overtakes me, I pass a procession on the way. A small
lad swings manfully in front under a double burden of
flowers, which fall in masses and sprays of pink and
blue and yellow and white, and an old man follows
behind in white muslin robes, beating a little triangular
brass bell, and calling upon the people by the way to
contribute their cjuota of flowers for the service of the
pagoda. What could be more beautiful ?
CH A P T E R XIII
TO T H A Y E T M Y O
THE barrier of the hills facing Prome, which seem
strung in a single line, opens out on a nearer
view, and the main ridge is seen to recede a half-mile
into the background. The interspace is made up of
green glades and small streams, of fields of Indian corn,
solitary palmyras, and splendid mango and teak.
Red hamlets cluster about the edges of the river, and
a monastery spire cleaves the air. In the background,
the hilly slopes are covered with a maze of custard-
apple orchards. The natural features are of marked
beauty, and one reflects that in a civilised country this
favoured spot would bear a famous name.
After Po U Daung, the opposite hills on the east
take up the tale of beauty, and looking up-stream I
can see the river in a narrow gap between blue headlands.
Passing through this defile, we come to Kama,
with its white gryphons staring across the water.
Later, the spectacle presented on the eastern shore
is one of hill-slopes and grassy knolls of the liveliest
green, splendid trees in bloom, falling curtains of
creepers, river-grasses silver-tufted, and feathery bushes
of the wild plum. Through this tempting world the
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