The Golden Bird and the Spirit of the Tree

Once upon a time, in a remote and unknown land, there grew a dense and ancient forest. I couldn’t even tell you how many days and nights it would take to traverse it from end to end. What kinds of trees didn’t grow in that forest! Pines and cypresses stood green all year round. Wild nuts and wutong trees adorned themselves with flowers in spring, while maples and oaks covered themselves with red leaves in autumn. Hawthorns and pears bore fruit. There were too many to count! Three days and three nights wouldn’t be enough. In that forest grew an old acacia tree. Its branches at the top were crooked and twisted, resembling not branches but a dragon. In its trunk was a hollow—a whole house. A tree spirit lived in that hollow. He was wise and knew everything. His bed was made of enormous dry leaves, and his door curtain was woven from golden and silver vines that coiled around the tree. Let me tell you what happened to that spirit once. But first, I’ll start with something else.

Far, far away from the forest stood a small village. In that village grew a large elm tree. On the elm, a small bird with golden feathers frolicked and chirped. Near the elm stood two houses, roof to roof, with a thin earthen wall between them. To the west of the wall lived a poor man named Liu Chun-tian. As the saying goes, he didn’t even have enough land to poke with a finger. He and his wife rose at dawn, during the fifth watch, and began grinding soybeans to make tofu. They ate bean husks themselves, skimmed the foam from the tofu, and with the little money they earned, they fed their elderly mother, who was nearly eighty years old. To the east of the wall lived a rich man—he had mules and horses. His name was Wang Yu-feng, or Wang Jade Peak. Rich people always give their children beautiful names. Wang Yu-feng also had an elderly mother, over eighty years old. She was hard of hearing and had poor eyesight. Weak and frail, she couldn’t even get off her bed. And Wang Yu-feng only knew how to lend grain and money to his fellow villagers, collecting interest and rent. His wife was no better: when she opened her mouth, it was about money; when she closed it, she thought about money. Far from caring for the old woman, she even grumbled that she was underfoot, eating their food for nothing and refusing to die.

There’s a saying: frost freezes the grass in the valley. That year, at the very end of spring—when the great elm was already covered in tender green leaves—Liu Chun-tian’s mother fell ill. Liu and his wife grieved and lamented. They needed to borrow money, but as the saying goes, a poor man is turned away at every door. Liu Chun-tian took off his tattered clothes, and his wife pulled the bronze hairpins from her hair—they sold everything and barely scraped together enough money for medicine. But it didn’t help the old woman. The poor soul passed away. Liu Chun-tian remembered all the hardships his mother had endured raising him, and how he had never given her a single day of happiness. His heart ached as if someone were tearing it from his chest. He and his wife wept bitterly.

Suddenly, the wind died down, and rain began to fall from the sky. The elm branches drooped. The golden bird saw how the poor couple grieved and heard their cries. It opened its beak, then closed it again, not chirping—it was sad. Bright tears glistened in its black eyes, and it flew away through the rain, through the gray, fine drizzle. For a bird to leave the forest is like a person leaving their native village. The bird flew and flew, and unexpectedly found itself in that very forest—vast, dense, and shrouded in mist—and landed on the old acacia tree. The wind blew, the rain stopped, and droplets sparkled on the leaves. Through the white bark of the poplars, fresh green skin peeked out. Cuckoos called, pheasants flew, and in the black eyes of the golden bird, bright tears still glistened. The clouds dispersed, the sun peeked out, and the grass sparkled like precious pearls. The old acacia was entwined with vines, and on the vines bloomed flowers—golden and silver butterflies. Dewdrops fell to the ground, a wondrous fragrance spread in all directions, bees buzzed over the flowers, and butterflies fluttered. Only the golden bird remained sad. It couldn’t help itself and began to peck at the delicate, shiny flowers. Each peck brought a tear, and another peck brought another tear.

The golden and silver flowers all over the tree began to sway and part, revealing the hollow. Out stepped a kind old man: his long hair reached his shoulders, shining like the white feathers of a stork; his face was rosy and fresh, his eyes lively and clear, like a baby’s. The bird had flown through the forest more than once or twice and immediately realized—this was the tree spirit himself. Before it could open its beak, the spirit said:

“I’ve lived in this forest for a thousand times a thousand years, and I’ve never seen a bird cry. People say birds can’t cry. So why, golden bird, have you cried today, stirring this old man’s heart with your tears?”

