From the Old Country: Stories and Sketches of China and Taiwan

First version completed on March 12, 1950, under the title “Caopo bian” 草坡邊 (By the grassy bank). First published on May 1, 1959, in Lianhe Bao Fukan 聯合報副刊 (United Daily News: Supplement) under the present title, literally “On the Grassy Bank.”

It is early dawn, and the other chickens have left the henhouse and walked onto the grassy bank or into the wood, but that hen’s chicks are circling round and round her, cheep-cheep-cheeping.

Apparently the rheumatism that began to affect her leg a few days ago has developed to the extent that her knee can’t work properly at all. She crouches on the ground, using her wings to prop herself up on either side. Now and then she groans in pain.

“Pa! Our hen can’t walk anymore!” My elder son strides up and helps her to stand. But as soon as he lets go she is paralyzed again, flopping back down like a ball of cotton wool.

“Aiya, she can’t even stand anymore!” Tie’er is filled with pity.

The chicks are in the middle of molting: their soft, yellow down is gradually dropping off and being replaced by untidy patches of gray, black, brown, or other colors—as dirty and ragged as housewives’ cleaning rags. One of them is completely bald, bright red all over like an octopus; others have grown new feathers only on a little patch around their rumps, as though they have decided to start from that point in putting on their new finery. They seem to have a new swagger in their walk, which makes them look really funny.

The chicks stare wide-eyed, looking all around in panic and milling around the hen. Six little beaks cry out as one, as if to ask why Mother isn’t taking them out to play as usual. From time to time she makes an effort to flap her wings and lurch forward, but she can only move a very little before falling heavily back down again. You can see the pain in her eyes as she shakes her head in despair.

The hen’s attempts to move seem to throw the chicks into an even greater panic. They cry shrilly and keep cocking their heads to peer into her eyes, as if hoping to discover there what on earth is going on. Once more the hen struggles to get to her feet, and again she moves forward just a little before falling down as before. She and the chicks keep nuzzling one another, looking into each other’s eyes, helplessly sticking together. The hen’s throat trembles and she makes a gloomy sound, as if weeping.

This is the doorway of our house, a disused banana-curing shed; on one side there is a short slope where some little shrubs and plenty of lush, green grass grow. Wildflowers of red, yellow, white, and purple grow among the grass, all the way up to the door of the shed. The grass and flowers are dainty and lovable as a child’s eyes. The early morning sun sprinkles a soft yellow radiance that makes the grass, shrubs, and flowers appear fresh and lovely. Dewdrops sparkle on the blades of grass, whose clear fragrance floats in the air. Butterflies and white moths chase and play among the thickets; their tiny wings shimmer where the sunlight touches them, like tiny stars in an autumn sky.

The insects trace amazing circles and curves in the air, now rising, now dipping, as they dance from flower to flower. Suddenly a pair of little wings darts right at the eyeballs of one of the chicks. The chick gives a start and hops back a few steps. It glares, then launches itself at the insect! The moth dodges, and flies leisurely off. The chick boldly pounces again, but not only does it not catch the moth, it finds itself turning head over heels instead. Feeling sorry for itself, it clambers to its feet again and flaps its little wings. It watches the moth fly far away, and then turns and runs back to its mother’s side.

The white moth makes a loop and flies back again. This time the chick doesn’t hesitate. It pounces! The moth slips away under the chick’s neck. Another chick who has been watching intently pounces from another direction. The insect shimmies to one side and escapes with great poise. Caught off balance, the chick staggers into a thicket of grass and tumbles over and over like a ball.

The white moth flutters here and there among the chicks, enjoying itself enormously, as though this were the most wonderful game. The two chicks stick close to one another as they blunder among the shrubs and grasses in hot pursuit. Little by little they get further and further away from Mother.

Another insect comes flying up; two more chicks vie with one another to chase it, and so they too leave their mother’s side. Another insect comes flying up …

Gradually, all six chicks are lured onto the grassy bank.

The hen still crouches where she was, all alone.

Gradually it has grown quieter by the banana shed door….

“Pa! Our chicks have all run off onto the grassy bank!” cries Tie’er in high delight.

Toward noon, my wife says she’s afraid the hen will be scrawny from hunger in another couple of days and we’d better kill her while there’s still some meat on her.

I don’t know whether it would be better to kill her or not to kill her, so I just say “Ah” by way of response.

Late in the afternoon when my wife is feeding the chickens, I notice that the gray-brown hen isn’t there anymore and I remember what she said.

“Did you kill the hen?” I ask her.

“Choo—choo-choo—choo.” She is calling to the chickens on the grassy bank.

