Chapter 100: The Conception of the Three-Character Classic

“Big brothers, can you all read and write?”

In the evening, inside the ancestral hall warmed by a cluster of bonfires, the passengers who had just disembarked from the boat were resting here. The villagers naturally gathered on one side, while Song Mu and the other scholars from Shiyang County stood near the entrance on the opposite side.

Many village children had also gathered inside the hall. They wore tattered clothes barely covering their hips and were dirt-streaked, but their bright, lively eyes were fixed on Song Mu and the others.

Though it was night, Master Xun still insisted that everyone study the texts aloud, resting only when the night grew late. Meanwhile, Master Xun himself was outside the hall, conversing with a few fishermen from the village and keeping a watchful eye on the surroundings.

After learning the full story of today's incident, Master Xun had taken out his brush and retraced the inscriptions on the stone tablet. With the added power of his scholarly rank, the tablet’s imposing aura had grown even stronger.

Yet, Master Xun remained cautious. The villagers’ account indirectly revealed that this time the monster’s strength was formidable—perhaps even that of a demon general. Such a creature was a calamity for ordinary folk, and for scholars like Song Mu who had yet to master the literary power, it was a grave threat. Even someone of Master Xun’s rank had to proceed with the utmost care.

The young scholars from Shiyang County were still attending the provincial exams in the capital. Today, Master Xun was escorting a group of children and newly minted scholars back home. The perils along the way required his vigilance.

Song Mu was engrossed in a book when a clear, youthful voice caught his attention. He looked up to see two children around five or six years old staring at him. He smiled warmly and waved at them.

Their innocent gazes reminded Song Mu of his own daughter, Yaya Song Mingwei, softening his heart.

He reached into a bundle beside him and pulled out a small package, opening it to reveal a handful of knuckle-sized sugar candies.

The children’s eyes widened at the sight of the snowy-white sweets, and their mouths watered involuntarily.

Raised in a poor mountain village, such sweetness was a rare treat in their childhoods. Their longing was plain to see.

Seeing Song Mu wave again, the children could no longer resist temptation and stepped forward. Song Mu smiled and asked them to hold out their hands.

“Have you all started learning to read? Can you recognize any characters?”

Master Kong, sitting nearby, looked up with interest and asked them this question.

The eldest child, about seven or eight years old, looked embarrassed and lowered his head in silence, only staring fixedly at Song Mu’s candy as if thinking they had to pass some literacy test before receiving any.

Song Mu glanced at the children. Their faces showed a mixture of longing—perhaps for the candy, perhaps for learning to read.

When they all shook their heads, Song Mu and Kong exchanged a knowing smile. Song Mu didn’t press further but picked up a candy and handed it to the eldest child.

One after another, the children crowded forward, reaching out shyly as Song Mu distributed the candies. Then he asked the eldest boy:

“Is there no teacher in the village to teach you to read?”

The boy sniffled, carefully wrapping the candy in the corner of his sleeve before answering.

“Grandpa Fan is old. He hasn’t taught for two years now.”

“Grandpa Fan only taught my grandfather and father.”

Song Mu paused, realizing that Grandpa Fan was the village’s only scholar, now ninety years old and no longer able to teach.

This news left Song Mu silent, and Kong shook his head with a similar regret.

“This little village is too remote. The children will likely follow their fathers’ footsteps—farmers, fishermen, or hunters.”

The other scholars nodded in agreement, feeling a twinge of sorrow.

Some among them had come from rural backgrounds, and no matter how poor the village, there was always a way to send gifted children away for schooling. But this village was so isolated it felt cut off from the world; the nearest school was dozens of miles away across mountain trails.

Kong, unwilling to give up, pressed on. Except for the eldest boy who could write his own name, the others were completely illiterate.

But after tasting the candy, the children warmed up to the scholars and eagerly begged them to teach them how to write their names.

Though this interrupted the scholars’ study and rest, they all willingly began one-on-one lessons.

Some of the boat passengers nearby also showed keen interest, even asking the scholars to teach them their names.

Yet, even writing one’s name proved challenging for many.

As the lessons proceeded, Song Mu turned to the eldest boy and asked:

“Do you know any nursery rhymes?”

The boy was the first to respond, and before Song Mu could say more, the children began to sing softly:

“Willow branches spin tops, willow branches green, releasing empty bells.”
“Willows die, kicking shuttlecocks; willows sprout, playing tug-of-war.”

“Big star, big star, falling from the sky, releasing green rays, shaking the ground, stirring flying dragons.”

“Adults rise from the earth, swinging literary light, sealing demons, killing all pests.”

Two rhymes, not exactly melodious but catchy and easy to remember. The children sang along, their voices strong and clear.

The lively scene drew Master Xun and others from outside. Some villagers came forward to stop the singing, but Song Mu and company motioned for them to let the children play a little while longer.

At this moment, Song Mu’s expression was full of anticipation as he looked at the children.

Noticing this, Kong approached and asked, curious:

“Brother Song, do you have some idea in mind?”

Song Mu turned to him, thoughtful at first, then smiled and said:

“Kong, at what age did you begin to learn characters?”

Kong thought for a moment: “I can’t recall exactly, but it was very young.”

Song Mu continued: “Was it easy to learn at that age?”

Kong shook his head with a smile: “No, it was very hard. I remember learning ten characters a day. If I failed, my father would spank my palm.”

His face bore a mixture of nostalgia and emotion.

Song Mu nodded, and Kong, intrigued, asked:

“Do you perhaps have ideas about teaching children to read?”

Song Mu nodded, fixing his gaze on the children. He spoke:

“Look at how hard it is for them to learn characters, yet when it comes to nursery rhymes, they sing joyfully and understand their meaning.”

His expression was already filled with hope.

At that moment, Song Mu thought of the Three Character Classic.

Written by Wang Yinglin, a Southern Song dynasty jinshi and official of the Ministry of Rites, this three-character rhythmic text was renowned for its quality.

Compared to the Thousand Character Classic, the Three Character Classic was more catchy and contained many classic stories—perfect for early childhood education.

Seeing these children reminded Song Mu of this.

However, the content of the Three Character Classic might require some revision; even if he wanted to write something himself, it would need careful refinement.

Kong looked at Song Mu with great interest:

“That’s a wonderful idea—using nursery rhymes to teach, combining education with enjoyment. It might really make a difference.”

“If you could compose something for children to learn characters through song, that would be a great achievement!”

Kong’s face was full of excitement.

But before they could discuss further, a sudden urgent voice came from outside the ancestral hall:

“That thing is coming!”

…