It is like a medieval city with its narrow,
ill-paved streets wandering aimlessly in a hopeless maze. They are usually
roofed over so that by no accident can a ray of purifying sun penetrate
their dark corners. With no ventilation whatsoever the oppressive air reeks
with the odors that rise from the streets and the steaming houses.

In Foochow, as in other cities of China, the narrow alleys are literally
choked with every form of industrial obstruction. Countless workmen plant
themselves in the tiny passageways with the pigs, children, and dogs, and
women bring their quilts to spread upon the stones. There is a common
saying that the Chinese do little which is not at some time done on the
street.

The foreign residents, including consuls of all nationalities,
missionaries, and merchants, live well out of the city on a hilltop. Their
houses are built with very high ceilings and bare interiors, and as the
occupants seldom go into the city except in a sedan chair and have
"punkahs" waving day and night, life is made possible during the intense
heat of summer.

A telegram was awaiting us from the Reverend Harry Caldwell, with whom we
were to hunt, asking us to come to his station two hundred miles up the
river, and we passed two sweltering days repacking our outfit while Mr.
Kellogg scoured the country for an English-speaking cook.

One middle-aged gentleman presented himself, but when he learned that we
were going "up country," he shook his head with an assumption of great
filial devotion and said that he did not think his mother would let him go.
Another was afraid the sun might be too hot. Finally on the eve of our
departure we engaged a stuttering Chinese who assured us that he was a
remarkable cook and exceptionally honest.

If you have never heard a Chinaman stutter you have something to live for,
and although we discovered that our cook was a shameless rascal he was
worth all he extracted in "squeeze," for whenever he attempted to utter a
word we became almost hysterical. He sounded exactly like a worn-out
phonograph record buzzing on a single note, and when he finally did manage
to articulate, his "pidgin" English in itself was screamingly funny.

One day he came to the _sampan_ proudly displaying a piece of beef and,
after a series of vocal gymnastics, eventually succeeded in shouting:
"Missie, this meat no belong die-cow. Die-cow not so handsome." Which meant
that this particular piece of beef was not from a