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FUNDAMENTALS

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SOLUTION MANUAL
SI UNIT PROBLEMS
CHAPTER 2

CONTENT

SUBSECTION PROB NO.

Correspondence table
Concept-Study Guide Problems 1-22
Properties and Units 23-26
Force and Energy 27-37
Specific Volume 38-43
Pressure 44-57
Manometers and Barometers 58-76
Temperature 77-80
Review Problems 81-86

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 Sonntag, Borgnakke and van Wylen

Correspondence table
CHAPTER 2 6th edition Sonntag/Borgnakke/Wylen

The correspondence between the problem set in this sixth edition versus the
problem set in the 5'th edition text. Problems that are new are marked new and
those that are only slightly altered are marked as modified (mod).

Study guide problems 2.1-2.22 and 2.23-2.26 are all new problems.

New 5th Ed. New 5th Ed. New 5th Ed.

27 1 47 new 67 24
28 new 48 16 68 new
29 2 49 17 69 new
30 new 50 new 70 23
31 3 51 new 71 new
32 new 52 19 72 30
33 5 53 new 73 32
34 6 54 34 74 33
35 7 55 29 75 new
36 9 56 new 76 37
37 10 57 28 mod 77 27
38 12 58 new 78 new
39 new 59 20 79 38
40 new 60 26 80 new
41 new 61 new 81 31
42 11 62 21 82 new
43 13 63 new 83 22
44 new 64 new 84 35
45 18 65 15 85 36
46 14 66 new 86 new

English Unit Problems

New 5th Ed. SI New 5th Ed. SI
87 new - 97 43E 43
88 new 11 98 new 50
89 new 12 99 new 53
90 new 19 100 45E 70
91 new 20 101 46E 45
92 new 24 102 new 82
93 39E 33 103 48E 55
94 40E - 104 new 80
95 new 47 105 47E 77
96 42E 42
Design and Open ended problems 106-116 are from 5th edition problems 2.50-
2.60

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 Sonntag, Borgnakke and van Wylen

Concept-Study Guide Problems

2.1
Make a control volume around the turbine in the steam power plant in Fig. 1.1 and
list the flows of mass and energy that are there.

Solution:
We see hot high pressure steam flowing in 1
at state 1 from the steam drum through a
flow control (not shown). The steam leaves
at a lower pressure to the condenser (heat WT
exchanger) at state 2. A rotating shaft gives
a rate of energy (power) to the electric
generator set. 2

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 Sonntag, Borgnakke and van Wylen

2.2
Make a control volume around the whole power plant in Figure 1.2 and with the help
of Fig. 1.1 list what flows of mass and energy are in or out and any storage of
energy. Make sure you know what is inside and what is outside your chosen C.V.

Solution:
Smoke
Boiler
building stack

Coal conveyor system Storage

gypsum
cb Coal
storage
flue
gas
Turbine house
Dock

Combustion air Flue gas

Underground Welectrical
power cable m Storage for later
transport out: m
District heating
Gypsum, fly ash, slag Coal
Cold return m
Hot water m
m

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 Sonntag, Borgnakke and van Wylen

2.3
Make a control volume that includes the steam flow around in the main turbine loop
in the nuclear propulsion system in Fig.1.3. Identify mass flows (hot or cold) and
energy transfers that enter or leave the C.V.

Solution:

1 Hot steam from generator 1 The electrical power

also leaves the C.V.
Electric to be used for lights,
power gen. WT
instruments and to
cb charge the batteries.
Welectrical
3
2
5 4
Condensate
to steam gen.
cold 7
6
Cooling by seawater

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 Sonntag, Borgnakke and van Wylen

2.4
Take a control volume around your kitchen refrigerator and indicate where the
components shown in Figure 1.6 are located and show all flows of energy transfer.

Solution:

.
The valve and the Q leak Q The black grille in
cold line, the the back or at the
evaporator, is bottom is the
inside close to the condenser that
inside wall and gives heat to the
usually a small room air.
blower distributes
cold air from the . The compressor
W
freezer box to the sits at the bottom.
refrigerator room.
cb

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 Sonntag, Borgnakke and van Wylen

2.5
An electric dip heater is put into a cup of water and heats it from 20oC to 80oC.
Show the energy flow(s) and storage and explain what changes.

Solution:

Electric power is converted in the heater Welectric

element (an electric resistor) so it becomes
hot and gives energy by heat transfer to
the water. The water heats up and thus
stores energy and as it is warmer than the C B
cup material it heats the cup which also
stores some energy. The cup being
warmer than the air gives a smaller
amount of energy (a rate) to the air as a Q loss
heat loss.

