Kung Yeh-Ch’ang was a poor man who lived by collecting firewood. With him lived his old mother. One day, on his way to the phoenix mountain, he saw a number of snakes, both large and small, coming out of a cave and moving about in the most orderly fashion. The last to appear was an enormous golden serpent, which Kung, who had a knowledge of snakes, knew was a snake princess. The princess and her followers advanced into the midst of the mountains, where she shook her head several times as a sign to the soldiers and all the other snakes to move away. A black snake minister alone remained, and the two glided off into the grass, where they were soon entwined. Kung Yeh-Ch’ang was horrified at a mere minister daring to embrace a princess, and, seizing his axe, he flung it at the black snake, thus cutting it in two. The sky became dark at once, and he saw a dark mist rise up and fly away.
The princess had only been lightly wounded by the axe, and now, calling for her companions, she slid back to the cave, where she dashed into the presence of the ruling snake to complain of the murder of the minister. The ruler was enraged by the news: ‘I demand vengeance for the death of my minister,’ he hissed, and immediately ordered the snake warriors to go to Kung Yeh-Ch’ang’s house and bite him to death.
Soon after the snakes were settled in the bedroom, Kung Yeh-Ch’ang and his mother arrived. Kung sat down on the bed with a sigh, and his mother asked: ‘What’s the matter? Did something go wrong today? If you tell me, perhaps I can help you.’ Kung replied: ‘I was cutting wood on the phoenix mountain to-day, when a snake princess appeared with her followers. A shameless snake minister began to fondle her, which is such an unprecedented relation between ruler and subject, that I killed the minister with my axe. The princess was also wounded and fled back to her hole. Don’t you think I was quite right, mother?’ Meanwhile, the two snakes had listened to every word of this conversation, and when they heard that Kung had killed the minister on very good grounds, they hurried home to make a report. The ruler realised at once that Kung had performed a good deed, and sending for the princess, he swallowed her.
One day, Kung again found himself on the phoenix mountain. As he was passing the snake cavern, he saw a huge golden serpent lying in the entrance, holding in its mouth a thing like a duck’s egg. Kung saw that it was really a snake’s liver, and said: ‘If you want to give me the liver, please go back into the cave.’ The snake did as he was asked, and Kung seized the liver and swallowed it.
As a result of eating the liver, he was able to understand the language of birds. One day, at the end of spring or the beginning of summer, a bird—the soul of the murdered snake minister—perched on a tree in front of Kung’s house and sang:
Kung Yeh-Ch’ang, Kung Yeh-Ch’ang,
A tiger has killed a sheep in the hills.
You eat the flesh
And I the guts.
Kung understood everything, and going into the hills, he found the sheep’s carcase and took it home. But he ate up the whole thing and the bird received nothing.
A few days later, a child that had gone into the hills to collect wood was bitten to death by a tiger. The time for the bird’s revenge had arrived. He flew to the tree in front of Kung’s house and sang:
Kung Yeh-chang, Kung Yeh-chang,
A tiger has killed a sheep in the hills.
You eat the flesh
And I the guts.
Kung hurried off in search, but instead of a sheep, he only found a dead child, and as he was standing by the corpse wondering what to do, it began to snow. He looked for somewhere to shelter, but there being no hope of the snow stopping he ran home. The villagers had wondered why the child did not return and went to look for it. They soon found it lying dead, but they did not see that it had been killed by a tiger. They saw the footsteps in the snow, which led to Kung Yeh-Ch’ang’s house, and although he related exactly what had happened they did not believe him, but accused him of the murder and led him off to the District Magistrate.
No amount of questioning could induce Kung, who kept on repeating the same story, to admit his guilt. Needless to say, the Magistrate did not believe that he understood the bird language: ‘I have never heard of anyone speaking with birds,’ he said, ‘and I don’t believe it now.’ Then Kung replied: ‘If you don’t believe me, make five heaps of corn and mix in each heap a salt, or sour, or bitter, or sharp, or sweet substance, and place one heap in the middle and one in each of the four corners. When the birds come to eat, I will translate what they say, and you can see whether I am speaking the truth or not.’
The Magistrate agreed to his suggestion, and a bird came and pecked at the heaps in the East and the West, and said: ‘The east one is sweet, the west one salty.’ Kung translated these words, and, very surprised, the Magistrate set him free.
About seven years later, a foreign land sent a strange bird without head or legs. With it came a letter, which said: ‘If you can feed this bird, our country will send tribute to yours every year; if you fail, we will invade your land and kill you.’
The Emperor announced at once: ‘Which ever of my ministers can feed the bird will be appointed Earl with an appanage of ten thousand families.’ But none of the ministers at the court could discover the solution. After a long time, one minister, who had formerly been District Magistrate, said: ‘Six or seven years ago, I was Magistrate in such-and-such a place. There was a Mr. Kung Yeh-Ch’ang who understood the language of birds. If you send for him, perhaps he will advise something.’ The Emperor sent an order for Kung to come to court, and a few days later he arrived. After he had made his obeisance, the Emperor sent for the bird. Kung listened to what it said, and discovered that it must be fed on red-hot nails and washed in boiling oil. The bird flourished under this treatment, and Kung was appointed Earl with ten thousand families, and his mother was also rewarded. The bird, too, lived happily in its cage.