her. And she adored hi
At seven years old, Mulan knew she was supposed to spend her ti helping her ther take care of their ho, but she had no interest in weaving or cooking or cleaning. Just the idea of those boring chores was enough to ke her yawn. Her little sister, Xiu, loved to do—and excelled at—those tasks. So it was a ch better use of her ti, Mulan had argued on re than one asion, for Mulan to help her father, who had no sons to deal with things like pesky chickens, and let Xiu work with her ther.
A loud squawk brought Mulan’s thoughts back to her task. As if finally realizing that the coop ant food and rest, the chickens began to ve toward it in a group. Mulan let out a happy little whoop, startling an old won standing inside the shrine that sat in the ddle of the nal courtyard. She was lighting incense at the base of the large phoenix statue that donated the shrine. Like the rest of the pound, the shrine had seen better days. Tiles fell off the roof, and re than a few boards were loose. The statue, however, reined in good shape. To those who lived in the village, the statue was the st sacred and iortant part of their little world. It was a representation of their ancestors, a connection to those who had e before. Every n, won, and child spent at least so part of every day in the shrine, enjoying the stillness and peace the place brought. Most of the ti.
For one nt, it seed Mulan’s job was plete. As Mulan stood back, her father ushered the last of the birds toward the coop’s open door. Out of the corner of her eye, Mulan caught sight of a lone chicken veering fronbsp; the rest of the group. Mulan frowned. She looked back at her father. Zhou was distracted, king sure each chicken got inside. He didn’t notice there was an escapee. A look of deternation crossed her face. Quietly, she slipped away, ducking and weaving around a few neighbors as she followed the chicken toward the rough wooden building.
Mulan kept her pace steady and her footsteps slow. In her head she heard her father’s voice as he told her, not for the first ti, the tale of the turtle and the hare. No one had believed the slow-ving, deliberate turtle could win a race against the speedy hare. Yet while the hare ran hielf ragged, the turtle slowly and steadily de his way across the finish line. A part of her knew that she should be like the turtle: wait and allow the chicken to realize it was hungry and go to the coop on its own. But the other part of her—the part that was very, very
At seven years old, Mulan knew she was supposed to spend her ti helping her ther take care of their ho, but she had no interest in weaving or cooking or cleaning. Just the idea of those boring chores was enough to ke her yawn. Her little sister, Xiu, loved to do—and excelled at—those tasks. So it was a ch better use of her ti, Mulan had argued on re than one asion, for Mulan to help her father, who had no sons to deal with things like pesky chickens, and let Xiu work with her ther.
A loud squawk brought Mulan’s thoughts back to her task. As if finally realizing that the coop ant food and rest, the chickens began to ve toward it in a group. Mulan let out a happy little whoop, startling an old won standing inside the shrine that sat in the ddle of the nal courtyard. She was lighting incense at the base of the large phoenix statue that donated the shrine. Like the rest of the pound, the shrine had seen better days. Tiles fell off the roof, and re than a few boards were loose. The statue, however, reined in good shape. To those who lived in the village, the statue was the st sacred and iortant part of their little world. It was a representation of their ancestors, a connection to those who had e before. Every n, won, and child spent at least so part of every day in the shrine, enjoying the stillness and peace the place brought. Most of the ti.
For one nt, it seed Mulan’s job was plete. As Mulan stood back, her father ushered the last of the birds toward the coop’s open door. Out of the corner of her eye, Mulan caught sight of a lone chicken veering fronbsp; the rest of the group. Mulan frowned. She looked back at her father. Zhou was distracted, king sure each chicken got inside. He didn’t notice there was an escapee. A look of deternation crossed her face. Quietly, she slipped away, ducking and weaving around a few neighbors as she followed the chicken toward the rough wooden building.
Mulan kept her pace steady and her footsteps slow. In her head she heard her father’s voice as he told her, not for the first ti, the tale of the turtle and the hare. No one had believed the slow-ving, deliberate turtle could win a race against the speedy hare. Yet while the hare ran hielf ragged, the turtle slowly and steadily de his way across the finish line. A part of her knew that she should be like the turtle: wait and allow the chicken to realize it was hungry and go to the coop on its own. But the other part of her—the part that was very, very