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 Sonntag, Borgnakke and van Wylen

2.6
Separate the list P, F, V, v, ρ, T, a, m, L, t and V into intensive, extensive and non-
properties.

Solution:

Intensive properties are independent upon mass: P, v, ρ, T

Extensive properties scales with mass: V, m
Non-properties: F, a, L, t, V

Comment: You could claim that acceleration a and velocity V are physical
properties for the dynamic motion of the mass, but not thermal properties.

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 Sonntag, Borgnakke and van Wylen

2.7
An escalator brings four people of total 300 kg, 25 m up in a building. Explain what
happens with respect to energy transfer and stored energy.

Solution:

The four people (300 kg) have their

potential energy raised, which is how
the energy is stored. The energy is
supplied as electrical power to the
motor that pulls the escalator with a
cable.

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 Sonntag, Borgnakke and van Wylen

2.8
Water in nature exist in different phases like solid, liquid and vapor (gas). Indicate
the relative magnitude of density and specific volume for the three phases.

Solution:

Values are indicated in Figure 2.7 as density for common substances. More
accurate values are found in Tables A.3, A.4 and A.5

Water as solid (ice) has density of around 900 kg/m3

Water as liquid has density of around 1000 kg/m3
Water as vapor has density of around 1 kg/m3 (sensitive to P and T)

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 Sonntag, Borgnakke and van Wylen

2.9
Is density a unique measure of mass distribution in a volume? Does it vary? If so, on
what kind of scale (distance)?

Solution:

Density is an average of mass per unit volume and we sense if it is not evenly
distributed by holding a mass that is more heavy in one side than the other.
Through the volume of the same substance (say air in a room) density varies only
little from one location to another on scales of meter, cm or mm. If the volume
you look at has different substances (air and the furniture in the room) then it can
change abruptly as you look at a small volume of air next to a volume of
hardwood.

Finally if we look at very small scales on the order of the size of atoms the density
can vary infinitely, since the mass (electrons, neutrons and positrons) occupy very
little volume relative to all the empty space between them.

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 Sonntag, Borgnakke and van Wylen

2.10
Density of fibers, rock wool insulation, foams and cotton is fairly low. Why is that?

Solution:

All these materials consists of some solid substance and mainly air or other gas.
The volume of fibers (clothes) and rockwool that is solid substance is low
relative to the total volume that includes air. The overall density is
m msolid + mair
ρ=V= V
solid + Vair
where most of the mass is the solid and most of the volume is air. If you talk
about the density of the solid only, it is high.

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 Sonntag, Borgnakke and van Wylen

2.11
How much mass is there approximately in 1 L of mercury (Hg)? Atmospheric air?

Solution:

A volume of 1 L equals 0.001 m3, see Table A.1. From Figure 2.7 the density is
in the range of 10 000 kg/m3 so we get

m = ρV = 10 000 kg/m3 × 0.001 m3 = 10 kg

A more accurate value from Table A.4 is ρ = 13 580 kg/m3.

For the air we see in Figure 2.7 that density is about 1 kg/m3 so we get

m = ρV = 1 kg/m3 × 0.001 m3 = 0.001 kg

A more accurate value from Table A.5 is ρ = 1.17 kg/m3 at 100 kPa, 25oC.

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 Sonntag, Borgnakke and van Wylen

2.12
Can you carry 1 m3 of liquid water?

Solution:

The density of liquid water is about 1000 kg/m3 from Figure 2.7, see also Table
A.3. Therefore the mass in one cubic meter is
m = ρV = 1000 kg/m3 × 1 m3 = 1000 kg

and we can not carry that in the standard gravitational field.

2.13
A manometer shows a pressure difference of 1 m of liquid mercury. Find ∆P in kPa.

Solution:

Hg : L = 1 m; ρ = 13 580 kg/m3 from Table A.4 (or read Fig 2.7)

The pressure difference ∆P balances the column of height L so from Eq.2.2
∆P = ρ g L = 13 580 kg/m3 × 9.80665 m/s2 × 1.0 m × 10-3 kPa/Pa
= 133.2 kPa

