Everybody, that is, but Mrs. Wang. When Little Pig’s wife seized her hand to drag her along, old Mrs. Wang pulled away and sat down against the bank of the dike.
“I can’t run,” she remarked. “I haven’t run in seventy years, since before my feet were bound. You go on Where’s Little Pig?” She looked around. Little Pig was already gone. “Like his grandfather,” she remarked, “always the first to run.”
But Little Pig’s wife would not leave Mrs. Wang—not, that is, until the old woman reminded her that it was her duty.
“If Little Pig is dead,” she said, “then it is necessary that his son be born alive.” And when the girl still hesitated, she struck at her gently with her pipe. “Go on—go on!” she exclaimed.
So unwillingly, because now they could scarcely hear each other speak above the roar of the dipping planes, Little Pig’s wife went on with the others.
By now, although only a few minutes had passed, the village was in ruins; the straw roofs and wooden beams were blazing. Everybody was gone. As the villagers passed, they shrieked at old Mrs. Wang to come on, and she had called back pleasantly,