e flies and his hind
legs to clear off men. As for myself, I could have done with an iced
soda or a claret cup.

Very early in the morning, despite malaria shivers, I made my way over
the beautiful suspension bridge which here graces the Niu Lan,[X] a
tributary of the Yangtze, up to the high hills beyond.

This bridge at Kiang-ti is one hundred and fifty feet by twelve,
protected at one end by a couple of monkeys carved in stone, whilst the
opposite end is guarded by what are supposed to be, I believe, a couple
of lions--and not a bad representation of them either, seeing that the
workmen had no original near at hand to go by.

From here the ascent over a second range of mountains is made by
tortuous paths that wind along the sides of the hills high above the
stream below, and at other times along the river-bed. The river is
followed in a steep ascent, a sort of climbing terrace, from which the
water leaps in delightful cascades and waterfalls. A four-hour climb
brings one, after terrific labor, to the mouth of the picturesque pass
of Ya-ko-t'ang at 7,500 feet. In the quiet of the mountains I took my
midday meal; there was about the place an awe-inspiring stillness. It
was grand but lonely, weird rather than peaceful, so that one was glad
to descend again suddenly to the river, tracing it through long
stretches of plain and barren valley, after which narrow paths lead up
again to the small village of Yi-che-shin, considerably below
Ya-ko-t'ang. It is the sudden descents and ascents which astonish one in
traveling in this region, and whether climbing or dropping, one always
reaches a plain or upland which would delude one into believing that he
is almost at sea-level, were it not for the towering mountains that all
around keep one hemmed in in a silent stillness, and the rarefied air.
Yi-che-shin, for instance, standing at this altitude of considerably
over 6,000 feet, is in the center of a tableland, on which are numerous
villages, around which the fragrance of the broad bean in flower and the
splendid fertility now and again met with makes it extremely pleasant to
walk--it is almost a series of English cottage gardens. Here the weather
was like July in England--or what one likes to imagine July should be in
England--dumb, dreaming, hot, lazy, luxurious weather, in which one
should do as he pleases, and be pleased with what he does. As I toiled
along, my useless limb causing me each day more trouble, I felt I should