“Yes!” she says, as she goes on calling. “I told you: it would be a waste to let her starve and get skinny. Choo-choo …”

Hearing her calls, the chickens gather together from various directions. All different sizes, all different mottled colors, they jostle and peck each other in great confusion. The old hen’s six chicks also return from the grassy bank. Ever so timidly, they go to and fro on the edge of the flock, now and then pecking up a few grains that have fallen a long way from the center. Quite unexpectedly, one of the hens makes a lunge at a chick, lifts it up high in her beak, and dashes it down. The chick comes to earth at quite some distance, its feathers scattering.

Cheep cheep cheep …

The six chicks cry out in sharp distress. Now they are more timid than ever.

My wife gets a chicken cage out of the shed so the six chicks can eat alone. The mesh of the cage is just wide enough for them to get in and out.

“Poor little things …” My wife stays by the cage and mournfully watches the chicks peck at the grain.

The sun finally gathers up the last veil of radiance from the hilltops and takes it away west over the mountains. Dark clouds spread across the sky in all directions, swallowing up one rosy cloud after another like fierce animals. The curtain of the night now covers the earth; all the chickens have returned to the henhouse.

After a whole day out and about, the six chicks return to the shed doorway but can’t find their mother. Where is Mother Hen? They wander back and forth at the place where the hen was squatting when they left this morning. They stretch out their necks and cheep shrilly and mournfully. And so, amid this sorrow and lamentation, deprived of the rock on which they depended, they begin their lives as orphans.

My wife is anxiously fidgeting, going in and out of the house, not knowing what to do. Finally she goes over to the chicks, intending to catch them and put them in the chicken cage, but they all dart off into the grass thickets. Tie’er and I come down from the steps to help catch them, but we only make things worse: the poor little things just get further and further away. In silence we stand by the door of the shed rubbing our hands together, helplessly watching the swaying shadows of grasses and shrubs. We hold our breaths and listen carefully for the cheeping of the chicks. Invisible in the darkness, their little cries sound quite desolate.

By now I am feeling a keen sense of loss for the mother hen, but I force myself to say something comforting: “The chicks will get used to it.”

My wife keeps silent, turns, walks up the steps, and sits down, silently nursing our one-year-old, Li’er.

On the dinner table, the head of the sacrificial hen floats on the surface of the soup in a large bowl. Her eyes are half-closed, as if she is listening to know if her children are all right: are they sleeping soundly?

My wife breaks the silence. “I shouldn’t have killed the hen. If we’d kept her, even if she couldn’t look after her chicks, she still could’ve cuddled them at night.”

Behind her words lies a deep sense of regret, and as she speaks she draws Tie’er to her bosom, even as she holds Li’er more tightly than ever. The boys meekly snuggle into their mother’s embrace. They don’t move a muscle, as if their little souls fear that something may separate them.

Seeing the tears trickling down her cheeks, I also feel sad.

That evening we all eat exceptionally quietly, and exceptionally little, especially my wife. No one so much as touches the bowl with the chicken in it, not even six-year-old Tie’er. Clearly this child shares his parents’ feelings.

The six chicks spend that night in the former banana-curing stove.

Those unfortunate chicks become the center of our lives from then on. Each of us seems to carry a certain responsibility for them. When feeding the chickens my wife singles them out for special treatment. She cleans out the stove and spreads sacking in it, so that they won’t feel the damp. As for Tie’er, almost every day he goes into the fields and brings back lots and lots of baby frogs, worms, tadpoles, and so on to feed to them.

Seeming to realize their situation, the chicks themselves, brothers and sisters, stick lovingly together, going everywhere as a group, never leaving anyone behind. As soon as day breaks they call to one another, and then go together onto the grassy bank to look for seeds, insects, and grasshoppers. When their bellies are full they flop down together in a heap somewhere in the shade, kicking their little legs in happiness.

I don’t know how many days pass like this, until one day my wife and I are putting up a wattle fence at the edge of our yard above the grassy bank while Tie’er and Li’er play nearby. The autumn sun is already sinking, and the grasses and trees are bathing in the soft sunlight; all is warm and tranquil. A few white clouds hang in the blue sky, moving slowly and quietly and changing shape. Beautiful and varied, they seem like living animals, like our chickens.

On the grassy bank the six chicks are lying resting in the sun, stretching their legs, and preening their feathers. These are the habitual actions of adult chickens. Their plumage is already full and well rounded. And under that sleek, beautiful plumage, mature life forces are throbbing, possessed of the strength and will to break through however many obstacles may stand in their way.