est. Brave men, unarmed, have been known to throw up
their hands in the presence of a bandit.

An amusing thing happened to-day. After tiffin E---- and I went out in
our rickshaws, trying to find a shop where we could buy camel's-hair
blankets. And, by the way, there aren't any, so we had a fruitless
quest. We each have our own rickshaw now, hired by the month at twenty
dollars (Mexican) apiece. It seems miserably cheap, yet they tell us
that we have paid five dollars more than the usual rate. It was pathetic
when we chose our boys the other day--chose two out of a crowd of thirty
or more that presented themselves. The disappointment of the others was
pitiable. Competition is keen, and it means much to these boys to know
they have an assured income rather than haphazard, precarious
employment. My boy is called Kwong, and is a wonderful little runner,
much faster than E----'s boy.

By this time we are much attached to them, and our days usually end up
at the bazaar out on Morrison Street, that marvelous bazaar where
everything made in North China is for sale--furs, silks, jade, jewels,
sweetmeats, everything. But it is to the sweet-stalls that we always go,
where wonderful Chinese candies and sugared fruits are for sale. We
first change a dollar into pennies, and then all four of us eat our way
from stall to stall--sesame candy, sugared walnuts, sugary plums on
straws. It's wonderful. Germs? Maybe, but we don't care. I am sick of
germs, of the emphasis that every one at home places on them. It's
restful to get into a country where there aren't any, or at least people
don't know about them. The trouble with America is that every one is so
busy thinking of clean streets, clean garbage-cans, the possibilities of
disease contained in impure food, that much of the beauty and comfort of
life is lost. Life is not all in length.

Well, as I say, with our visit to the bazaar reserved for the end of the
afternoon, we went into the Chinese City in search of camel's-hair
blankets. Soon we turned aside from the big high-street, and dived into
one of the narrow, winding, unpaved lanes of the native city, which only
the rickshaw-boys can negotiate. Presently, in this maze of narrow
streets, we met the usual block; a dozen rickshaws from opposite
directions encountered one another, and each claimed the right of way.
When an alley is six feet wide, there is neither right nor way, and
voluble conversation ensued, mounting rapidly into s