Chapter Seventy-Three: Taking In, Raising, and Fighting (Part Two)

When it comes to keeping animals, it is perhaps the most distinctive aspect of old Beijing culture. In every courtyard house, there had to be some living creatures—what we now call pets. Within this tradition, there were four main categories: birds, fish, beasts, and insects.

Songbirds like the thrush, lark, yellow sparrow, jade bird, parrot, mynah, lovebird, finch, and pigeon were favorites among old Beijingers. Each morning, before the household awoke, the birds hanging beneath the eaves would already be awake, their clear, melodious calls instantly filling the courtyard with vitality. Then, their owner would rise early, carrying the cage to stroll along the park or riverbank—not only to exercise the bird, but themselves as well, stretching their limbs in the process.

In the summer, the harmonious scenery of a courtyard was summed up as “awning, fish tank, and pomegranate tree.” From princes and officials to commoners, everyone liked to place fish basins in their courtyards and fish tanks inside their rooms, raising goldfish—sometimes just a few, sometimes dozens or even hundreds. As Beijingers would say: keeping fish is a slow art, a process meant to cultivate patience and soothe the soul. Moreover, as “fish” is homophonous with “abundance,” it was considered auspicious, signifying “plenty year after year.”

Old Beijingers were particular about the breeds of cats they kept, with long-haired varieties being prized. White and yellow cats were deemed superior, black and mixed-colored ones were secondary. Additionally, cats with two different colored eyes were especially valued, known as “male-female eyes,” or “one from the father, one from the mother,” referring to the “Persian breed.” However, white-tailed cats were avoided, deemed unlucky. Keeping cats was viewed as a refined pleasure, and they were often exchanged among friends and relatives as gifts.

Dogs were also kept, though far fewer than cats. Wealthier folks would buy ornamental dogs—such as lapdogs and Pekingese—at the dog market of the Guardian Temple fair. Lapdogs, barely palm-sized, were feisty and called “fighting pups,” able to be hidden in a sleeve, hence their name. Owners would place them on tables to observe their tussles and bites for amusement.

In those days, old Beijingers did not sell cats or dogs; doing so was considered a sign of family ruin and was looked down upon. Of course, as times have changed, these customs have faded—perhaps that too is a kind of progress.

Lastly, there was the keeping of insects—crickets, katydids, golden bells, mouth-clickers, oil beetles—primarily the first two, which were the most popular. After the wheat harvest each year, vendors would appear in the alleys with heaps of cricket cages for sale. Most Beijingers would buy a few, hanging them beneath the pomegranate or grape vines, listening to their songs—not bothersome at all, but rather joyful.

Buying crickets had its own rule: one never bought just one, but always a pair. This was both for luck and because crickets would compete in their calls—when one sang, the other would join. It was like listening to an orchestra, though solo performances were not forbidden.

As for the customs surrounding cricket-keeping, they were no less intricate than those for keeping katydids, but the old man only explained the latter.

To keep katydids, one first needed a cricket jar—a vessel resembling a half-length brush pot, with a lid that had air holes. These jars came in five sizes, much like batteries, from No. 1 (largest) to No. 5 (smallest), and could nest together. The exact measurements weren’t strictly defined, but relative.

Materials varied: most jars were porcelain or earthenware, though some were made of ivory or jade, depending on personal preference. Besides material, enthusiasts distinguished jars by origin: southern jars and northern jars. The old man, never having left Beijing in his life, spoke only of northern jars. He noted that due to climate, southern jars were thinner-walled, northern jars thicker.

The making of cricket jars was much like teapots—using filtered clay such as slip or purple sand, then fired. Flame-fired jars were shinier, but the jar and lid rarely matched in color, since they weren’t fired together. Kiln-fired jars had uniform color, but less luster and a less refined feel; which was better depended on taste.

By tradition, twenty-four cricket jars made a “table,” with one prince jar and one fighting jar per table. The prince jar housed the most formidable katydid, while the fighting jar—also called the arena—was where matches took place. This “table” formed the unit for cricket-keeping, and connoisseurs would ask: “How many tables do you play?” Thus, keeping just one or two was the mark of a novice; a proper player started with at least a table.

But a cricket jar alone was not enough—it was merely a courtyard, not a house. The katydid’s house was called a transfer cage, or bell house, coming in various shapes and materials, but essentially a small box with holes on the sides and a lid on top. The transfer cage was usually placed inside the jar, serving as the bedroom.

The name “transfer cage” was apt. Whether for fighting or cleaning, one needed to move the katydid from the jar. Children would simply grab it, but serious enthusiasts couldn’t be so rough. Beyond singing and fighting spirit, an important standard was appearance.

We often say “intact antennae and tails,” referring to the katydid’s looks—the antennae being the two feelers, the tails the two rear appendages. A good katydid must have both intact; grabbing it by hand risks breaking them. Thus, the transfer cage was invented: to move the insect, you coax it into the cage, then lift it together, avoiding harm.

Even with jars and transfer cages, one was not yet a true katydid player. Every hobby requires its own set of tools: in photography, you need not just a camera but lenses, tripod, bag, vest, lights; in fishing, not just rod and hook, but tackle box, bait container, float box, rod holder, leader board, main spool, and so on.

Cricket-keeping was the same: besides jars and transfer cages, one needed a scale for weighing, a water trough for drinking, a feeding board, bamboo tongs for handling implements, a dropper for moistening the trough, stands for lifting lids for ventilation, a container for feeding grass, a cover to prevent escapes during fights, and many other items.

At first, Hong Tao thought that gathering all these would mark his entry into the hobby—after all, if it was sold, he could buy it, and having bought jars, why worry about the small stuff? But the old man’s words confused him: these were merely preparatory steps. Having them didn’t mean you could raise katydids well—only that you could begin. But what was so difficult about keeping katydids?

First, you had to “lay the bottom” of the jar—a phrase not to be taken literally, as it didn’t mean breaking the jar’s bottom, but applying a layer of “triple-mix” soil to the base. Katydids are earth-dwelling insects, so this provided a comfortable home.

How was it done? Step one: “boil the jar.” All fired jars contained saline alkali, harmful to katydids, so enthusiasts devised a way to remove it—soaking the jar in rainwater, sometimes for months or years. Later, pressed for time, people used tea water to boil the jar, using heat and compounds in tea to extract and neutralize alkali, known as “removing the heat.” Hong Tao’s jars, being old and well-used, had long lost their heat.

Once the jar was “cooled,” one could lay the bottom, using triple-mix—old brick dust, fine sand, yellow earth in a 3:4:2 ratio, plus a portion of earthworm castings, ground as fine as possible. Add a little water, but don’t make mud. Place the mix in the jar, and use a flat-bottomed tool to tamp it down evenly, at least a centimeter thick. When finished, turn the jar over—no crumbs should fall, and it should be smooth and solid.

This was only the first step. Next, cut a piece of coarse sandpaper slightly smaller than the jar’s base, place it grit-side down, and tamp a bit more, then remove it. The soil base would then be peppered with pits—just right, so the katydid’s feet could grip, since a too-smooth base made them slip.

The third and final step was “curing the base.” The triple-mix itself retained heat, so using a brush dipped in tea water, one would frequently apply a layer, letting it dry, then brushing again—over ten days to half a month, after which the jar was ready for the katydid.

Laying the base was akin to renovating a new house—after buying an unfinished apartment, you first lay the floor, then let it air out before moving in. The same logic applied: katydids, in some ways, were more delicate than humans, so meticulous care was needed. It wasn’t trouble—it was joy.