w orchid between her golden
coloured cheek and jet black hair, another a Marechal Niel rose above
her forehead. There are old and young; Shans, Burmans, Chinese,
Kachins--the young Burmese beauties vastly set off by the various
northern tribes. Up the sand I see, for example, a group of three, an
old lady and two young things sitting under a pink parasol, each with
knees tucked up in a red purple and lemon yellow silk tamaine or tight
skirt. Imagine the soft rose light from the parasol over the white
jackets and silk and the sharp shadows on the sand. How graceful the
owner of the parasol was when she stood up! I think it was her duenna
who toppled off the edge of the gangway with one of the Chittagong crew
in the push to come aboard. The old lady's face puckered as she went
over, but she was out in a second, and came aboard with the jolly
crowd, smiling like the rest. The pretty girls drop their red and blue
velvet sandals with a clatter on to our iron deck when they come up the
gangway, shuffle their toes into them and waddle off to the stalls with
an air. No--waddle is not the word, its a little body twist rather like
that of our French cousins, and their frank look is Spanish, but with
less langour and a little more lift in it for fun! Leaving all this
grace and colour behind, we marched away with a gun and two men, a
native and a Burman, which surely proves the vandalism of our
upbringing.

But I may have scored by not staying and painting, granted I may never
forget the charm of the mid-day stillness behind the village, and the
walk through half jungle, half cultivated country with everything asleep
in the quiet and warmth, and never a chance of game unless I trod on it.
Through the village palms and trees I came on a lakelet with short grass
and tall white briar rose bushes round its edge. It was almost covered
with a water plant with leaves like a strawberry, which made a dull rose
tracery across the reflected blue sky. There were three white ibis,
distant dark blue hills and trees, and jungle grass and their
reflections; a cormorant and sea swallow were fishing, and a little
pagoda, with gleaming golden Hti hung its reflection in the mirror. It
was so still and the air so sweet that I felt perfectly happy with never
a thing to fire at but an occasional dove, or curiously coloured
lapwing. The only thing I actually did fire at was a swagger bluebird
whose plumage I did covet. It let me have five shots, at from s