was considered harbinger of grace, companion of the seven immortals.
On the day when emperor Yuan Ti, dressed in his finest royal raiment, made his annual pilgrimage to the shrine of the golden harvest, just as his entourage approached the temple compound, a creaking rhythmic whoosh, as of a great machine, was heard.
Much to the surprise of his attendants, the emperor leapt from his bier,
ran out from under the imperial parasol bearers, his robes streaming from his royal limbs,
craning his neck to follow the flight or catch just a sight of the source of the sound.
Sure enough, the legendary creature flew out of the Eastern forest, great wings beating the air, circled three times around the imperial procession, cawed monstrously, and unleashed a torrent of excrement directly on the head of the emperor.
All the entourage were aghast to see their revered imperial leader soiled so, and recoiled in silent shock and horror as he wiped the filth from his own royal visage with an unsullied swath of the gilt-threaded sleeve of his gown. Too mortified to speak, they dared not even raise their eyes upon the dishonor that had befallen their leader.
All, that is, except the drunkest of the court poets -- one part Taoist sage, one part provincial eccentric -- Li Poo, who, taking a deep draught from his gourd of rice wine, stumbled to the side of his stricken leader.
Li Poo proffered his gourd, laughing quietly, and -- breaking all taboo against familiarity with the emperor -- he scooped a handful of the great bird's steaming waste from the monarch's shoulder and rubbed it into his own hair, observing:
As fields fall fallow without the grace of rotting humus to succor the blushing
seedlings and fade, so too the immortals direct our imperial gaze!
alas, poor Li Poo, their humble parrot
to divine the entrails' augury without piercing their messenger's flesh:
blessing graces the way to harvest temple, for the sages instruct us today:
If the Fu shits, wear it.
**Although Emperor Yuan Ti had the poet executed within the week for his impertinence on this occasion, the levelheaded historian must observe that Li Poo's last poetic effort did succeed in salvaging face for the whole of the Emperor's company, who accomplished their pilgrimage, at the sacrifice of somewhat more than merely his own face. Several lines from this work survive in the present popular idiom despite fierce efforts on the part of every succeeding dynasty and government in that land. **