Su-ling told me that the present proprietor’s father, aspiring to follow in his father’s footsteps as a scholar, dreaming perhaps of striding in the robes of a great diplomat in foreign palaces, had bought these books, and others in Chinese whose pages now adorned the walls of other rooms of the house, but had found his capacities less elevated than his ambitions, had given up his studies, had set up this eating place for junk owners and river pilots, and had at last put the pages of his books to good use as wallpaper, to keep the wind from whistling through the walls of matting and uneven boards.

I began to move around sampling the pages and soon I saw that the texts had been written, not by Englishmen, but by high-minded Chinese authors, whose notions of style were grand and oddly turned. There were quaint problems in mathematics involving calculations on the abacus; there were some very strange models of English grammar.

“Why do you smile?” Su-ling asked.

“Come here and let me read you this,” I said, for I had found an area of the wall that was taken up with models of correspondence, and I wanted to share my amusement with her. The text ran like this:

No. 34.

Dear sir:

Since last night it has been snowing, on which the ground is as if it were changed into a silver world and the dry leaves are as if they were decorated with white flowers.

It is one’s conclusion that after snow falling the scenery of the river brightens with much more vividness.

I think it is not very prudent that we confine by the stove in spite of such a view. So I intend to get in a boat on the dangerous river for the purpose of taking a fine sight.

Though with your ability you can scarcely need my advice, yet allow me the freedom to express the strong hope that you will join me. It hurts me to consider of your staying indoors, for I regret to see you continue in those bad habits of indifference to beautiful views which may shorten your life.

Please write to me very fast,

Your devoted servant,

Su-ling laughed, with the sweet murmuring indulgent laughter with which I had so often heard her bless the owner of the junk, as I translated. I was very much aware that she was standing close beside me as I followed the words of the letter with an index finger, and this awareness contributed, I am sure, to the awkwardness of my translation, at which, I now realize, she was laughing, rather than at the sentiments of the letter, which were my source of amusement.