"It was a dark and stormy night..."

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept through the slats of the single-paned walls (for it is in Yubeng Village that our scene lies), rattling along the rooftops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the head lamps that struggled against the darkness. Through one of the obscurest quarters of China, and among haunts little loved by the gentlemen of the police, a group, evidently of the lowest order, was wending there way. Together they gathered, furtively sharing a flask (of hot water), to learn from the masters the music and lyrics of an ancient tune. Though much of the song's meaning was obscured from the group, for they spoke little of the language in which it was sung, they knew that it resonated in the deep places of the heart where beauty, sorrow, and hope reside. When the time came for each to leave the masters' room and wend their way through the cold and lonely storm back to their rickety beds trussed by worn blankets and dusty pillows, they quietly hummed the tune's final verse, "and I will tell them proudly that this is my home."

The lyrics have been preserved as follows:

(1) lan lan de tien shawn-bye yuen peow

(2) bye-yuen sha-mien ma er paw

(3) tsao yuen shawn^shung chee boo luoha-de-tai yong

(4) yao-shur yoh-ren bye wen wua

(5) jua sheh shen-mua dee fong

(6) wua jyo jiao-ow-de gow sue ta-ah jua-sheh-wua-de goo shawn

P.S. You've got to love Baron Edward Bulwer-Lytton for creating the "dark and stormy night" writing style. Did you know there is actually a contest each year sponsored by San Jose State University to determine the worst "dark and stormy night" stories in existence? I'm keeping my fingers crossed.