a woman to her finger-tips, and her fathers kneeling
attitude throws no shadow on her self-respect. Upstairs,
in the large living-room, with its bedsteads and mosquito
curtains, Mah Pan, the wife of the Saya, meets us, a
picture of what pretty girls in Burma come to ; fat
and round of face, with a calm eye and no illusions ;
dowager-like. There is no mystery in a Burmese house,
and the Saya welcoming me within, takes me beyond
this room into another, narrower but more cheerful,
in which he works at his art. A Burmese harp,
worked in with a graceful pattern in black and gold, is
on the stocks, and beyond it there is a karaweik bird,
glinting with fresh mosaic. The old man, stooping to
show respect, explains that the body of the harp is cut
from the padouk tree, and the curving bow of it from
the acacia catechu. The sounding board is of varnished
deer-skin, and the strings are of twisted silk. Tea-
tables for European customers, and manuscript boxes
illuminated with stories from the Zats; for use in the
monasteries, are amongst the objects upon which the
Saya lavishes his skill.
Beyond this simple atelier, there is a balcony decked
with roses and open to the blue sky. High above
it cluster the broad leaves of palm-trees, between whose
dark boles there is framed a beautiful picture— the red
roofs, and climbing spires, and great gold bulb of
the Shway San Daw pagoda. It is here that the
Saya, when he. is resting from his labours, pays his
devotions. It is a serene and beautiful oratory, in
which any man might pray.
THE BURMESE HARP