The little bird chirped, so sadly:

“Kind grandfather! This is what I saw today, and why I am sad.”

The forest elder understood the language of birds, and the golden bird told him everything in order. How Liu Chun-tian lived in poverty, how he cared for his elderly mother, how he struggled to get her medicine, how he and his wife grieved when she died. The elder listened to the bird and said nothing. He stood in silence, deep in thought. But the bird kept pleading:

“Believe me, kind grandfather! They are good people, Liu Chun-tian and his wife, righteous!”

The old man shook his head and said:

“Here’s what I’ll tell you, little bird! To know whether a person is good or bad, you must also see how they treat others.”

The bird shook its head and replied:

“But you should go and see for yourself, then you’ll know how righteous and good they both are.”

The elder stirred and transformed into a thin old woman—her dress patched and tattered, not a single intact spot.

The old woman said:

“Golden-feathered bird! I will indeed go and see them!”

Meanwhile, Liu Chun-tian and his wife, having buried their mother, sat at home grieving, unable to eat. Suddenly, they saw the old woman standing at their gate, thin as a reed—a gust of wind could knock her over. They felt sorry for her—it was unbearable.

The old woman said to them:

“Kind people, give me at least a dry cake to eat!”

Liu Chun-tian jumped up, quickly chose the best cake, and gave it to the old woman. His wife, even sadder than before, said to the old woman:

“Mother! At your age, crossing ravines and climbing hills! Your legs must barely carry you!”

The old woman replied:

“I’m all alone in the world, no son, no daughter, nowhere to lay my head. Wherever I fall, death will take me.”

Liu Chun-tian looked at the old woman and remembered his late mother. It seemed this poor soul had never had a single happy day in her life. Was it even imaginable, at such an age, to beg—asking one person for a handful of rice, another for a piece of bread?

Liu Chun-tian said to the old woman:

“Stay and live with us, mother, if you don’t mind our poverty!”

And his wife added:

“Our mother has passed away. You’ll be the elder in our home.”

The old woman agreed and began to live with Liu Chun-tian and his wife. They cared for her so well, it’s hard to describe.

Liu would often say to his wife:

“Make sure mother doesn’t do any work. The old are like children—weak and frail.”

They themselves worked day and night without rest. How could the old woman sit idle? She tried to help: lighting the fire, straining the tofu. And whenever they cooked, they always gave her the first taste.

His wife would sometimes whisper to her husband:

“Rice gives strength to the elderly. The young have strength anyway—they can go hungry.”

To be honest, life was hard for them. But the three of them helped each other and lived in harmony.

As the saying goes: live many days, and you’ll understand a person. A year passed, then another. Liu Chun-tian and his wife grew to love the kind woman dearly. The third year was coming to an end. But one day, the old woman called them both and said:
- The time has come for me to leave you, my dear children!

The husband and wife never expected or imagined that such a thing could happen. Lu Chun-tian said sadly:

- How have we failed to please you, mother? Or has our bitter life become unbearable to you?

The wife asked:

- Have I accidentally said something harsh to you or hurt your heart in some other way?

The old woman shook her head and replied:

- Do not torment yourselves with needless thoughts. With you, even bitter days seem sweet, and the wounds on my heart will heal. But I can no longer stay here; I must leave.

Lu Chun-tian would not let the old woman go, pleading with her in every way. Pity overwhelmed him. Who would feed the poor old woman? Who would give her drink?

Lu Chun-tian said to her:

- If you leave, the house will feel empty. If you go to unknown lands, where will we look for you?

The wife wept, her tears flowing:

- We lived together like intertwined roots of a bitter vine. We endured the wind and frost together for three years. If you leave us, we will find no peace.

The old woman thought for a while and then replied:

- Do not try to persuade me, do not beg me. I must go. Go instead to the tree, dig up some clay from its roots. I will mold a little figure for you, one that resembles me. When you feel sorrow, look at the figure.

The husband and wife saw that they could not persuade the old woman. They went to the tree, dug up some clay, and brought it home. The old woman took the clay and began to knead it. As she worked, she chanted:

In the village stands an elm, and by the elm lives Lu Chun-tian.

