Usually I dedicate this blog to my own works, but the following is a Chinese fairy tale that I enjoyed in my 6th grade literature textbook, but couldn't find anywhere online. I finally found it in an obscure book on Google Books, and copied it down here for the enjoyment of all.

Po-wan and the Living Kuan-yin

retold by Carol Kendall and Yao-Wen Li, minor punctuation edits made

Even though the family name of Chin means “gold,” it does not signify that everyone of that name is rich. Long ago in the province of Chekiang, however, there was a certain wealthy Chin family of whom it was popularly said that its fortune was as great as its name. It seemed quite fitting, then, when a son was born to the family, that he should be called Po-wan, “Million,” for he was certain to be worth a million pieces of gold when he came of age.

With such a happy circumstance of names, Po-wan himself never doubted that he would have a never-ending supply of money clinking through his fingers, and he spent it accordingly—not on himself, but on any unfortunate who came to his attention. He had a deep sense of compassion for anyone in distress of body or spirit: a poor man had only to hold out his hand, and Po-wan poured gold into it; if a destitute widow and her brood of starvelings but lifted sorrowful eyes to his, he provided them with food and lodging and friendship for the rest of their days.

In such wise did he live that even a million gold pieces were not enough to support him. His resources so dwindled that finally he scarcely had enough food for himself. His clothes flapped threadbare on his wasted frame; and cold seeped into his bone marrow for lack of a fire. Still, he gave away the little money that came to him.

One day, as he scraped out half of his bowl of rice for a beggar even hungrier than he, he began to ponder on his destitute state.

“Why am I so poor?” he wondered. “I have never spent extravagantly. I have never, from the day of my birth, done an evil deed. Why then am I, whose very name is A-Million-Pieces-of-Gold, no longer able to find even a copper to give this unfortunate creature, and have only a bowl of rice to share with him?”

He thought long about his situation and at last determined to go without delay to the South Sea. Therein, it was told, dwelt the all-merciful goddess, the Living Kuan-yin, who could tell the past and future. He would put his question to her, and she would tell him the answer.

Soon he had left his home country behind and traveled for many weeks in unfamiliar lands. One day, he found his way barred by a wise and furiously flowing river. As he stood first on one foot and then on the other, wondering how he could possibly get across, he heard a commanding voice calling from the top of an overhanging cliff.

“Chin Po-wan!” the voice said, “if you are going to the South Sea, please ask the Living Kuan-yin a question for me!”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Po-wan agreed at once, for he had never in his life refused a request made of him. In any case, the Living Kuan-yin permitted each person who approached her three questions, and he had but one of his own to ask.

Craning his head toward the voice coming from above, he suddenly began to tremble, for the speaker was a gigantic snake with a body as large as a temple column. Po-wan was glad he had agreed so readily to the request.

“Ask her, then,” said the snake, “why I am not yet a dragon even though I have practiced self-denial for more than one thousand years.”

“That I will do, and gl-gladly,” stammered Po-wan, hoping that the snake would continue to practice self-denial just a bit longer. “But, your… your Snakery… or your Serpentry, perhaps I should say… that is… you see, don’t you… first I must cross this raging river, and I know not how.”

“That is no problem at all,” said the snake. “I shall carry you across, of course.”

“Of course,” Po-wan echoed weakly. Overcoming his fear and his reluctance to touch the slippery-slithery scales, Chin Po-wan climbed onto the snake’s back and rode across quite safely. Politely, and just a bit hurriedly, he thanked the self-denying serpent and bade him goodbye. Then he continued on his way to the South Sea.

By noon, Po-wan was very hungry. Fortunately, a nearby inn offered meals at a price he could afford. While waiting for his bowl of rice, he chatted with the innkeeper and told him of the Snake of the Cliff, which the innkeeper knew well and respected, for the serpent always denied bandits the crossing of the river. Inadvertently, during the exchange of stories, Po-wan revealed the purpose of his journey.

