The Cricket

In the land of Qi there was a boy named A Bao, nine years old, mischievous and fond of insects. One day after rain he saw a cricket drowning in a puddle at the foot of the steps, its wings too wet to beat. A Bao pinched it out with his fingers, tucked it in his sleeve, brought it home and kept it in a bamboo cage, feeding it bean-meal daily.

This insect was most unusual — not large, the color of an autumn leaf, its wings finely veined like seal-script. Each night it chirped, its voice clear and high, carrying to all four walls. A Bao loved it and kept the cage by his pillow. His father, annoyed by the noise, more than once meant to throw it out; A Bao wept and shielded it, and so it stayed.

That year, at the turn of summer to autumn, plague broke out in the village; the dead lay one against another. A Bao's household of four, by sheer fortune, went untouched. One night at the third watch, the cricket in the cage suddenly chirped without stop, its voice urgent as tearing silk, unlike any night before. A Bao woke with a start and shook his parents; they would not rise, angry at the disturbing of their dreams. A Bao alone took up the cage and went out to stand in the yard. Soon the chirping grew more urgent still; his brother and sister too were roused and came out one after another. No sooner had the four left the house than — with a great crack — the rotten beam of the very bedroom snapped, the tiles and bricks all crashing down, dust rising to hide the moon.

The whole family, terrified, understood then the meaning of the cricket's cry. They hurried to the cage: the cricket lay stiff beside the bean-meal, its wings still spread, as though it had chirped with all its strength and then died. A Bao clutched the cage and wept bitterly, and buried it at the foot of the steps where it had once nearly drowned, setting a small stone to mark the place.

After that, whenever it rained, one or two chirps could be heard by the stone at the steps, faint and thin, now there, now gone. The villagers all said: A Bao's cricket was a righteous insect.

The Chronicler of the Strange says: Though a creature be small, its repayment never fails. A cricket was drowning; a boy merely pinched it out — what great virtue was that? Yet the insect, holding the debt of one life, repaid it in the end with one life, tearing its voice with chirping, falling without regret. Those in the world who receive great kindness and forget it — can they look upon this insect without shame? Righteousness lies not in great or small, but in whether the heart is sincere; a feeding of beans, a rescue by a finger — each can knot an undying repayment.