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Other documents randomly have
different content
everything, there came along an old man riding a donkey and asked
her the way to the Hunting Palace of the Manchus that was
somewhere among these hills and valleys. He had lost his way, he
said, and wanted to get back there. The girl looked at him with
mournful eyes and shook her head without saying a word.
“What is your name?” cried the old man.
She turned away silently.
“I must find my way,” he added, and she took up a stick and
gathered her ducks together.
“But I am the Emperor,” said he, “and I must get back. What
manner of girl are you who will not speak to the Emperor?”
And she looked at him more gravely than ever out of her dark
eyes, and drove off her ducks, taking no more notice of the greatest
ruler in the world than if he had been a common coolie. So the
Emperor found his own way to his Hunting Palace, and that night he
dreamed a dream, a vivid dream, that an ancestor had come to him
and told him he must marry a strange and mysterious woman.
But the women who came to the ruler of the earth were not
strange and mysterious, they were ordinary and commonplace even
though he had his choice of the women of his Empire. He brooded
over the matter and came to the conclusion that the strange and
mysterious woman must be the girl he had met herding ducks in the
dusk of the evening. Then he sent out to the part of the country
where he had wandered that night and demanded the daughters of
the farmer.
The good man was highly honoured and dressed his girls in their
finest clothes to appear before their Emperor, but, and they must
have been bitterly disappointed, though they were pretty girls, there
was nothing strange about them, they were as ordinary as all the
other women who occupied, the women's quarters. He had seen
many, many, like them. Again he sent back to the farm and they said
there were no other women there but the girl who herded the ducks,
and it could not be she because she spoke to no one.
 “That,” said the Emperor, “is the girl,” and he ordered her to be
properly arrayed and brought before him at once.
Alas for the glamour that comes with the dusk of the evening. The
girl had grown up without any comeliness and when she was
brought before the Emperor he turned away disgusted.
Nevertheless, for his dream's sake, he married her and gave her a
fine house to live in, but he had nothing to do with her, she was his
wife only in name.
And the duck-herd girl, come to high estate, pined because she
did not find favour in the sight of her lord, she never ceased to pray
for his smiles, and at last she so worked upon him that one night he
did send for her. She was his wife, her shame had gone from her.
And presently, it was rumoured that the duck-herd girl was to
become a mother. But the Emperor was angry, he could not believe
the child was his, and he turned Her out to wander, desolate and
forlorn, upon the hills. At first she despaired, but presently she took
courage, had she not been raised from a duck-herd to an Emperor's
wife, and was she not to bear his son, and by her faith in herself she
persuaded some shepherds who tended their sheep upon the other
side of the valley from the wall that surrounded the Emperor's
pleasure-grounds to take her in, and here her son was born.
 And that night the Emperor dreamed another dream. He dreamed
that a most illustrious son had been born to him that very night. He
sent to make inquiries and the only one of his wives or concubines
who had borne a son that night, was the woman he had driven from
him with contumely. So he took her back with honour, and his dream
—both his dreams were fulfilled, for the son that was born to him
that night among the hills was the illustrious Ch'ien Lung, the man
who at eighty-three still sat upon the Dragon Throne when George
III. of England sent Lord Macartney on an embassy to China in
1793.
 And Ch'ien Lung was a good son to his mother at least, and
because she was a pious woman, and he was born amidst those
sheltering hills, he built there a series of temples to the glory of God
and for her pleasure.
I was bound to go and see those temples, indeed I think the man
or woman who went to Jehol and did not make a point of going up
that valley must lack something.
The drawback for me was that I had to go in a Peking cart, and
even though those temples were built by an Emperor I had no
reason to suppose that the road that led to them was any better
than the ordinary Chinese roads. It wasn't, but I don't know that it
was worse. Tuan engaged the old white mule of venerable years,
and I think that was an advantage, he went so slowly that often I
was able to walk. I did not propose to visit all of them, there is a
family likeness between all Chinese temples, whatever be the name
of the deity to whom they are dedicated, and seeing too many I
should miss the beauty of all.
It was a gorgeous June morning the day I set out, sitting as far
forward as I could in the cart with Tuan on the tail of the shaft and
the carter walking at the mule's head. All round one side of Cheng
Teh Fu is built up a high wall that the Chinese call a breakwater, and
a breakwater I believe it is indeed after the summer rains, though
then, the Jehol River ran just a shallow trickle at its foot. There were
many little vegetable gardens along here, the ground most carefully
