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A Chinese author tells the tender story of a girl from China who had to decide between her own people and an American love A Short Story FJ Mei-Ching hurried up the stairs of the sorority house to fetch her last piece of luggage. Her heart was heavy. She had to hurry, or else she would miss the west-bound train, and then the boat to China. That would mean missing the teaching engagement in a Shanghai university and years of study wasted, and her father, mother, brothers and sisters, waiting for her at the dock, would be dis appointed. It was like yesterday when, for the first tune, she walked shyly up the stairs and clutched on to the same varnished railings to her room. She was a wide-eyed girl then, curious, unsophisticated, and extremely eager to learn all she could from America. But America seemed so alien and strange to her when she first came. She could not help feeling lonely and lost in the New World. When she was dragging her sheathlike, curveless long Chinese gown around the campus, the American girls were draping themselves with blossomy new dresses or roomy sweaters and woollen skirts. Her make-up was not quite the fashion of the time and her almond eyes were innocent of the mascara which some of the girls used. The food was a different kind of food and the language a different language. Even the sun was a different sun, and the air a different air. Adjusting herself to the new way of living had been a painful process — to become American, yet not to lose any of her originality. It took her five years to get the feeling of it. It was exactly the time for her to win her college degrees. But now she had to leave for China just BY HELENA KUO Illustrated by C. C. Beall when she was feeling at home in America! She reached the top of the stairs now and was panting hard by the time she came to her familiar room — the room where she had spent her precious years, where she had lived, studied and dreamt of a happier and brighter future. She almost broke down and wept at the sight of the place. But there was no time for sentiment. She must make that train. She had to pull herself together. Where was her bag? That bulky smooth shiny tan calf overnight case was right there at the foot of the dresser. She grabbed it and started for the door. Then, as she began to walk, an uncontrollable emotion seized her. She felt a sudden turn in the stomach. She dropped the case and stood motionless in the center of the room, a cold stone statue in a petrified forest of memory. Maybe it was the touch of the smooth, cool leather handle which her hand felt, or the shining of the golden initial “M” of her given name in her eyes. Something invisible but forceful took her back to the day when Jim bought her the first present on her first birth day spent in America. Jim was a farm boy from Illinois, tall, lean, rangy, and had an infectious smile which won her instantly. His manners and habits had never seemed strange to her. They took to each other from the beginning. She could not tell why. The only explanation she could give was that perhaps there was no barrier between peoples in true friendship, be he an American and she a Chinese. She remembered it now. It seemed so long ago. Her first birthday came on a Saturday when she had all the time on her hands. Jim was the only person who knew about it. But then she could not expect him to do anything because she only knew him vaguely. He lived in the far away corner at the other end of the campus. She could not expect so new an acquaintance and so distant a neighbor to remember her birthday. It was awful having to spend a birthday all by herself, and no one in the whole world seemed to care. She could not very well cry. She could only curl up in bed to lose herself in a good book. But it was so hard to concen trate. Her mind was so full of her personal misery. She wished she had never been so , ambitious as to want to learn all there was to learn in America, and had stayed home in China instead. She was weeping secretly and sorrowfully under the blanket when one of the girls rushed in to say that there was a call for her downstairs on the phone in the sitting room. Mei couldn’t imagine who could have called. Just the same, she got out of bed and went downstairs. “Happy birthday to you,’’ said a warm young masculine voice at the other end. “It’s you, Jim ... Oh, Jim, bless you,” she gasped. She was so moved that she felt a lump coming in her throat. “Let me take you out to lunch and you can bless me in person,” Jim said. “I promise I’ll make this a really enjoyable day for the birthday girl.” i name you. jim. u s very nice 01 you, but ...” “No buts. please,” Jim insisted. “I’ll come for you in half an hour.” He took her to a Swedish restaurant. They ate an enormous lunch. He persuaded her to have a glass of imported claret which she had never had before. She felt more cheerful now and began to talk a great deal. With Jim’s smiles and persuasion, she lost herself ani matedly in the discussion of Shelley, Keats, Beethoven’s symphonies, Wagner and Elgar and Delius. She was really feeling good now — so good that she didn’t even remember that she had ever been alone in a foreign land. After lunch, Jim suggested shopping. At a leather goods store, he selected the best over night case. "Mei,” he said pleasingly, "this is my birthday present to you.” She was astounded. Should she accept it? She didn’t know what to do. She thought Continued on page 20