—_From “Lun Yu;” or, “Conversations of Confucius.”_ A BALLAD ON “PICKING TEA IN THE GARDENS IN SPRINGTIME.” Our household dwells amid ten thousand hills, Where the tea north and south of the village abundantly grows. From _chinsé_ to _kuhyü_ unceasingly hurried, Each morning I must early rise to do my task of tea. By earliest dawn, I at my toilet, only half dress my hair, And seizing my basket pass the door while yet the mist is thick. The little maids and graver dames, hand in hand winding along, Ask me, “Which steep of Sunglo do you climb to-day?” The sky is thick and the dusky twilight hides the hilltops; The dewy leaves and cloudy buds can not be easily plucked. We know not for whom their thirst to quench We’re caused to labor and daily two by two to go. In social couples each to aid her fellows, we seize the tea twigs, And in low words urge one another, “Don’t delay,” Lest on the topmost bough, the bud has even now grown old, And lest with the morrow comes the drizzling, silky rain. We’ve picked enough, the topmost boughs are sparse of leaves; We lift our baskets filled brimful and talk of going home; Laughing we pass along, when just against the pool A pair of scared mallards rise and fly diverse away. This pool has limpid water, and there deep the lotus grows; Its little leaves are round as coins, and only yet half-blown; Going to the jutting verge, near a clear and shallow spot, I mark my present looks, try how of late my face appears. My curls and hair are all awry, my face is quite begrimed; In whose house lives the girls so ugly as your slave? ’Tis only because that every day the tea I’m forced to pick, The soaking rains and driving winds have spoiled my early charms. With the morning comes the wind and rain together, fierce and high, But the little hat and basket tall still must I take along; The tender leaflets fully picked, we to our homes return, When each sees her fellow’s dress all soiled with miry slime. This morn without the door, I beheld a pleasant sky; Quickly I combed my girlish tufts and firmly set my pin; With rapid steps away I speed towards the garden’s path, And forgetful of the muddy way, omit to change my shoes. When just within the garden bounds, I hear the thunder roll; My bowing shoes are soaked quite through, yet still I can’t return; I call my distant comrade to send my message home, And have my green umbrella-hat set hither to me soon. The rain is past, the outmost leaflets show their greenish veins; Pull down a branch and the fragrant scent’s diffused around; Both high and low the yellow golden threads are now quite culled, And my clothes and frock are dyed with odors through and through.