化身促織 Changed into a Cricket
好大聖,笑唏唏的,將鐵棒藏了。跳下高峰,又至洞口,搖身一變,變作一個促織兒。真個:好大圣,笑唏唏的,将铁棒藏了。跳下高峰,又至洞口,摇身一变,变作一个促织儿。真个:
逐句解 Line by line
The fine Great Sage, chuckling to himself, put the iron rod away.
笑唏唏的 = "with a snickering laugh." 將鐵棒藏了: 將 = jiāng (disposal), 藏 = cáng ("to stow, to hide"), not the zàng of 三藏; 了 = le.
He sprang down from the high peak, came again to the cave mouth, shook himself, and changed into a cricket.
促織兒: the cricket (蟋蟀); the suffix 兒 = er. The name means "urge-the-weaving" — the insect whose autumn chirring was said to hurry the women at their looms before the cold.
Truly:
The verse tag takes its own unflagged segment. What follows is a 詞 in the 西江月 pattern — two stanzas of 6-6-7-6 syllables — not the seven-syllable 詩 couplets used for the battle verse.
Hard of mouth, long of whisker, black of hide; / bright of eye, with claws and feet splayed wide.
First line of the 西江月, six syllables. 鬚長: 長 = cháng. 丫叉 = "forked, splayed." The description is exact entomology before it is anything else.
In clear wind and bright moon it calls from the foot of the wall;
The seven-syllable third line of the stanza. 牆涯 = the wall's edge, the cricket's classical station.
in the stillness of night it is like a person talking.
如同人話 — the conceit that the cricket's cry resembles speech; it also prepares the plot, since this cricket is about to do a good deal of listening.
Weeping dew, a scene of chill desolation; / a voice broken off and taken up again, worth the praising.
The second stanza opens. 泣露 ("weeping dew") is a standing figure for autumn insects; 斷續 catches the intermittence of the stridulation.
At the traveller's window his wandering thoughts dread to hear it;
客窗旅思 — the traveller at his window, the classic posture of homesickness in Tang and Song verse; 旅思 = "a wanderer's brooding."
and it is precisely there, on the empty steps, beneath the bed.
偏在 = "is just there, of all places." 空階床下 closes the 詞 where the insect actually is — and, as it happens, where the burglar means to be.
The transformation is the smallest Wukong performs in the whole arc, and the narrator marks it with a full lyric — a 詞 in the 西江月 pattern, two stanzas of 6-6-7-6, rather than the seven-syllable couplets used for the fighting. The form matters. 西江月 is a song-measure with a long literary pedigree in melancholy, and the poem it carries here is a proper autumn-insect piece: weeping dew, a broken voice, the traveller at his window who dreads to hear the sound. Nothing in it is about burglary.
That is the joke, and it is a fine one. The cricket (促織, "urge the weaving") is the insect of homesickness — the creature whose chirring in the Book of Odes and after tells the traveller how far he is from home and how late the year has grown. The narrator gives it the full weight of that tradition, ending on 怕聞他, "they dread to hear it," and then sends it in under the door to case a demon's bedroom. The reader is invited to notice that the fiends inside really should dread hearing this particular cricket, and that Wukong, who is a very long way from home himself, is about to spend the night at the foot of somebody else's bed.