THE VOICE OF BURMA.
The Irrawaddy also has its own peculiar noisesathe chatter, clang, and clamour of merry crowds and shifting cargoes, when steamers touch at river-side ports. Twice a week the mail boat passes the village monastery where you put up, hooting as she comes round the bend. The mail boat is a lady, and she doesnat even bow to such a dull little village as this. But she brings with her an atmosphere of civilization as she passes. By day the people on board look so sociable. By night the glow of her electric light, the clamour of her machinery, fills you with yearning out there, in the mud of the Irrawaddyas bank. Her beam of searchlight rests coldly upon you, as rude as the stare of a woman who cuts you. Then you are left blinking in the darkness. The swift throbs of her paddles approach, retire, and die away. Till next Thursday she is gone, and you feel rather lonely in your river-side village.
Then one day she carries you off. The village looks strangely attractive as you sweep by. How well you know every pagoda, every lion, every image ! There are new voices speaking nowathe hum of engines, so pleasant after long, solitary days of discomfort. The lascars call a ek bam do hath a as they cast the lead. So you relapse into board-ship laziness, which is all the sweeter for watching other people work.
The Burmese spread their mats upon the decks, and sit gossiping and smoking the whole day long. Snatches of their conversation come to you,a* Ho-din9 tThe Burmese spread their mats upon the decks, and sit gossiping and smoking the whole day long. Snatches of their conversation come to you,a * Ho-din9 t