ttle kitchen and a stable. The
whole may have cost a thousand rupees. As my friend and the Burman
talked of their business I observed the furniture. There was very
little; three or four chairs, two tables and a big box were all I could
see. Inside, no doubt, were a few beds and more chairs. While we sat,
the wife and daughter came out and gave us cheroots, and I talked to
them in my very limited Burmese till my friend was ready. Then we went
away.

That contractor, so my friend told me as we went home, made probably a
profit of six or seven thousand rupees a year. He spent on himself about
a thousand of this; the rest went in charity. The great new monastery
school, with the marvellous carved facade, just to the south of the
town, was his, the new rest-house on the mountain road far up in the
hills was his. He supported many monks, he gave largely to the gilding
of the pagoda. If a theatrical company came that way, he subscribed
freely. Soon he thought he would retire from contracting altogether, for
he had enough to live on quietly for the rest of his life.

His action is no exception, but the rule. You will find that every
well-to-do man has built his pagoda or his monastery, and is called
'school-builder' or 'pagoda-builder.' These are the only titles the
Burman knows, and they always are given most scrupulously. The builder
of a bridge, a well, or a rest-house may also receive the title of
'well-builder,' and so on, but such titles are rarely used in common
speech. Even the builder of a long shed for water-jars may call himself
after it if he likes, but it is only big builders who receive any title
from their fellows. But the satisfaction to the man himself, the
knowledge that he has done a good deed, is much the same, I think.

A Burman's wants are very few, such wants as money can supply--a little
house, a sufficiency of plain food, a cotton dress for weekdays and a
silk one for holidays, and that is nearly all.

They are still a very young people. Many wants will come, perhaps, later
on, but just now their desires are easily satisfied.

The Burman does not care for a big house, for there are always the great
trees and the open spaces by the village. It is far pleasanter to sit
out of doors than indoors. He does not care for books. He has what is
better than many books--the life of his people all about him, and he has
the eyes to see it and the heart to understand it. He cares not to see
with other men's eyes