Now Sing Ho did not like to be called _hai tong_, for he felt that he was almost a big man, so he replied: “I going foh walk, down stleet.”
“No, no! you too small; you stay home now, and maybe bimeby _mo chun_ take you,” she said; and then she hurried into the house to see if the rice was burning. When she had disappeared he stood there for a moment, with the gay umbrella over him, looking very much displeased.
He was only four years old, it is true, but do you know, he often thought he knew more than his dear mother. Now Sing Ho was the only child, and had always been loved and petted, and had never been denied anything in his short little life. He remembered many walks he had taken with his father and mother, and he had always had such a good time that he thought it would be still better if he could take a walk all alone. He had just seen two of his little friends, with their queer little Chinese caps on,
[Illustration: _Copyright, 1900, by Schulze._
_Two of his little friends, with their queer little Chinese caps on_]
and they had said they were going for a walk, so why not he?
He knew his _mo chun_ was very busy, embroidering a _blouse_ for him to wear on the New Year, and the San Nin (New Year) would be here to-morrow. So he thought in his baby way that he would take advantage of his mama, and only walk down the street a little way, and she would never know. He was too small to realize that it is a very difficult matter for even grown-up persons to find their way through the narrow and tortuous streets of the big Chinatown of San Francisco. He could not be expected to know these things.
So he wandered on, and soon forgot his fear in watching the beautiful things all around him. Chinatown was in holiday attire, and as far as the eye could reach the narrow streets were a perfect mass of bloom and beauty. On both sides of the streets were ranged great stands of the China lily and fragrant almond blossom, with delicate shades of pink.
Someway he found it very hard to get past the store windows, as they seemed to have so many things in them that boys like, and he forgot everything in the delight of gazing at them, and pressed his eager little round face right up against the glass in some places, and poked his cunning little nose into a fragrant bunch of lilies, to inhale their sweetness. _Mo chun_ had some lilies at home, but not so many nor such beautiful ones as these. At every door were strange Chinese letters, and he looked longingly at great bunches of peacock feathers with their many eyes, and the gaudy rosettes of red paper which are everywhere on the New Year. Almost every one that he met carried a brown paper parcel of pork and an onion, or some kind of funny looking lettuce, for the Chinese love pork better than the Americans love turkey, and it had to be a very poor person indeed who did not feel able to buy himself a piece of pork on the New Year.