+ Over the Paung-Laung Hills
placidly from English pipes, unashamed and unconscious of the terrors of the law detailed in the document over their heads.
About noon I came to the river of May-wine, my resting-place being just beyond it. The indigenous
THE BAMBOO AISLES OF THE FOREST
traveller is not for a moment stayed by such an obstacle. His loose trousers swing up with the facility of a stage-curtain, and his tattooed limbs descend into the water. Even as I arrived, a party in this guise, with packs across their shoulders, and oiled-silk hats flapping in the sun, was fording the stream. It is another