things the collector has, so that
in many days he could not look upon them all.
Every morning his seven men-servants dress him, and
every evening they undress him. Behind their
almond eyes move green sidelong shadows.
In this silent courtyard the collector lives.
He is not an old man but he is lonely.

Peking

Sunday in the British Empire: Hong Kong

In the aisle of the cathedral it lies, an army rifle of
the latest type.
It is laid on the black and white mosaic, between the
carved oaken pews and the strip of brown carpet
in the aisle.
A crimson light from the stained-glass window yonder
glints on the blue steel of its barrel, and the
khaki of its shoulder-strap blends with the brown
of the carpet.

The stiff backs of its owner and a hundred like him
are very still.
The vested choir chants prettily.
Then the bishop speaks:
"O God, who art the author of peace and lover of
concord,... defend us thy humble servants
in all assaults of our enemies."
"Amen!" say the owners of the khaki backs.

The light has shifted a little. On the blue steel barrel
of the rifle the glint is turquoise now.
That will be from the robe of the shepherd in the window
yonder, He of the quiet eyes....

Hong Kong

On the Canton River Boat

Up and down, up and down, paces the sentry.
He is dressed in a uniform of khaki and his socks are
green. Over his shoulder is slung a rifle, and
from his belt hang a pistol and cartridge pouch.
He is, I think, Malay and Chinese mixed.

Behind him the rocky islands, hazed in blue, the yellow
sun-drenched water, the tropic shore, pass as a
background in a dream.
He only is sweltering reality.
Yet he is here to guard against a nightmare, an
anachronism, something that I cannot grasp.
He is guarding me from pirates.

Piracy! The very name is fantastic in my ears, colored
like a toucan in the zoo.
And yet the ordinance is clear: "Four armed guards,
strong metal grills behind the bridge, the engine-room
enclosed--in case of piracy."

The socks of the sentry are green.
Up and down, up and down he paces, between the
bridge and the first of the life-boats.
In my deck chair I grow restless.

Am I then so far removed from life, so wrapped in
cotton wool, so deep-sunk in the soft lap of civilization,
that I cannot feel the cold splash of truth?
It is a disquieting thought--for certainly pir