I lived with him, lived with him, for three years.

Now I must leave, but I have nothing to leave him.

I will mold a little figure from clay,

And when the figure spits, it will throw out a silver coin.

So spoke the old woman, and the little figure was ready, exactly like her. When it opened its mouth, silver coins poured out. The husband and wife were so entranced that they did not notice when the old woman disappeared. Only then did they realize that the old woman was immortal. The husband and wife lived on, free from sorrow.

The neighbors to the east of the wall, Wang Yu-feng and his wife, heard of this and were amazed. Before, when Lu Chun-tian and his wife lived in poverty, the neighbors never visited. But now they suddenly decided to pay a visit. Wang Yu-feng entered the house, and instead of starting a conversation or saying a kind word, he prowled around with his rat-like eyes, glancing here and there. He soon spotted the clay figure. The figure stood on the table, and silver coins poured from its mouth, jingling as they fell. Who could think of conversation at such a sight? Wang Yu-feng saw the figure and asked:

- Where did you get this treasure?

Lu Chun-tian and his wife were not skilled at lying, so they told the whole truth. Wang Yu-feng ran home and told his wife everything. They took a rope and strangled their mother. Now, they thought, there would be one less mouth to feed, and they could also get a clay figure. What a profitable scheme! They sat in the yard, wailing, but without tears—it was sickening to listen to. A wind blew, howling and roaring, as if to drown out the sound of these villains. The sun, in its anger, grew even yellower. The branch on the elm tree swayed angrily. A golden bird saw the evildoers and heard their shrill cries. It grew furious, opened its sharp beak, and glared at them with round, angry eyes. It could not bear to listen to their feigned weeping. The bird shook its feathers, spread its wings, and flew away with the sand and wind.

In times of trouble, one seeks a friend. And so the little bird went in search of a kind spirit, the one who lived in the hollow of a tree. It flapped its wings and flew, twisting its tail as it hurried. It flew and flew until it reached a dense forest and perched on an old acacia tree. But it could not hold onto the branch—the wind blew it away. The wind grew stronger, tearing leaves from the trees and driving them across the sky. The little bird struggled, exhausted, unable to land on the large acacia tree. The wind ruffled its shiny feathers and broke its claws. How could it cling to the branches now? The wind struck a vine, tangling its branches and scattering its silver and gold flowers. The bird tried to grasp the vine, but the wind blew it aside. The bird struck the trunk of a dry tree, but it did not feel the impact. The spirit from the hollow reached out a hand and caught the bird. The kind old man felt pity for the bird, but also annoyance.

The old man said:

- Little bird, with golden feathers! The wind blows, yet you fly through the world! Has some misfortune brought you here? Or do you not know that the good couple has long lived in comfort, free from want?

The golden bird replied:

- Kind grandfather! Anger boils within me. You do not know what is happening now! When you find out, you will understand why I flew here, unafraid of the wind, and you will not blame me.

And the little bird told the old man everything, exactly as it happened: how Wang Yu-feng lived in wealth, how he disrespected and mistreated his mother, how he coveted the clay figure, and how he strangled his mother with a rope. How afterward, he and his wife wailed in the yard without shedding tears. The little bird told the old man everything, and then said:

- Believe me, kind grandfather! Wang Yu-feng and his wife are evil people! Unjust!

The old man shook his head and said:

- Little bird, with golden feathers, I cannot believe that such villains exist! Is it possible that someone would kill their own mother, drive her to death?

The bird shook its head and replied:

- Go and see for yourself, then you will know how greedy and wicked they are!

The old man stirred, transformed into a thin old woman—her dress was patched and tattered, with no spot untouched.

The old woman said:

- Little bird, with golden feathers! I will indeed go and see them for myself!
And Wang Yu-feng and his wife, after burying their mother, could think of nothing but how to make the immortal arrive sooner. They would wail—their eyes dry—then peek out the gate, wail again, and look out once more. I don’t know how many hours they spent like this. Suddenly, they saw a gust of wind rise, sand swirling, and an old woman appeared at the gate, barely making it to the entrance before stopping. The wife wanted to shoo the poor wretch away, but the husband stopped her—the old woman looked exactly like the clay figurine he had seen at Liu Chun-tian’s place. He ran to the gate and shouted:

“Kind mother, immortal! Come into the house quickly. We’ll treat you splendidly! Not like Liu Chun-tian!”

