neven buildings. Unluckily, instead of stopping here we go across the
river and anchor at Yenangyaung, where there is a very strong smell of
something. "I know," Joyce declares, wrinkling up her smooth little
nose. "It's lamp oil."

She is right, it is petroleum; there are here wells of it, from which it
bursts up with great force sometimes, like a geyser.

If we had been on a tourist steamer we should have visited Pagahn, but
then we should have missed seeing much human life.

An evening later the captain comes up to say that there is a pwe, or
play, going on in the village near which we have anchored for the night,
and wouldn't we like to go to see it? This is a grand chance, because
Burmese pwes are very funny things indeed. The people have them at every
chance,--births, weddings, deaths, and festivals, none are ever complete
without a play!

We dine early, and, accompanied by the captain, set out afterwards, all
four of us, for the village. The moon is getting up but is not bright
yet, and we can see the trees standing up against a deep blue night sky,
with the big bright stars winking at us through the palm fronds. The
village street is deserted, and long before we reach the end of it where
the pwe is going on we hear an exciting clash of cymbals and bang of
drums which sets you and Joyce dancing.

At last, right in the roadway, between the thatched houses, we see a big
crowd, and coming up to it find every man, woman, child, and baby
belonging to the village seated on the ground or lying in front of a
small platform. The platform is simply a few loose boards standing on
some boxes, and when anyone walks across it the boards jump up and down.
In front are the footlights, a row of earthenware bowls filled with oil,
with a lighted wick floating in each one.

The Burman who is giving the pwe and has sent us the message about it
comes forward and leads us to the front courteously. He is a portly man
with a dress of rich silk so stiff it would stand by itself, and a large
fur cape, like those worn by coachmen in England, over his shoulders,
for the evenings are sharp. In following him through the crowd we find
great difficulty in avoiding stepping on arms and legs which seem to be
strewn haphazard on the bare earth, the owners being partly covered up
with mats or rugs. Most of the men are squatting gravely with
bath-towels over their shoulders--they make convenient wraps. Men and
women alike are smoking either hug