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Three hundred li west of my home is a place called Zichuan. There, three hundred years ago, under a tall willow tree in the Pu Village, sat a gray-bearded old man. In front of him stood a small square table with a tea kettle, tea cups, tobacco, and pipes arrayed on the table top. Any thirsty or wearied passerby could sit down and help himself to a cup of tea or a smoke. While the voyager was puffing away or sipping his tea, the gray-bearded man would say, "How about a tale? Anything will do: strange folks, bizarre events, ox demons, snake spirits. . . . Anything will do. Much obliged. . . ." Although his hair was all silver gray and his face deeply furrowed, his eyes were as limpid as those of a three-year-old. Who would have the heart to disappoint such a host? Then of course there was the tobacco and the tea courtesy of him. Thus...