mes we were
crawling on all fours. Mostly we were flying just where the wind
listed. If a tree got in our way as we flew, so much the worse for
us. It is funny now, but it was not at the time! Seriously, I was
in immediate peril of being blown to glory _via_ the fierce green
foam below. My Colorado Irishman is not only a darling, but a
hero. Once I slipped, and stopped rolling only when some faithful
pines were too stubborn to let go.

I wag many feet below the reach of any arm. In a twinkling, my
friend had stripped the kimono off the baggage coolie's back, and
made a lasso with which he pulled me up. Then shocked to a
standstill by the shortcomings of the coolie's birthday suit, he
snatched off his coat and gave it to him, with a dollar. Such a
procession of bedraggled and exhausted pleasure-seekers as we were,
when three men stood behind our hotel door and opened it just wide
enough to haul us in. But hot baths and boiling tea revived us and
soon we were as merry as any people can be who have just escaped
annihilation.

The typhoon passed as suddenly as it came, and now the world--or at
least this part of it--is as glowing and beautiful as if freshly
tinted by the Master Hand.

A moment ago I looked up to see my rescuer gazing out of the
window. I asked, "How do you feel, Mr. Carson?" His voice trembled
when he answered: "Lady, I feel glorified, satisfied and nigh about
petrified. Look at that!"

Below lay Shoji, its shimmering waters rimmed with velvety green.
Every raindrop on the pines was a prism; the mountain a brocade of
blossom. To the right Fuji, the graceful, ever lovely Fuji;
capricious as a coquette and bewitching in her mystery, with a
thumbnail moon over her peak, like a silver tiara on the head of a
proud beauty; at her base the last fleecy clouds of the day,
gathered like worshipers at the feet of some holy saint.

The man's face shone. For forty years he had worked at
harness-making, always with the vision before him that some day he
might take this trip around the world. He has the soul of an
artist, which has been half starved in the narrow environment of
his small town life. Cannot you imagine the mad revel of his soul
in this pictureland?

He is going to Mukden. Of course I told him all about Jack's work.
The old fellow, he must be all of seventy, was thrilled. I am
going to give him a letter to Jack. Also to some friends in
Peking; they will be good to him. If anybod