^ In Mandalay
remains ; its units for ever change. Men and women come and go, passing right across the scene ; some rise to leave, while others stoop to pray ; each, unconscious of the rest, plays his part in the moving drama. Near me there is a woman with a tray laden with small flowers, which she holds up towards the
pool of the sacred turtle
shrine as she kneels. Her child of two, barely able to stand, clutches at her slender arms, and as the tray goes up, pours into it a cup-full of white petalsaher share ; and it is such a picture of artless devotion as no country in the world can rival.
The child is an exquisite being, pretty as all Burmese children are ; the mother has not yet lost the freshness of her youth. Her dark hair, coiled with