* Over the Paung-Laung Hills
The first sound that fell upon my ears as I lay
abed came from a Shan caravan on its way from the
farther Salwin. The pack-bullocks passed one by one
in a long procession under my door, and it seemed
to me as I dozed that the air was laden with the music
of an' endless host of bells. I spent all the forenoon
in drying my things, and making preparations for rain
during future marches, and I could not but admire the
skill with which the Karens plied their heavy daks on
the bamboos, from great trunks which they felled
with ease to strips for thongs, which they peeled off
as thin as brown paper. There was neither pause
nor hesitation ; every stroke of the sharp weapon,
heavy enough to kill a man, reached its goal. Here
were artists at work, unconscious of their own grace
and skill, the product o f centuries of usage. Like all
perfect work it seemed very simple, till a native ot
India, from a country where bamboos are unknown, tried
his hand at cutting a few strips for the fire, and failed
completely.
At last the elephants were laden and started out
on their journey to Na-Khaw-Khe, and I waited another
hour to vive them time, for Leviathan is a slow mover. O fy
Sunlight and shadpw came and went, as I lay there
at peace in the wayside hut. Travellers at long intervals
passed by : Shan and Burman, Karen and
Coringhi ; most curious of all a half-caste in a sombrero,
the son of a British officer, a little man. with a fluent
manner, a dash of servility, more than a dash of covert
pride, and the gift of tongues. From a neighbouring
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