But the mute trail of the liner’s smoke tells of the
changing wind, the swing of the anchored ships of
the outgoing tide, and overhead, thè stars as they pass'
one by one into darkness speak of yet greater mysteries.
At the jetty stairs, under the shadow of the iron
bridge, the sampan-men wait for the chance passenger.
I hail one and pass swiftly into mid-stream, where the
liner, blazing with lights from prow to stern, flings her
ribbons of flame across the water. Overhead, the young
SAMPANS IN FÜ L L SA IL
moon now shines, at play with the drifting clouds. My
boatman steers in her silvej; track up the river, and
the scene that lies before me is one that Venice herself
cannot surpass. The myriad lights on the water rival
the twinkling firmament overhead; the river heaves
with the billows of passing ships ; great cargo boats
spread their black sails against the sky and bear down
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upon my frail craft like raiders of the night; laung-zats,
long and low in the water, sweep down with stately
sterns and the measured fall of oars, the bending
forms of the ;ivrr-«awtr>ritTn firw—r rowers o u t
■
lined against
the gloom; the
masts and rigging
of sailing-
Ships t r a c e TH E SAMPAN A T REST
their old-world fretwork against the crescent of the
moon; through all, my small bark speeds on her
way, gliding now between the prows of her sister
craft, now, with swift daring, circling the sterns and
anchor chains of the iron ships. One slip, a second’s
hesitation, the snapping of an oar, would suffice to
throw my boatman and me upon the mercy of the
waters; and the waters of the Rangoon river know
no mercy.
On the Dalla shore, where the steamers of the Old
Flotilla lie in dock, the painters and the caulkers are
at work, and their fires flame and quiver on the face
of the river. And beyond, where creeks lead up into
the heart of the Twante plain, rice-mills groan and
vibrate, and Chinese iron-smiths mould their red-hot
cauldrons. Strange worlds these of midnight life, into
which for the curious there is entry. I put my hand
into the water, and feel the derelicts of the mills, the
paddy-husks drifting in millions out to sea, and they
run and circle up my arm, and I know them though
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