cultivated and showing not a weed, not a stray blade of grass. “The
garden of every peasant contained a well for watering it,” writes Sir
George Staunton in 1793, “and the buckets for drawing up the water
were made of ozier twigs wattled or plaited, of so close a texture as
to hold any fluid.” He might have been writing of the peasants of
today. As I passed, with those selfsame buckets were they watering
their gardens.
The people were streaming out of the town, most of them on foot,
but there were a few fat men and small-footed women on donkeys,
and one or two of the richer people, I noticed by the women's
dresses they were mostly Manchus, had blossomed out into Peking
carts. For there was a fair at one of the temples, a very minor
temple; and a fair in China seems to be much what it used to be in
England, say one hundred, or one hundred and fifty years ago. It
attracts all the country people for miles round. Here they were all
clad in blue, save the lamas, who were in bright yellow and dingy
red. There were the people who came to worship, followed by the
people who came to trade, who must make money out of them, men
buying, selling, begging, men and women clad in neat blue cotton,
and in the dingiest, dirtiest rags, men gathering the droppings of the
mules and donkeys, and—how it made me think of the historical
novels I used to love to read in the days when novels fascinated me
—gentlemen with hooded hawks upon their wrists. All of them
wended their way along this road, this beautiful road, this very, very
bad road, and I went along with them, the woman who was not a
missionary, who was travelling by herself, and who, consequently,
was an object of interest to all, far outrivalling the fair, in attraction.
It was a scene peculiarly Chinese, and it will be many a long year
before I forget it.
On the left-hand side rose a steep ridge well wooded for China,
and on the very top of the ridge ran the encircling wall that shut out
all but the favoured few from the pleasure-grounds of the Manchu
Sovereigns. Six weeks before, up among these mountains of Inner
Mongolia, all the trees were leafless, and on this day in June the
leaves of the poplars and aspens, acacias and oaks still retained the
delicate, dainty green of early spring, and on the right were the
steep, precipitous cliffs overlooking the town. One of these cliffs
goes by the sinister name of the “Suicide's Rock.” The Chinese,
though we Westerners are accustomed to regard them as impassive,
are at bottom an emotional people. They quarrel violently at times,
and one way of getting even with an enemy or a man who has
wronged them is to dare him to go over the “Suicide's Rock.” To my
Western notions it is not quite clear how the offender is scored off,
for the challenger must be prepared to accompany the challenged
on his dreadful leap. Yet they do it. Three times in the six years the
missionaries have been here have a couple gone over the cliff, to be
dashed to pieces on the rocks below.
But that sinister cliff was soon passed, and turning a little with the
wall we went up a valley, and up that valley for perhaps eight miles,
embosomed among the folds of the hills, hills for the most part
steep, rounded, and treeless, are the temples, red, and gold, and
white, against the green or brown of the hills.
To the glory of God! Surely. Surely. An ideal place for temples
whoever placed them there, artist or Emperor, holy man, or grateful
son.
“Idols. Idols,” say the missionaries at Jehol sadly, those good,
kindly folk, whose life seemed to me an apology for living, a
dedication of their whole existence to the austere Deity they have
set up. But here I was among other gods.
“We go last first,” said Tuan, and I approved. There would be no
fear of my missing something I particularly wanted to see if they
were all on my homeward path.
“B-rrr! B-rrr! B-rrr!” cried my “cartee man” encouraging his old
mule, and as we went along the road, up the valley, and everywhere
in this treeless land, the temples were embowered in groves of
trees, sometimes fir-trees, sometimes acacia or white poplar, and
always on the road we passed the blue-clad people, and out of the
carts peeped the Manchu ladies with highly painted faces and
flower-decked hair, till at last we came to a halt under a couple of
leafy acacia-trees, by a bridge that had once been planned on noble
lines. And bridges are needed here, for the missionaries told me that
a very little rain will put this road, that is axle-deep in dust, five feet
under water. But the bridge was broken, the stones of the parapet
were lying flat on one side; the stones that led up to it were gone
altogether. And as the bridge that led up to it so was the temple.
 Tuan, with some difficulty, made me understand it was the Temple
of the five hundred and eight Buddhas, and as I went in, attended
by a priest in the last stages of dirt and shabbiness, I saw rows upon
rows of seated Buddhas greater than life-size, covered with gold leaf
that shone out bright in the semi-darkness, with shaven heads and
faces, sad and impassive, gay, and laughing, and frowning. Dead
gods surely, for the roof is falling in, the hangings are tatters, and
the dust of years lies thick on floor, on walls, on the Buddhas
themselves. There was a pot of sand before one golden figure rather
larger than the rest, and I burned incense there, bowing myself in
the House of Rimmon, because I do not think that incense is often
