THE PEN
5
cliuria even in far Tibet the legend
of Hok-su-inin was told to the chil
dren. Some had it that he it was who
made the pictures in the clouds;
others said that he disported unseen
with the animals of the constella
tions ; while again it was told how
' he journeyed at will from earth to
heaven along his own personal rain
bow bridge.
' Privately, Nun Li had always
been a bit skeptical about these stor
ies, but as he watched the dreamer,
another of these legends, one not so
frantically distorted, came to his
mind. He had heard that Hok-su-min
was a worshipper of beauty and of
all that was lovely. Truly, it was so.
Had he not himself seen how a cop
per bowl piled with fruit, bronzed in
the dimness, or a screen embroider
ed with huge roses and blue and yel
low flowers, or, a single spray of
white lilac in a slim green vase could
make the old philosopher tremble
witli ectasy? Hok-su"min was intoxi
cated witli loveliness. He tried to
steep himself in it. Through loveli
ness he endeavored to blot out and
banisli everything harsh and sordid
in his life. Happily, he was immense
ly wealthy and so could afford to
gratify his whims and enthusiasms.
The home of Hok-su-min blossomed
all the stars. It was a veritable poem
of soft tones and harmonies.
^ “Far variation,” said Hok-su-min,
"a cup of jasmine-scented tea and I
shall be content.”
Nun I,i poured the tea for his
grandfather, languidly the old man
quaffed it, “Life," he mused, “is tra
gic.” “How very few of us realize
the attainment of one jierfect hour
until it has passed. In our poor span
of existence each of us is alloted one
golden hour, one perfect hour in our
entire life. It is the memory of the
golden minutes of the golden hour
that makes the remainder of life
worth living. Especially is it true
if the memory has been preserved in
sweet perfume. Just as a sunset that
once flamed in the west is never
dead, so neither can a perfume van-
isli that once has been breathed into
the air. Tlie scent of lavender will
always make one think of English la
dies walking softly down prim paths,
between hedgegrows drenched in
moonlight. Sandal wood brings poig
nantly to mind the dusky dancing
girls of India. There is more divinity
to be found in perfume than in any
religion or creed. ’
Hok-su-min rose abruptly to his
feet.
“My boy,” he said, laying his
hands on Nun Li’s shoulders, “I am
going to show you a room, the like
of which you have never beheld. In
this room you will see the shell of
the golden day of my existence- the
the golden day of my existence the
jade jar. This treasure of my honor
ed ancestor, Kwoh-su-min, is famed
throughout the world, though no
white man has ever seen it, and no
Chinese who lives today has laid
eyes upon it. Presently its gorgeous
ness will astonish you.”
Turning, he led the way down
long halls, dim-lit with glimmering
lanterns. The rich silks about them
stirred gently as the two glided
swiftly along the winding corridors.
A sense of tranquillity and content
ment pervaded the atmosphere. At
last Hok-su-min stopped before a
black and gold door and drawing a
key from his sleeve, fitted it into the
lock. Nun Li gasped as he entered
the room hunir entirely in dark blue
draperies. In the blue gloomed a ball
like an orange-gold lantern, burnish
ing the shadowy objects. The sun
WPS setting.
“Oh, grandfather,” whispered Nun