促织

During the Xuande reign of the Ming dynasty, the imperial palace was devoted to cricket-fighting促织 cù zhīAn alternative name for crickets. "促织" means "urging weaving" — the cricket's song was said to sound like a call for women to spin thread., and each year crickets were demanded from the common people. A magistrate of Huayin, wishing to curry favor, presented one. When it proved victorious, the levy became permanent.

Cheng Ming, a bumbling man, was reported by a corrupt clerk and appointed village headman. No stratagem could free him; within a year his property was gone. When the cricket levy came due, he wished for death. His wife said: "What good is dying? Better go search yourself — perhaps one chance in ten thousand."

Cheng took bamboo tubes and silk cages, searching crumbling walls and thick grass, turning stones and digging holes — every method tried, nothing gained. After ten days he was beaten a hundred strokes; pus and blood脓血 nóng xuèFestering wounds. Cheng is beaten so severely by officials that his legs ulcerate. A devastating image of the common people's suffering. streamed down both legs, and he could no longer walk to search.

Cheng had a son of nine. While the father was away, the boy peeked into the jar. The creature leaped out in an instant — too fast to catch. By the time it was grasped, its legs were broken and its belly split; it died within moments. The boy, terrified, wept and told his mother. She went gray as ash: "Spawn of ruin! Your death hour has come! When your father returns, he'll settle accounts覆算 fù suànTo reckon, to settle scores. with you!"

The boy wept涕 tìTears. In classical Chinese, "涕" means tears specifically. Here used as a verb: to weep. and fled. Soon Cheng returned. Hearing his wife's words, he felt drenched in ice and snow. He searched for his son in fury, but the boy had vanished. Finding the body in the well, his rage turned to grief — he threw himself down抢呼 qiāng hūTo beat one's head against the ground while wailing — a gesture of extreme anguish. and howled.

At dusk, they prepared to bury the boy in straw. But reaching out, they found his breath still faint. They laid him on the bed; by midnight he stirred. Yet the boy's spirit was vacant; he lay in a stupor. Cheng glanced at the empty cricket jar — his breath caught — and could think of nothing else.

Suddenly he heard a cricket chirping outside. Leaping up, he saw the creature still there. He lunged — it chirped and sprang away. He covered it with his palm, but felt nothing; the moment he lifted his hand, the cricket had flashed away超忽 chāo hūTo vanish suddenly. The cricket moves with supernatural speed.. He chased it around a corner and lost it.

Pacing about, he spotted a cricket on the wall. He studied it: small, dark red — obviously not the one he had chased. Because it was tiny, he dismissed it. While he looked around瞻顾 zhān gùTo peer in all directions. for his quarry, the little cricket leaped onto his lapel. It looked like a mole cricket, with plum-blossom wings, a square head, and long shanks. Pleased, he captured it.

A young man in the village had trained a cricket called "Crab-Shell Green蟹壳青 xiè ké qīngNamed for its color. A rich youth's prize specimen.." He fought it daily and never lost. He came to Cheng's door and, seeing Cheng's prize, chuckled胡卢 hú lúA muffled laugh from the throat. behind his hand. He produced his cricket and placed it beside Cheng's. Cheng saw the enormous creature and dared not compete.

As they watched, a rooster swooped in瞥来 piē láiTo arrive in a flash. and pecked at the cricket. Cheng cried out in alarm. Fortunately the peck missed; the cricket leaped a foot away. The rooster charged again and bore down upon it — the cricket was under its claw. Cheng stamped his feet in helpless panic. Then he saw the rooster stretch its neck and stumble. Looking closer: the cricket had latched onto the rooster's comb and would not let go. Overjoyed, Cheng scooped it up掇置 duō zhìTo pick up and place inside. into the cage.

The next day he presented it to the magistrate. The magistrate, seeing its small size, berated Cheng. Cheng described its marvels. Skeptical, the magistrate tested it against other crickets — all defeated. He tested it against a rooster, exactly as Cheng had said. He rewarded Cheng and presented it to the Provincial Governor抚军 fǔ jūnA title for the Provincial Governor (xunfu), the highest-ranking provincial official. The cricket ascends through layers of bureaucracy.. The Governor, delighted, sent it to the Emperor in a golden cage with a full account of its abilities.

In the palace, crickets from every province were tested against it — all defeated. Whenever it heard zither music, it danced in rhythm. The Emperor was overjoyed and bestowed fine horses and silk upon the Governor. The Governor, remembering his source, freed Cheng from his duties. A year later, Cheng's son regained his wits and said: "I myself became a cricket — swift and fierce. Only now have I awakened."

And so, clad in furs and riding fine horses裘马 qiú mǎSable robes and fine horses — a metonym for wealth. To become rich from a single cricket — the supreme irony., Cheng lived as a man of means.

Literary Merit

"The Cricket" is perhaps the most socially incisive tale in Strange Tales. The cricket levy becomes a thread that shows how an entire family is crushed by the Emperor's passing amusement — a son drowns in a well, a wife despairs, a father is beaten bloody. And the "happy ending" — the cricket wins glory, the family prospers — is the deepest irony of all: the people's fate hangs upon a single insect.

The "soul transformation" is a stroke of genius. The son's spirit enters the cricket's body, enduring hardship in insect form so his family can survive — a heartbreaking metaphor for how, under autocratic rule, even children must become "instruments" for the family to live.

Comparative Study

Pu Songling concludes: "Every step of the Emperor determines the people's fate — this must not be overlooked." This single line transforms the story from supernatural tale into political indictment. Like Du Fu's "Behind vermilion gates, meat and wine go to waste; on the road, the bones of the frozen lie," but Pu Songling, writing through the veil of the supernatural, makes his accusation even more devastating. Du Fu wrote of visible suffering; Pu Songling wrote of invisible suffering — the ordinary families silently ground to dust beneath the machinery of power.