riding out from town, so may possibly be a
minute or two late, though I expect to be on hand to welcome you when
you arrive. But if I'm a little late, please don't mind."

We assured him that we shouldn't mind at all; and then he went on to say
that he hoped we'd have a pleasant day and no dust.

These dust-storms are the curse of Peking and of North China. To-day,
however (March 5), dawned bright and clear and sunny, as usual; but
clear, bright weather is not necessarily the sign of a fine day in this
part of the world. Not in spring. Every day is one of brilliant
sunshine, the winter sunshine of China just south of the Great Wall,
and just south of the Mongolian desert. That's where the dust comes
from. It blows in straight from the Gobi Desert, and makes the late
winter and the spring, particularly the spring, almost intolerable.
Since our return we have been having dust-storms on an average of twice
a week, big ones and little ones, lasting from a few hours to several
days. There are two kinds: surface storms, when a tremendous wind blows
dense clouds of fine, sharp dust along the streets and makes all
outdoors intolerable; and overhead storms, which are another thing.
These latter really are a curious phenomenon: fine, red, powdery dust
is whirled upward into the higher levels of the atmosphere blown
overhead by the upper air currents, from which it drifts down, covering
everything in sight. On such occasions there is frequently no wind at
all on the streets, but the air is so filled with dust that the sun
appears as in a fog, a red disk showing dimly through the thick, dense
atmosphere. The dust floats downward and sifts indoors through every
crack and crevice, until everything lies under a soft red blanket. You
simply breathe dust for days; there is no possibility of escape until
the wind changes and it is over.

To-day, however, apparently was going to be a good day. I ran down the
hotel corridor to look at the flags flying over the legation quarter,
the flags of most of the nations of the world. The sight was
reassuring. No wind at all, apparently; they were all idly flapping
from their poles, whereas yesterday they had been frantically tearing
at them, whipped out stiff by a piercing, cold north wind. So we took
rickshaws and were soon running along toward the Hankow station, where
we found a large crowd of foreigners assembling for the special train
that was to take us to Pao Ma Tchang, literally "Run Horse