“Why, then,” cried the innkeeper, “let me prevail upon your generosity to ask a word for me.” He laid an appealing hand on Po-wan’s ragged sleeve. “I have a beautiful daughter,” he said, “wonderfully amiable and pleasing of disposition. But although she is in her twentieth year, she has never in all her life uttered a single word. I should be very much obliged if you would ask the Living Kuan-yin why she is unable to speak.”

Po-wan, much moved by the innkeeper’s plea for his mute daughter, of course promised to do so. For after all, the Living Kuan-yin allowed each person three questions, and he had but one of his own to ask.

Nightfall found him far from any inn, but there were houses in the neighborhood, and he asked for lodging at the largest. The owner, a man obviously of great wealth, was pleased to offer him a bed in a fine chamber, but first begged him to partake of a hot meal and good drink. Po-wan ate well, slept soundly, and, much refreshed, was about to depart the following morning when his good host, having learned that Po-wan was journeying to the South Sea, asked if he would be kind enough to put a question for him to the Living Kuan-yin.

“For twenty years, he said, “from the time this house was built, my garden has been cultivated with the utmost care; yet in all those years, not one tree, not one small plant, has bloomed or borne fruit, and because of this, no bird comes to sing, nor bee to gather nectar. I don’t like to put you to a bother, Chin Po-wan, but as you are going to the South Sea anyway, perhaps you would not mind seeking out the Living Kuan-yin and asking her why the plants in my garden don’t bloom?”

“I shall be delighted to put the question to her,” said Po-wan. For after all, the Living Kuan-yin allowed each person three questions, and he had but…

Traveling onward, Po-wan examined the quandary in which he found himself. The Living Kuan-yin allowed but three questions, and he had somehow, without quite knowing how, accumulated four questions. One of them would have to go unasked, but which? If he left out his own question, his whole journey would have been in vain. If, on the other hand, he left out the question of the snake or the innkeeper or the kind host, he would break his promise and betray their faith in him.

“A promise should never be made if it cannot be kept,” he told himself. “I made the promises, and therefore I must keep them. Besides, the journey will not be in vain, for at least some of these problems will be solved by the Living Kuan-yin. Furthermore, assisting others must certainly be counted as a good deed, and the more good deeds abroad in the land, the better for everyone, including me.”

At last he came into the presence of the Living Kuan-yin.

First, he asked the serpent’s question: “Why is the Snake of the Cliff not yet a dragon, although he has practiced self-denial for more than one thousand years?”

And the Living Kuan-yin answered: “On his head are seven bright pearls. If he removes six of them, he can become a dragon.”

Next, Po-wan asked the innkeeper’s question: “Why is the innkeeper’s daughter unable to speak, although she is in the twentieth year of her life?”

And the Living Kuan-yin answered: “It is her fate to remain mute until she sees the man destined to be her husband.”

Last, Po-wan asked the kind host’s question: “Why are there never blossoms in the rich man’s garden, although it has been carefully cultivated for twenty years?”

And the Living Kuan-yin answered: “Buried in the garden are seven big jars filled with silver and gold. The flowers will bloom if the owner will rid himself of half the treasure.”

Then Chin Po-wan thanked the Living Kuan-yin and bade her goodbye.

On his return journey, he stopped first at the rich man’s house to give him the Living Kuan-yin’s answer. In gratitude, the rich man gave him half the buried treasure.

Next, Po-wan went to the inn. As he approached, the innkeeper’s daughter saw him from the window and called out, “Chin Po-wan! Back already! What did the Living Kuan-yin say?”

Upon hearing his daughter speak at long last, the joyful innkeeper gave her in marriage to Chin Po-wan.

Lastly, Po-wan went to the cliffs by the furiously flowing river to tell the snake what the Living Kuan-yin had said. The grateful snake immediately gave him six of the bright pearls and promptly turned into a magnificent dragon, the remaining pearl in his forehead lighting the headland like a great beacon.

And so it was that Chin Po-wan, the generous and good man, was once more worth a million pieces of gold.