky, and below, against the emerald green of an endless expanse of watermelon plants on a sandy beach by the sea, stood a boy eleven or twelve years old, a silver ring around his neck and a steel pitchfork in his hand. He was aiming at a "ch'a" with his fork, but as he struck with all his might, the "ch'a" ducked and scuttled off between his legs.
The boy was Yun-t'u. I was about the same age when I first met him, almost thirty years ago. My father was still living then, and our family was in good circumstances. I was, in other words, a shao-yeh, a young master. It was our turn to take charge of a particularly important ancestral sacrifice which came around only once in more than thirty years and was, therefore, an even more important occasion for us than for the rest of the clan. The offerings made before the ancestral portraits in the first month were rich and varied, the sacrificial vessels elaborate, and the participants many. It was necessary to keep a careful watch over the sacrificial vessels to guard against theft. As the work was too much for our mang-yueh, he asked father's permission to send for his son Yun-t'u to take charge of the sacrificial vessels. (In our part of the country there were three kinds of help: those who hired themselves out by the year were known as chang-nien or all-year; those who hired themselves out by the day were known as tuan-kung or short-labor; while those who worked their own land and only hired themselves out during the New Year and other festivals or during rent time were known as mang-yueh or busy-month.)
