The Silken East v
rustling, wind-blown savannahs, set with noble trees, park-like, and of a light emerald-green. Here I come to dark forest, and white stems ; forest to the outer bulwarks, overhanging the very lips of the river. All that I can fancy of American rivers in the north is here depicted. There is no whisper of the East. The change is opportune, for it reminds me that I have passed out of the tropics, and am now within the
Temperate Zone aa comforting reflection, when one lives very near the Equator.
Sein Kan, with its orange orchards and the red spires of its monastery, waits at the turning of the river, and its next curve, a quick, short loop, brings us up to Kawya. For a long while past the wooded banks of the river have talked of pines, and here the likeness may be recorded. Straight grey trunks of the silver hue and the nude beauty of the longifolia, gnarled and twisted arms, and light summit foliage, make these trees look like twin brothers of the pines, and one is grateful for the suggestion. Also, when the red light of evening flames on their bare trunks and arms, and the sky is cut into patterns by their fantasies, it is difficult to resist the illusion.