d from the road
below. It is a place I always go to when I am in Rangoon; for, besides
its beauty, there are the people; and if you go and stand near where the
stairway reaches the platform you will see the people come up. They come
up singly, in twos, in groups. First a nun, perhaps, walking very
softly, clad in her white dress with her beads about her neck, and there
in a corner by a little shrine she will spread a cloth upon the hard
stones and kneel and bow her face to the great pagoda. Then she will
repeat, 'Sorrow, misery, trouble,' over and over again, running her
beads through her fingers, repeating the words in the hope that in the
end she may understand whither they should lead her. 'Sorrow, misery,
trouble'--ah! surely she must know what they mean, or she would not be a
nun. And then comes a young man, and after a reverence to the pagoda he
goes wandering round, looking for someone, maybe; and then comes an old
man with his son. They stop at the little stalls on the stairs, and they
have bought there each a candle. The old man has a plain taper, but the
little lad must have one with his emblem on it. Each day has its own
sign, a tiger for Monday, and so on, and the lad buys a candle like a
little rat, for his birthday is Friday, and the father and son go on to
the platform. There they kneel down side by side, the old man and the
little chubby lad, and they, too, say that all is misery and delusion.
Presently they rise and advance to the pagoda's golden base, and put
their candles thereon and light them. This side of the pagoda is in
shadow now, and so you can see the lights of the candles as little
stars.

And then come three girls, sisters, perhaps, all so prettily dressed,
with meek eyes, and they, too, buy candles; they, too, kneel and make
their devotions, for long, so long, that you wonder if anything has
happened, if there has been any trouble that has brought them thus in
the sunset to the remembrance of religion. But at last they rise, and
they light their little candles near by where the old man and the boy
have lit theirs, and then they go away. They are so sad, they keep their
faces so turned upon the ground, that you fear there has been something,
some trouble come upon them. You feel so sorry for them, you would like
to ask them what it all is; you would like to help them if you could.
But you can do nothing. They go away down the steps, and you hear the
nun repeating always, 'Sorrow, misery, tro