When King Xuan of Qi* called for reed pipe music, he would have three hundred men playing at the same time.
A man had a withered plane tree. “It’s unlucky to keep a withered tree,” said his neighbour, an old man.
The Monkey King struggled desperately to escape the raging tempest, yet could not even brush the ground. The wind tossed him about like a speck of dust, upending him as easily as a typhoon strips trees bare or a torrent sweeps away withered blossoms.