s round from hand to hand, and the
smoke of the tobacco hangs a little.

Enter left, dancers and musicians slowly, with shuffling steps. The
quiet is broken by a note on a gong, struck softly, and there is an
almost inaudible flute melody on reeds, and liquid notes struck on empty
bamboos. These dusky figures are Kachin men, with red turbans, and
short, white, very loose kilts and bolero jackets. Some of the reflected
light from the sand shows their curious, serious, boyish faces. They are
short, but well-knit; they dance in a slow figure in a line, hand in
hand, the bare feet shuffling with a little sound in the dust. The music
is very faint, but you long to be able to remember the uncommon air that
seems to have caught the quiet of the hills, and the depths of the
bamboo woods.

These Kachin players are natives of the mountains here, and to the
north. They are being brought into order, and indeed, a number are
enlisting in the Military Police. Till recently, they were free, wild
mountaineers, doing a little farming and raiding and vendetta business.

They went off, and came back from the deep shadows of the trees with
glittering swords and more strident music, and louder beating on gongs,
and harsher notes on chanters, and a loud booming sound on a narrow,
six-foot-six drum with bell-shaped mouth; and the figures danced
quickly, going backwards, in circles, and breaking into groups, the
swords whirling and flickering beautifully in the moonlight, and the
audience clapped hands gently in time, and there was an occasional
heugh! as used to be the way in our Highland Reel, before the invention
of the--lowlander, the screaming "eightsome."

I wish I remembered more of the Pwe--how I wish I could see it over and
over again, till I could remember part of one of these quiet reedy
tunes, so that I could recall this scene and the charm of Burmah
whenever I pleased--for me, not even a scent, or colour, or form, can
recall past scenes so vividly as a few notes of an air, the rhythm of
some folk-song--a few minor notes, an Alla--Allah, and you breathe the
hot air of desert, and feel the monotony of black men, and sand, and
sun--Thrum--thrum--thrum, and you are in the soft, busy night, in Spain,
and again a few minor notes, strung together, perhaps, by Greig, in the
Saeter, and you feel the scent of the pines in the valley rising to the
snow--a concertina takes me back to warm golden sunsets in the dog
watches in the Doldrums!