the fitting together," replied Kai Lung; "but the materials for so
refined and ornamental a production must of necessity have been
brought many thousand li; the clay perhaps from the renowned beds of
Honan, the wood from Peking, and the bamboo from one of the great
forests of the North."

"For what reason?" said Wang Yu proudly. "At this person's very door
is a pit of red clay, purer and infinitely more regular than any to be
found at Honan; the hard wood of Wu-whei is extolled among carvers
throughout the Empire, while no bamboo is straighter or more smooth
than that which grows in the neighbouring woods."

"O most inconsistent Wang Yu!" cried the story-teller, "assuredly a
very commendable local pride has dimmed your usually penetrating
eyesight. Is not the clay pit of which you speak that in which you
fashioned exceedingly unsymmetrical imitations of rat-pies in your
childhood? How, then, can it be equal to those of Honan, which you
have never seen? In the dark glades of these woods have you not chased
the gorgeous butterfly, and, in later years, the no less gaily attired
maidens of Wu-whei in the entrancing game of Kiss in the Circle? Have
not the bamboo-trees to which you have referred provided you with the
ideal material wherewith to roof over those cunningly-constructed pits
into which it has ever been the chief delight of the young and
audacious to lure dignified and unnaturally stout Mandarins? All these
things you have seen and used ever since your mother made a successful
offering to the Goddess Kum-Fa. How, then, can they be even equal to
the products of remote Honan and fabulous Peking? Assuredly the
generally veracious Wang Yu speaks this time with closed eyes and
will, upon mature reflexion, eat his words."