burned now before the dead god.
They are all dead these gods in the temples builded by a pious
Emperor for his pious mother. The next I visited was a lamaserie,
built in imitation of the Po-Ta-La in Lhasa. It climbs up the steep hill-
side, story after story, with here and there on the various stages a
pine-tree, and the wind whispers among its boughs that the
Emperor who built and adorned it is long since dead, the very
dynasty has passed away, and the gods are forgotten. Forgotten
indeed. I got out of my cart at the bottom of the hill, and the gate
opened to me, because the General had sent to say that one day
that week a foreign woman was coming and she must have all
attention, else I judge I might have waited in vain outside those
doors. Inside is rather a gorgeous p'ia lou, flanked on either side by
a couple of elephants. I cannot think the man who sculptured them
could ever have seen an elephant, he must have done it from
description, but he has contrived to put on those beasts such a very
supercilious expression it made me smile just to look at them.
From that p'ia lou the monastery rises. Never in my life before
have I seen such an effect of sheer steep high walls. I suppose it
must be Tibetan, for it is not Chinese as I know the Chinese. Stage
after stage it rose up, showing blank walls that once were pinkish
red, with square places like windows, but they were not windows,
they were evidently put there to catch the eye and deepen the effect
of steepness. Stage after stage I climbed up steep and narrow steps
that were closed alongside the wall, and Tuan, according to Chinese
custom, supported my elbow, as if it were hardly likely I should be
capable of taking another step. Also, according to his custom, he
had engaged a ragged follower to carry my camera, and a half-
naked little boy to bear the burden of the umbrella. I don't suppose I
should have said anything under any circumstances, China had
taught me my limitations where my servants were concerned, but
that day I was glad of his aid, for this Tibetan temple meant to me
steep climbing. I have no use for stairs. Stage after stage we went,
and on each platform the view became wider, far down the valley I
could see, and the hills rose range after range, softly rounded,
rugged, fantastic, till they faded away in the far blue distance. I had
thought the Nine Dragon Temple wonderful, but now I knew that
those men of the Ming era who had built it had never dreamed of
the glories of these mountains of Inner Mongolia. I was weary
before I came to the last pine-tree, but still there was a great
walled, flat-topped building towering far above me, its walls the
faded pinkish red, on the edge of its far-away roof a gleam of gold.
The steps were so narrow, so steep, and so rugged, that if I had
not been sure that never in my life should I come there again I
should have declined to go up them, but I did go up, and at the top
we came to a door, a door in the high blind wall that admitted us to
a great courtyard with high walls towering all round it and a temple,
one of the many temples in this building, in the centre. The temple
was crowded with all manner of beautiful things, vases of
cloisonné, figures overlaid with gold leaf, hangings of cut silk, the
chair of the Dalai Lama in gold and carved lacquer-work, the mule-
saddle used by the Emperor Ch'ien Lung, lanterns, incense burners,
shrines, all heaped together in what seemed to me the wildest
confusion, and everything was more than touched with the finger of
decay. All the rich, red lacquer was perished, much of the china and
earthenware was broken, the hangings were rotted and torn and
ragged, the paint was peeling from stonework and wood, the copper
and brass was green with rust. Ichabod! Ichabod! The gods are
dead, the great Emperor is but a name.
It was oppressive in there too, for the blank walls towered up four
sides square, the bright blue sky was above and the sun was shining
beyond, but the mountain breezes for at least one hundred and fifty
years have not been able to get in here, and it was hot, close, and
airless. Once there were more steps that led up to the very top of
the wall, but they are broken and dangerous now, crumbling to ruin,
and as far as I could make out from Tuan's imperfect English no one
has been up them for many a long day. There was nothing to be
done but to go away from this airless temple and make my way
down, down to the platform where are its foundations, and thence
down, down, by the little plateaux where the pine-trees grow, by the
rough and broken paths to the floor of the valley again.
Sightseeing always wearies me. I want to see these places, I want
to know what they are like, I want to be in a position to talk about
them to people who have also been there—they are the people who
are most interested in one's doings—but the actual doing of the
sightseeing I always find burdensome. Now having done so much I
was tempted to go back and say I had had enough, for the time
being, at any rate, but then I remembered I could not indefinitely
trespass upon the kindness of my hosts, I must go soon, and I
should never, never come back to this valley. Still I was desperately
tired and sorely tempted to give up, and then I remembered the two
frogs who fell into a pitcher of milk. I don't think Aesop told the
story, but he ought to have done so. They swam round and round
hopelessly, for there was no possibility of getting out, and one said
