ful eye on me. What does
it matter if words are lacking, a laugh is understood, and will often
smooth a way where speech would bring confusion. Once, years ago in
Western Tibet, I crossed a high pass with just one coolie, in advance of
my caravan. Without warning we dropped down into a little village above
the Shyok. Most of the people had never before seen a European. I could
not talk with them nor they with my coolie,--for he came from the other
side of the range,--nor he with me. But I laughed, and every one else
laughed, and in five minutes I was sitting on the grass under the walnut
trees, offerings of flowers and mulberries on my lap, and while the
whole population sat around on stone walls and house roofs, the village
head man took off my shoes and rubbed my weary feet.

When I emerged from my retreat I found that a priest from the
neighbouring temple had come to beg a visit from me. It turned out to be
a Buddhist temple on the usual plan, noteworthy only for a rather good
figure of Buddha made of sun-dried clay and painted. The priest was
inclined to refuse a fee, saying he had done nothing, but he was keen to
have me take some pictures.

[Illustration: WU-TING-CHOU: TEMPLE GATEWAY]

[Illustration: WU-TING-CHOU: TEMPLE CORNER]

The next three days our path led us across the mountains separating the
Yangtse and Red River basins. We were now off the main roads; villages
and travellers were few. To my delight we had left for a time the paved
trails over which the pony scraped and slipped; the hard dirt made a
surer footing, and it was possible to let him out for a trot now and
then. The start and finish of the day were usually by winding narrow
paths carried along the strips of turf dividing the fields or over the
top of a stone wall. I learned to respect both the sure-footedness of
the Yunnan pony and the thrift of the Yunnan peasant who wasted no bit
of tillable land on roads. From time to time we crossed a stone bridge,
rarely of more than one arch, and that so pointed that the ponies on the
road, which followed closely the line of the arch, clambered up with
difficulty only to slide headlong on the other side. The bridges of
these parts are very picturesque, giving an added charm to the
landscape, in glaring contrast to the hideous, shed-like structures that
disfigure many a beautiful stream of New England.

Our way led alternately over barren or pine-clad hills, showing
everywhere signs of charcoal burner