^ In Mandalay
history of his life. Look at it, for here is something that is inexpressibly sad, inexpressibly patient and resigned. Pride, fire, vivacity, hope, all have left it. Yet this man lives on.
Here, before a stall of twists of silk, a blaze of the richest colours, lies a comely girl, full-hipped, asleep. Here, a flower-stall distils its fragrance, the gloom of the passage lit with the pink and purple glory of its lotuses, the wax-white sprays of its tuberoses, and the starry masses of its jasmines, plucked in some garden
the workshops of the buddha sculptors, aracan pagoda
in the early dawn. A blind fiddler plays in a distant sunlit alcove, supported by his wife on the mellow puttala. A great crowd for ever surges by ; a crowd of monks and nuns, little children and white-filleted