the edge of
the town overlooking the valley while my mule was being saddled. Patches
of wheat and beans were scattered among fields of white-flowered poppy.
Coolies carrying double buckets of water were winding up the sinuous
path from the border of the garden where "a pebbled brook laughs upon
its way." Boys were shouting to frighten away the sparrows from the
newly-sown rice beds; while women were moving on their little feet among
the poppies, scoring anew the capsules and gathering the juice that had
exuded since yesterday. Down the road coolies were filing laden with
their heavy burdens--a long day's toil before them; rude carts were
lumbering past me drawn by oxen and jolting on wheels that were solid
but not circular. Then the mule was brought to me, and we went on
through an avenue of trees that were half hidden in showers of white
roses, by hedges of roses in full bloom and wayside flowers, daisies and
violets, dandelions and forget-me-nots, a pretty sight all fresh and
sparkling in the morning sun.

We went on in single file, my two coolies first with their light loads
that swung easily from their shoulders, then myself on the mule, and
last my stalwart attendant Laohwan with his superior dress, his huge sun
hat, his long pipe, and umbrella. A man of unusual endurance was
Laohwan. The day's journey done--he always arrived the freshest of the
party--he had to get ready my supper, make my bed, and look after my
mule. He was always the last to bed and the first to rise. Long before
daybreak he was about again, attending to the mule and preparing my
porridge and eggs for breakfast. He thought I liked my eggs hard, and
each morning construed my look of remonstrance into one of approbation.
It is very true of the Chinaman that precedent determines his action.
The first morning Laohwan boiled the eggs hard and I could not reprove
him. Afterwards of course he made a point of serving me the eggs every
morning in the same way. I could say in Chinese "I don't like them," but
the morning I said so Laohwan applied my dislike to the eggs not to
their condition of cooking, and saying in Chinese "good, good," he
obligingly ate them for me.

Leaving the valley we ascended the red incline to an open tableland,
where the soil is arid, and yields but a reluctant and scanty harvest.
Nothing obstructs the view, and you can see long distances over the
downs, which are bereft of all timber except an occasional clump of
pines that t