the oriental
mind are not our shifts and turns, so I finally gave up trying to find
out, and went to bed, telling the fu t'ou he must have something ready
in the morning, only if its back was sore I would not take it. But
morning came and no pony. I was told it was waiting for me outside the
town, and there it was, sure enough. Ordering off saddle and blanket I
inspected its back to make certain that all was right, as it was. But
the strange ma-fu seemed quite overcome with consternation at the sight
of me, while the fu t'ou collapsed on a stone wall near by, doubled up
with laughter. At last an explanation was made. When the fu t'ou tried
to get a pony for me from the pony hong he was met by a refusal. No
foreigner should ride one of their horses; they had let one to a foreign
gentleman not long before, and he had abused it and gone so fast that
the ma-fu could not keep up, and nearly lost the pony; nor were they to
be moved. Anyway, the fu t'ou told them, he must have one himself. When
it was brought to the inn at dawn he mounted and rode outside the town.
There, finding he had forgotten something,--me,--he went back for it,
while pony and ma-fu waited. In true Chinese fashion the ma-fu accepted
the inevitable and walked quietly at my side, but he had an anxious
expression at first, as though he expected me at any moment to whip up
my steed and vanish. I am not wise in horseflesh, but at least I try to
be merciful to my beasts. When I got off, as I did now and then, to save
the horse over a particularly bad place, the man began to cheer up, and
finally when, according to my custom, I took the pony outside the
village to graze a bit while the men had their breakfast,--a very
unsuitable proceeding, I was later told,--his surprise broke forth.
"What sort of a foreign woman was this?" At noon I sent the pony back,
paying for the half day one hundred and forty cash, about seven cents
gold.

Just before reaching Cheung-chou, where we were to spend the night, we
crossed the Nan Ho by a fine stone bridge of fifteen arches. The Nan is
one of the lesser waterways of West China connecting this corner of
Szechuan with the Great River, and many cumbersome boats laden with
produce were slipping down with the rapid current on their way
eastwards.

I entered the gate of the town with some doubt as to my reception. Baron
von Richthofen, who passed through here a generation ago, wrote of the
place: "All the men are armed with long k