It was harvest day, and Beijing was counting bales of hay.

"Yī, èr, sān," she said, tapping each bale with her hoof.

"What are you saying?" asked Suzy.

"One, two, three in Chinese," said Beijing. "Would you like to learn? Chinese numbers are the easiest numbers in the world to build."

Little Thunder flopped down on a bale. "Numbers are never easy."

"These are," promised Beijing. She drew the first ten in the dust: 一 二 三 四 五 六 七 八 九 十. "One to ten. Yī, èr, sān, sì, wǔ, liù, qī, bā, jiǔ, shí."

Spike noticed something. "One, two and three are just lines! One line, two lines, three lines."

"Clever dog," said Beijing. "Now here is the magic. What is ten plus one?"

"Eleven," said Little Thunder.

"In Chinese, we just say ten-one. Shí yī. Twelve is ten-two. Shí èr."

Suzy's tail began to wag. "So twenty must be two-ten?"

"Èr shí!" said Beijing. "And thirty-seven is..."

"Three-ten-seven!" shouted Little Thunder, jumping off the bale. "Sān shí qī!"

Beijing beamed and wrote 三十七. "Exactly. Like stacking blocks."

They tried more. Fifty-five was wǔ shí wǔ. Eighty-two was bā shí èr. Spike worked out ninety-nine all by himself: jiǔ shí jiǔ.

"In English we have strange words like eleven and twelve," said Suzy. "In Chinese, the numbers just tell you what they are."

By sunset they had counted every bale in the paddock in Chinese.

"How many?" asked Beijing.

Little Thunder checked his tally. "Sì shí bā. Forty-eight!"

"Correct," said Beijing. "Now, how many carrots would you like for dinner?"

"Jiǔ shí jiǔ!" said Little Thunder.

"Nice try," laughed Beijing, handing him three.