The old woman shook her head and said:

“I’m no immortal, just a poor old woman. Have pity on me, give me a dry cake to eat!”

Wang Yu-feng’s wife went into the house to fetch a cake, grumbling to herself:

“Why on earth are we treating a poor old woman like an immortal?”

She searched and searched, found a dry cake she had set aside for the dog, and tossed it to the old woman.

Wang Yu-feng said to the old woman:

“Mother! At your age, crossing ravines and climbing steep hills? Surely your legs can’t carry you!”

“I’m all alone in this world, no son, no daughter, nowhere to lay my head. Wherever I fall, death will take me.”

Hearing this, Wang Yu-feng was overjoyed. This old woman must surely be the immortal. She spoke exactly the same words she had said to Liu Chun-tian.

And this was exactly what Wang Yu-feng wanted. He said to the old woman:

“Stay and live with us. We have a spare room in the house.”

Hearing this, the wife grew uneasy and couldn’t hold back, saying loudly:

“We’ve barely rid ourselves of one mouth to feed, and now you’ve found a hole to dump food into.”

The old woman said nothing and followed Wang Yu-feng into the house. Just then, lunchtime arrived. Wang Yu-feng always had plenty of food, as if it were a holiday. The husband and wife led the old woman to the empty room, then left, ate and drank their fill, and brought her the leftovers—a few vegetables and cold rice. For dinner, they served the same.

They went to bed, but in the third watch of the night, they woke up—their miserly hearts aching with greed.

The wife muttered:

“A poor man is a poor man. We’re wasting food for nothing.”

Wang Yu-feng began to doubt: “What if the old woman really isn’t an immortal? Then this is a straight loss.” He thought and thought, then suddenly slammed his fist on the table:

“Alright,” he said, “I’ve come up with a plan!”

The wife listened to her husband, delighted, and said:

“You couldn’t think of anything better! If she really is an immortal, we’ll have a clay figurine that spits out silver coins. If she’s just a poor old woman, we’ll drive her away, and that’ll be the end of it.”

Seeing they couldn’t sleep any longer, they got up and went to the old woman. She was fast asleep. The husband and wife woke her, forcing her to rise. Wang Yu-feng said to her:

“If you really are an immortal, but have taken the form of an old woman, mold us a clay figurine that spits silver coins from its mouth. If you do, I’ll feed you for three years.”

The old woman looked at them, silent, not understanding what was going on. The wife grew angry, couldn’t hold back, and shouted:

“I knew it! She’s no immortal, just a beggar, a poor wretch!”

The old woman wasn’t frightened or angered. She smiled and said:

“It’s time for me to leave you. Go to the tree, dig up some clay from beneath its roots. I’ll mold you a figurine—it’s not for nothing that I came to you!”

Hearing this, the husband and wife, beside themselves with joy, went to dig up the clay, gathered it, and returned to the house. The old woman took the clay and began to mold it. As she worked, she chanted:

“In the village stands an elm, by the elm lives Wang Yu-feng,
Yesterday I came, stayed until the third watch, time to leave,
Today I go, but I’ll leave him something.
I’ll mold a clay figurine,
The figurine will spit—from its mouth a gadfly will fly.”

As soon as she said this, the figurine was ready. It looked somewhat like Wang Yu-feng, somewhat like his wife. The figurine opened its mouth, and from it flew gadflies—huge, each bigger than the last, as thick as three fingers. The gadflies swarmed toward the lamp, buzzing. And suddenly, the old woman vanished. The filthy creatures swarmed over Wang Yu-feng and his wife. They’d swat one—another would sting; they’d drive one away—another would bite. Soon, both their faces swelled up so much they couldn’t open their eyes. The husband and wife rolled on the ground in pain.

More fairy tales

• How the Three Sons-in-Law Congratulated Their Father-in-Law
• Persistent Yun Su
• The Bird Zhǎogǔ
• The Grateful Tigress
• The Tale of the Cunning Wu-gen and the Loyal Shi-ye