pparently been having great difficulties with his costume at the back
of the stage, in full view of the audience, steps heavily forward,
making the boards bounce right up. When she sees him she shrieks and
faints in his arms. He makes a long speech holding her. The clowns
appear again. The heroine shakes herself free, and with great
self-possession squats down once more on the edge of the stage and
resumes her cigar until her turn comes again. The branch of the tree is
pulled up, and in its place is put a box with a piece of pink muslin
over it, while three men in long robes come in and sit down, one on the
box and the other two on the boards beside him, and they all talk
interminably. The band, which has only stopped impatiently while the
actual speaking was going on, clashes in wildly at every possible
interval and now drowns the voices altogether for a few minutes, just to
remind us it is there. The men on the stage continue repeating their
parts, whether it plays or not, and apparently they are so long winded
that the plot does not suffer at all from the sentences which are lost
in the noise.

"That's her father, the king," explains the captain. "He is taking
counsel from his ministers how to recover his daughter and punish the
villain. She's a boy, of course--they all are."

We can hardly believe it! The slender form, the graceful movements, the
long thin fingers, the wonderful management of that terrible skirt, the
coquettish movements! You can hardly imagine any British boy doing it,
can you?

We are beginning to have about enough of it after a couple of hours,
though the Burmans themselves comfortably settle down all night, and
there are pwes that go on for days. What with the clashing music, the
thick smoke in the air, the strange language, and a kind of dreaminess
over everything, it is too much for Joyce, and she suddenly flops her
head down on my shoulder in a profound slumber, hugely to your delight.

Her mother's cry of "Joyce!" brings her to herself with a crimson face,
and I see you get a surreptitious kick for giggling, which you richly
deserve!

We make a move, thank the Burmese entertainer, explain we have to be off
early in the morning, and try to get out without setting our feet on
anyone's head!

[Illustration: A BURMESE PLAY.]

"Why, it has been snowing!" you cry in amazement as we get clear. It
does look like it. The moon is full and white, high in the heavens, and
shows up the dust whic