In this magic land we live off the cloudy waters;
With a sweep of the oar the boat becomes a home.
We cut open the live fish and fry the green turtle
As steam coils from the purple crab and the red shrimps bubble.
Green reed shoots,
Sprouts of water-lilies,
Better still, water chestnuts and the gorgon fruit,
Delicate louts roots and seeds, tender celery,
Arrowhead, reed-hearts and bird-glory blossom.”
“Your clear waters cannot compare with my blue hills when it comes to the good things they provide,” said the woodcutter, and I can cite another lyric to the tune The Partridge Heaven as evidence:
Mighty crags and towering peaks reach to the sky;
A grass hut or a thatched cottage is my home.
Pickled chicken and duck are better than turtles or crabs,
Roebuck, boar, venison, and hare beat fish and shrimps.
The leaves of the tree of heaven,
Yellow chinaberry sprouts,
And, even better, bamboo shoots and wild tea,
Purple plums and red peaches, ripe gages, and apricots,
Sweet pears, sharp jujubes, and osmanthus blossom.”
“Your blue hills are really nothing on my clear waters,” replied the fisherman, “and there is another lyric to the tune Heavenly Immortaclass="underline"
In my little boat I can stay where I like,
Having no fear of the many misty waves.
Drop the hook, cast wide the net, to catch fresh fish:
Even without fat or sauce,
They taste delicious
As the whole family eats its meal together.
“When there are fish to spare I sell them in Chang'an market
To buy good liquor and get a little drunk.
Covered with my grass cloak I sleep on the autumn river,
Snoring soundly
Without a care,
Not giving a damn for honour and glory.”
“Your clear waters still aren't as good as my blue mountains,” came back the woodcutter, “and I too have a Heavenly Immortal lyric to prove it:
Where I build a little thatched hut under the hill
The bamboo, orchid, plum, and pine are wonderful.
As I cross forests and mountains to look for dry firewood
Nobody asks awkward questions,
And I can sell
As much or as little as the world wants.
I spend the money on wine and I'm happy,
Content with my earthenware bowl and china jug.
When I've drunk myself blotto I lie in the shade of the pine.
No worries,
No books to balance;
What do I care about success or failure?”
“Brother Li,” said the fisherman, “you don't make as easy a living in the hills as I do on the water, and I can prove it with a lyric to the tune The Moon on the West River:
The smartweed's flowers are picked out by the moon
While the tangled leaves of rushes sway in the wind.
Clear and distant the azure sky, empty the Chu river:
Stir up the water, and the stars dance.
Big fish swim into the net in shoals;
Little ones swallow the hooks in swarms;
Boiled or fried they taste wonderful-
I laugh at the roaring river and lake.”
“Brother Zhang,” replied the woodcutter, “the living I make in the hills is much easier than yours on the water, and I can prove it with another Moon on the West River lyric:
Withered and leafless rattan fills the paths,
Old bamboo with broken tips covers the hillside.
Where vines and creepers tangle and climb
I pull some off to tie my bundles.
Elms and willows hollow with decay,
Pines and cedars cracked by the wind-
I stack them up against the winter cold,
And whether they're sold for wine or money is up to me.”
“Although you don't do too badly in your hills, your life is not as elegant as mine on the water,” said the fisherman, “as I can show with some lines to the tune The Immortal by the River.
As the tide turns my solitary boat departs;
I sing in the night, resting from the oars.
From under a straw cape the waning moon is peaceful.
The sleeping gulls are not disturbed
As the clouds part at the end of the sky.
Tired, I lie on the isle of rushes with nothing to do,
And when the sun is high I'm lying there still.
I arrange everything to suit myself:
How can the court official compare with my ease
As he waits in the cold for an audience at dawn?”
“Your life on the water may be elegant, but it's nothing compared with mine,” replied the woodcutter, “and I have some lines to the same tune to demonstrate the point:
On an autumn day I carry my axe along the greeny path
Bringing the load back in the cool of evening,
Putting wild flowers in my hair, just to be different,
I push aside the clouds to find my way home,
And the moon is up when I tell them to open the door.
Rustic wife and innocent son greet me with smiles,
And I recline on my bed of grass and wooden pillow.
Steamed millet and pear are spread before me,
While the new wine is warm in the pot: This is really civilized.”
“All this is about our living and the ways we provide for ourselves,” said the fisherman. “I can prove to you that your leisure is nowhere near as good as mine with a poem that goes:
Idly I watch the white cranes as they cross the sky;
As I Moor the boat at the river's bank, a blue door gives me shade.
Leaning on the sail I teach my son to twist a fishing line,
When rowing's done I dry the nets out with my wife.
A settled nature can really know the calm of the waves;
A still body feels the lightness of the breeze.
Always to wear a green straw cape and a blue straw hat
Is better than the purple robes of the court.”
“Your leisure doesn't come up to mine,” replied the woodcutter, “as this poem I shall now recite demonstrates:
With a lazy eye on the white clouds in the distance,
I sit alone in a thatched but, then close the bamboo door.
When there's nothing to do I teach my son to read;
Sometimes a visitor comes and we play a game of chess.
When I'm happy I take my stick and walk singing along the paths,
Or carry my lute up the emerald hills.
Grass shoes with hempen thongs, a cloak of coarsest cloth,
A mind relaxed: better than wearing silk.”
“Li Ding,” said the other, “how truly it can be said of us that 'by reciting some verses we become close friends: What need for golden winecups and a sandalwood table?' But there is nothing remarkable in just reciting verses; what would you say if we made couplets in which we each contributed a line about our lives as fisherman and woodcutter?”
“Brother Zhang,” said Li Ding, “that is an excellent suggestion. Please be the one to start.” Here are their couplets:
My boat is moored in the green waters amid the misty waves;
My home is in the wilds, deep in the mountains.
How well I like the swollen stream under the bridge in spring;
My delight is a mountain peak swathed in clouds at dawn.
Dragon-sized fresh carp cooked at any time;
Dry, rotten, firewood always keeps one warm.