Page:Frank Owen - The Scarlett Hill, 1941.djvu/186



FTER drinking three hundred cups of wine, Li Po felt very sleepy, too sleepy to seek a bed, so he merely slid off his chair into a corner of the almost deserted Bamboo Tavern. For a pillow he used his friend Ho Chih-chang who was in no condition to object; in fact Chih-chang had passed the point where he could object to anything.

It was a tranquil night. The air was lush with the mingled perfume of dream and wine. The whole Tavern gently swayed like a house boat on the Yellow River. Hours passed. The moon slipped into the room through the open window. On padded, soundless feet it crept about the Tavern, peering into every corner until it discovered Li Po. There it stopped, for the moon and Li Po were companions. Had he not written,

Li Po stirred in his sleep. His pillow had gotten up and walked away. It was very confusing. He made a wry face. His mouth tasted as though he had been eating duckweed. Through drowsy eyes, he noticed the moonlight beside him. He smiled. His good friend—the moon. He tried to rest his head on the moonlight but cracked it hard against a table leg.