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the pass, generals. Li Ching eventually quelled rebellions with his military might, and his victories were unsurpassed. But he never attained the post of prime minister. Can it be because he did not also take the gentle servant from the east corridor?
    —
Li Fu-yen

Jade Leaves
     
    In the land of Sung there was a man who fashioned jade into wild mulberry leaves for his lord. The leaves, which took three years to complete, were so perfectly proportioned in stalk and stem, so magnificently realized in the minutest detail, that they could not be told apart when mixed among living leaves. The state supported this craftsman for his skill.
    Lieh Tzu objected, “What if heaven and earth needed three years to create a leaf? There wouldn’t be many trees. Surely the sage counts on the fruitfulness of nature rather than the ingenuity of man.”
    —
Lieh Tzu

     

The Wizard’s Lesson
     
    Tu Tzu-ch’un lived at the time when the great Sui Dynasty was founded. In his youth he was a devil-may-care sort who never troubled himself to preserve the family’s property. With his easygoing, self-indulgent temperament, and his taste for wine and dissolute company, he soon squandered his resources. Friends and relations to whom he turned for help only scorned him for neglecting his responsibilities.
    The winter found him in tattered clothes, his stomach empty, barefoot in the streets of the capital, Ch’angan. By day’s end he had yet to eat. Confused, with nowhere to go, he drifted toward the west gate of the Eastern quarter. His wretched condition was all too obvious as he raised his eyes to the heavens and groaned.
    “Sir, what is it you complain of?” An old man holding a staff stood before him. Tzu-ch’un told his story with indignation over the way his own family had slighted him.
    “How many strings of cash would make you comfortable?” asked the old man. In those days, strings of coins were carried in loops of a thousand to each string.
    “Thirty to fifty thousand cash would keep me alive,” answered Tzu-ch’un, naming a grand sum.
    “Hardly enough,” said the old man. “Speak again.”
    “One hundred thousand, then,” said Tzu-ch’un.
    “Too little.”
    “One million.”
    “Still too little.”
    “Three million!”
    “That should do it,” said the old man as he drew a single string of cash from his sleeve. “Let this provide for you tonight. Tomorrow noon I shall watch for you at the Persian bazaar. Take care not to be late.” And at the appointed time Tzu-ch’un went to the Persian bazaar, where the old man was waiting for him. The man handed Tzu-ch’un three million cash, then left without disclosing his identity.
    But wealth rekindled Tzu-ch’un’s extravagant desires. Never again, he thought, would he have to live the life of a stranger adrift. He rode the sleekest horses and wore the finest furs and silks. He gathered drinking companions and hired musicians, singing and dancing his way through the pleasure houses of the city. He gave no further thought to managing his money.
    In a couple of years Tzu-ch’un had to exchange his fine clothes and costly carriage for cheaper sorts. Then he gave up his remaining horse for a donkey. And soon he gave up the donkey and went about on foot as before. In no time he was back where the old man first found him. At his wits’ end, he moaned in anguish by the gates to the quarter. At the sound of his voice the old man reappeared, took Tzu-ch’un by the hand, and said, “I didn’t expect to find you like this again. But I shall help you out. How many strings?”
    Tzu-ch’un was too mortified to reply. The old man urged him to answer, but the prodigal could only thank him sheepishly for his concern. “Tomorrow noon, come to the place where we met before,” said the old man. Tzu-ch’un suppressed his shame and went. He got ten million cash.
    Before accepting the money, Tzu-ch’un resolved that he would plan his life and livelihood so sensibly that the