ITIEQ C40

Chapter 40 – Chickens and Rabbits in the Same Cage

“Thank you, old sir.”

At Qiuquan Commandery’s edge, in a small county called Shishi, a group of young scholars gave their thanks in unison. Once immaculate in white robes with loose sleeves, they were now coated in travel dust. Along the way, not a single tavern or market had been found; even with purses of coin, there had been no place to spend it. Thus their bedraggled state.

Fortune shifted when they encountered Grandfather Sun, returning home with firewood at dusk. He promised to guide them into the county, else they would have faced another night under open sky.

Old Sun waved their gratitude away. He himself had once fled famine, settling in Qiuquan thanks to local aid, and since then had done good deeds when he could.

Besides, these strangers looked educated. He always felt glad when meeting readers of books. Without further words, he welcomed them into his courtyard.

Tán Ping, the leader, secretly exhaled in relief. He was a famed painter of mountains and rivers, traveling with disciples to seek hidden beauty in distant lands. Yet since descending from Cangs Mountain, all he found were ruins—abandoned villages, dry wells. Survivors slammed doors and cursed them away. His paintings might fetch vast sums within the art world, but here they could not buy even a bowl of porridge—truly pitiful, laughable!

Grandfather Sun’s courtyard was simple: a blooming jujube tree, a yellow dog chained at the gate, which sprang up at strangers then wagged tail upon recognizing its master, settling back to nap.

The house walls were rammed earth, corners braced with wood. Accustomed to lofty estates, the scholars felt uneasy in such humble shelter. But given the choice between this and sleeping in rain, they accepted gratefully.

“One learns only by journeying—like a boat across rivers and lakes,” one sighed. “Only then do we see how bitter the world can be.”

They would leave soon; locals must remain their whole lives. Pity grew heavy in their hearts.

Inside the house were two children, seven or eight years old. They sat at a table, scratching with twigs on paper. Grandfather Sun grunted “Aiyo” at the sight, rushing to light an oil lamp.

“Treasure grandchildren, mind your eyes!”

Beams were weak, and sun already set. His son and daughter-in-law had perished fleeing famine, leaving only these two grandchildren—his very lifeblood.

Luckily, their household was classified as a dibao hu (low-income family) under Qiuquan’s policies, entitled to regular stipends. Else how could an old man feed two children?

As Sun busied with cooking, the scholars noticed the lamplight fell most brightly on the children—and realized with shock they were writing.

That was… odd.

The scholars, though pampered, had tasted hardship on this journey. They knew clearly—ordinary peasants never had access to learning. Not in this world. Their own classmates at the Imperial Academies were scions of noble families or officials. Farming households could never dream of it.

Curiosity overwhelming, they leaned closer. The children’s characters, neat and square, were genuine script.

Tán Ping asked: “Boy, where did you learn all this?”

The boy raised head. “From my teacher, of course.”

“Teacher? Here? There are teachers here?”

The scholars’ quick-tongued pupil jumped—but fell silent at Tán Ping’s glare.

“It’s Teacher Lin,” the boy said proudly, blowing graphite powder from the page. “Don’t you have teachers?”

“Of course we do.” The robe-clad scholar puffed his chest. “We study at the Baizhang Academy, under professors who are scholarly giants, most erudite in all the realm!”

Half the words meant little to the boy, but they sounded grand.

“Then you pass all your exams?” he asked, eyes glowing.

Exams? Did he mean the imperial keju exams? The scholars exchanged looks, uneasy. Cornered, one pointed to a companion. “This is Brother Chen, who placed fifth at the provincial exams this year—a true talent!”

The boy’s eyes shone brighter. He tugged his sister’s sleeve, produced a paper sheet. “Then please, elder brother, can you solve this for me? Teacher explained but I don’t understand.”

The scholar smirked inwardly. To solve a child’s riddle would be light work. He accepted the paper—then blinked hard.

The sheet was smooth, fine white—far superior to ordinary bamboo paper! And the problem written, in clear characters:

**“A cage contains both chickens and rabbits. Together their heads number 35, their feet 94. How many chickens and rabbits are there?”**ⁱ

For a moment he froze. Chickens and rabbits… how to count them?

He had studied the Four Books, the Buddhist Abhidharma texts… but never before such a question!

Alarm rose. Seeing his comrade sweat and stall, Tán Ping frowned and snatched the paper—only to find he, too, had no words.

The girl sighed, scolding:

“Little Zhu, you never listen in class! I’ll tell Teacher Lin tomorrow you neglect homework!”

“No, don’t!” whined her brother, grabbing back the page. “I’ll do it myself!”

Silence hung like weight. The scholars still attempted to parse, but no answer came. Surely, one had to see the cage—count directly—else impossible!

Yet the girl calmly packed her papers and recited:

“Of course it can be solved. There are 35 heads, 94 feet. Halve the feet to get 47. Subtract heads from that—leaves 12. Each rabbit adds two extra feet over a chicken, thus 12 rabbits. The rest, 23, must be chickens.”

Her speech was fluent—and her bright eyes suspicious:

“Did you really study in a proper academy?”

The scholars turned red to ears and necks, unsure if from anger or shame. To be questioned by a little girl!

At that moment, old Sun returned with stew—bean rice, salted pork, greens splashed with soybeans and salt, the best his house had.

“Girl, mind your tongue. These gentlemen are exam scholars—higher than us peasants. Give them respect.”

The children’s share he moved aside—they ate at the stove, while guests took table. Then old Sun rose, lighting incense at a tall tablet, bowing thrice before taking his seat.

Tán Ping frowned. “That is…?”

Old Sun laughed sheepish, scratching head. “It bears the name of Qingbei Academy. Our treasured place. Each day I bow, praying my grandchildren may enter the inner school someday. Then this old head can finally enjoy peace.”

Qingbei Academy? Never heard. Was this a backwater knockoff of lofty Shangqing Academy? Some cultish sect with a fabricated name—like those southern Lotus sects playing tricks on peasants?

Even this “chicken-rabbit arithmetic” must be one of their lures.

The girl knocked her bowl. “Grandfather, teacher said not to indulge superstition.”

“You know nothing, child. Eat your food!”

Old Sun smiled apologetically at the guests. He said no more. He did not mention that in past, the tablets bore Shen Qinghe’s name, their governor himself, whom they saw as more than divine. But Shen forbade such idolizing, so now they carved Qingbei Academy instead. For to enter Qingbei meant jobs in government or mills, steady wages—a true life of security.

Tán Ping watched quietly—the pork, the lamp, the fine paper, the unheard-of “free education.” On every side, strange puzzle.

He asked casually: “So, old sir, what tuition must one pay?”

Old Sun chuckled. “Why, none! If your household stays in Qiuquan one year, your children study free!”

No fees? No birth restrictions? Impossible!

The scholars exchanged glances—all eyes fell on Tán Ping. His lips trembled. This Qingbei Academy… aimed not just to rival regular schools. It would overturn heaven’s very order.

Footnotes

1. “Chicken-Rabbit in the Same Cage” (雞兔同籠問題) – An ancient Chinese math riddle dating back to the Sunzi Suanjing (Master Sun’s Arithmetic Classic, 3rd–5th century). The puzzle: Given heads and feet counts, deduce how many chickens vs. rabbits. This example was a staple in traditional arithmetic education.

    

2. “倒反天罡” (overturning the heavenly constellations) – Idiom meaning to upend cosmic order; here, the scholars feel the academy is literally overturning the established hierarchy of learning.