The Frog Princess

The Frog Princess

Long ago, where the great Yangtze River slowly carried its waters toward the sea, there stood a small temple of the Frog King. So many frogs lived nearby that every evening the whole valley seemed to sing: croak-croak, croak-croak.

People treated them with respect. They said frogs were the first to sense rain, knew secret paths between water and land, and remembered more summer storms than the oldest grandfather could count.

Not far away lived a boy named Xia Kun-Shon. He was curious, lively, and asked so many questions that his father laughed:

“If you do not stop, we will have to buy you another head to hold all your whys.”

One day, a woman dressed in green came to their home.

“I am a messenger from the Frog King,” she said. “His youngest daughter would like to meet your son someday.”

Xia’s father was surprised.

“Meeting is fine. But he is still a child. Let him grow up first and decide for himself whom to befriend and whom to love.”

The messenger nodded.

“A wise answer.”

Many years passed. Xia grew up. He learned to manage a household, read old books, trade at the market, and cross the river by boat even in fog.

One day a man in a green jacket approached him.

“The Frog King invites you to visit.”

Xia hesitated only a moment. He had long wanted to see the mysterious palace people spoke about.

They passed through a red gate, followed a path through the reeds, and suddenly a spacious house appeared before him. In the great hall sat an elderly ruler with kind but watchful eyes.

“Welcome, Xia Kun-Shon,” he said. “I remember you as a child. Now I would like you to meet my daughter.”

A young woman entered in green and silver clothing. At her belt hung a small pendant shaped like a water-lily leaf.

“My name is Lian,” she said. “And I should warn you at once: if anyone decides for me whom I should befriend or marry, I will run faster than a frog jumps from a stone into water.”

Xia laughed.

“Then we already have something in common. I prefer to decide for myself too.”

The Frog King stroked his beard with satisfaction.

“Excellent. First tea. Then conversation. After that, life can decide the rest.”

Xia began visiting the palace often. He and Lian walked along the riverbank, argued about books, launched tiny boats made from leaves, and laughed as little frogs tried to crowd together on one water-lily pad.

Time passed, and one evening Lian said:

“I am happy with you.”

“And I with you,” Xia replied.

So they chose for themselves to share their lives.

When Lian moved into Xia’s home, life became a little stranger. Frogs appeared everywhere in the yard. They sat beside the well, beneath the bench, in the garden, and on the stone steps. One particularly bold little frog liked to nap by the doorstep.

Xia’s parents quickly became used to their guests.

Xia, however, sometimes lost patience.

“Underfoot again!” he grumbled, stamping loudly to make the frogs scatter.

Once he frightened a tiny frog so badly that it jumped straight into a bowl of water and sent up a fountain of drops.

Lian frowned.

“They are not trying to bother you.”

“But there are too many of them!”

“Then let us build a pond behind the garden. There will be water, stones, and shade. The yard will be quieter too.”

“I am not required to build a pond for every frog in the district.”

“No, you are not,” Lian said softly. “But you can look for a solution instead of becoming angry at those who are weaker than you.”

Xia did not want to listen. One word led to another, and they quarreled.

Lian went to stay with her parents so both of them would have time to calm down.

At first Xia told himself he did not care. But the house suddenly felt too quiet. No one left plum-blossom tea for him on the table. No one laughed at his long explanations. Even the frogs disappeared from the yard.

A few days later, he took a shovel and began digging a pond.

His father saw him and smiled.

“A good beginning.”

“I am not doing it as an apology,” Xia muttered.

“Of course. You just happened to dig a pond exactly where Lian suggested.”

Xia said nothing.

When the pond was finished, he went to the Frog King’s palace.

“I was stubborn,” he told Lian. “I do not have to enjoy finding a frog in my cup. But I can treat it gently. And I can treat you with more care too.”

Lian looked at him for a long moment, then smiled.

“I will come back. Not because anyone ordered me to, but because I can see that you truly thought about what happened.”

From then on, most of the frogs lived beside the new pond, though one little frog stubbornly kept returning to the doorstep.

“That is your personal teacher of patience,” Lian joked.

Another year passed, and a new disagreement arose in the household. One day Xia’s mother, tired from work, said:

“I used to sew the clothes myself. Now my son has a wife, and the needle is still in my hand.”

Lian was hurt.

“I am not good at sewing,” she said. “But I keep the accounts, dry herbs, bargain with merchants, and help in the garden. Must everyone do the same tasks?”

Xia opened his mouth to take someone’s side, then stopped.

“Wait. We are all tired. Perhaps we should divide the work so no one carries everything alone.”

They sat at the table and spoke calmly. It turned out that Xia’s father was excellent at repairing clothes, though he had always been embarrassed to say so. Lian enjoyed preparing tea and keeping records. Xia’s mother knew the garden better than anyone, and Xia took responsibility for trips to the market.

The household became not only more prosperous, but more peaceful.

Yet Xia was still fond of jokes. One day, knowing Lian was afraid of snakes, he put a tiny harmless snake into a little box to surprise her.

Lian opened it, turned pale, and immediately closed the lid.

“Xia, that is not funny.”

“I was only joking.”

“A joke is funny when both people laugh.”

She packed a few things and returned to her parents.

This time Xia did not run after her. He understood that saying “sorry” meant little if a person kept repeating the same behavior.

Months passed. Xia cared for the pond, worked, helped his parents, and thought.

When neighborhood children caught frogs for amusement, he asked them to let the animals go. When someone made a joke that hurt another person, he said:

“Stop. I once thought intention mattered more than the result. It does not.”

One spring day, Lian appeared beside the pond.

She sat on a stone and looked around.

“I see the pond has become twice as large.”

“Frogs have large families,” Xia replied.

“And you?”

Xia was quiet for a moment.

“I learned that loving someone does not give me the right to tease their fears, decide for them, or demand that they always return. So I am simply glad to see you.”

Lian smiled.

“Now that sounds like the Xia with whom I once drank tea beside the water lilies.”

She returned home, again because she chose to.

Later, two children were born into the family. They grew up beside the pond, knew the names of all the water plants, and could listen to the evening frog chorus for hours.

Whenever people in the village quarreled and neither wanted to make peace first, someone would sometimes say:

“Go sit beside Xia’s pond. Even the loudest frogs know that after a long croak-croak, it helps to listen to one another for a while.”

And, strangely enough, it often helped.

May this story leave a little light in your heart ✨