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All the others come and stare at the tablet on my back. Sometimes they read aloud the nonsense written there about dead emperors and their titles, but they never so much as look at me, at me whose father was one of the great four who made the world." Bamboo's eyes shone with wonder. "What! your father helped make the world?" he gasped.
Soon the comrades were walking down the broad road, very slowly, for the tortoise is not swift of foot and Bamboo's legs were none too long. "Where are you going?" said the boy at last, after he had begun to feel more at home with the turtle. "Going? Where should you think I would want to go after my century in prison?
"There, there!" said a deep voice. "See what you are doing, stirring up such a dust! Why, you will strangle me if you are not careful." It was the turtle speaking, and yet Bamboo's father had often told him that it was not alive. The boy lay trembling for a minute, too much frightened to get up and run. "No use in shaking so, my lad," the voice continued, a little more kindly.
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