to the other, “It's no good, we may as well give in. It'll save trouble
in the end,” and he curled up his legs and sank to the bottom of the
milk and was drowned. But the other frog was made of sterner stuff.
“I think I'll just hustle round a bit,” said he, needless to say he was
an American frog, “who knows what may happen.” So he swam
round and round, and sure enough when they looked into that
pitcher in the morning there he was sitting on a little pat of butter!
 I thought of that frog as I sat at the door of the next temple we
drove up to, and I, weary and tired and a little cross, had to wait
some time, for the priest who had the keys was not there. Of course
I had sent no word that I was coming and it was unreasonable of
me to expect that the priest should wait from dawn till dark for my
arrival. With me waited a little crowd of people, men, women, and
children, that gradually grew in numbers, and when the custodian at
last arrived it was evident they all intended to take advantage of my
presence and go in and see the temple too. I had not the least
objection, neither, it seemed, had the priest. They were holiday-
makers from the fair, and they probably gave him some small trifle.
Tuan decided that we should give eighty cents, roughly about one
and eightpence, or forty cents American money. And glad indeed
was I that I had waited. Not that the temple differed much inside
the courtyard and the sanctuary from the other temples I have seen,
all was the same ruin and desolation, only after I had climbed up
many steps, roughly made of stones and earth, we came upon a
platform from which the roof was visible. The Emperor's Palace, they
call this, or the Bright-roofed Temple, and truly it is well-named. Its
roof, with dragons running up all four corners, is of bronze covered
with gold, and gleams and glitters in the sunshine. Solomon's
Temple, in all its glory, could not have been more wonderful, and as
I tried to photograph it, though no photograph can give any idea of
its beauty, some girls, Manchu by their head-dresses, with flowers in
their hair, giggled and pointed, and evidently discussed me. I
thought they would come in well—a contrast to that gorgeous roof,
but a well-dressed Chinese—not in foreign clothes, I imagine the
General's secretary is the only man up among these hills who could
indulge in such luxuries, drove them away and then came and
apologised, through Tuan, for their behaviour. I said, truly enough,
that I did not mind in the least, but he said, as far as I. could make
out, that their behaviour was unpardonable, so I am afraid they
hadn't admired me, which was unkind, considering I had taken them
in.
The next temple, a mass of golden brown and green tiled roofs,
looked loveliest of all in its setting, against the hill-side. The roofs,
broken and irregular, peeped out from among the firs and pines, and
there was a soft melody in the air as we approached, for a wind, a
gentle wind had arisen, and every bell hanging at the corners of the
many roofs was chiming musically. I do not know any sweeter sound
than the sound of those temple bells as the evening falls. This was
an extensive place of many courtyards, climbing up the hill like the
lamaserie, the Ta Fo Hu they call it or “Great Buddha Temple,” for in
one of the temples, swept and garnished better than any temples I
had seen before, was a colossal figure seventy feet high with many
arms outstretched and an eye in the palm of every hand. It is surely
a very debased Buddhism, but I see the symbolism, the hand which
bestows and the eye which sees all things. But for all the beauty of
the symbolism it was ugly, as all the manifestations of the Deity, as
conceived by man, are apt to be. The stone flooring was swept, but
the gold is falling from the central figure, the lacquer is perished, the
hangings are torn and dust-laden beyond description, and the only
things of any beauty are walls which are covered with little niches in
which are seated tiny golden Buddhas, hundreds of them. I wanted
to buy one but the priests shook their heads, and it would have been
a shame to despoil the temple. Even if they had said, “Yes,” I don't
know that I would have taken it.
There were many priests here, shaven-headed old men and tiny
children in brilliant yellow and purplish red, but they were all as
shabby and poverty-stricken as the temple itself. I had tea on one of
the many platforms overlooking many roofs, and a young monk
made me a seat from the broken yellow tiles that lay on the ground,
and the little boy priests looked so eagerly at the cakes I had
brought with me—the priests gave me tea—that I gave some to
them and they gobbled them up like small boys all the world over.
Tuan pointed out to me some dark steps in the wall. If I went up
there I should reach the Great Buddha's head; but I shook my head,
not even the recollection of the frog who gave up so easily could
have made me climb those steps. I am not even sorry now that I
didn't.
I was very tired by this time, and very thankful that there was only
one more temple to see. There were really eight in all, but I was
suffering from a surfeit of temples, only I could not miss this one, for
every day when I went for a walk I could see its glorious golden
brown tiled roof amid the dark green of the surrounding mountain
pines. It was unlike any Chinese roof I have seen, but it is one of the
temples of this valley. It is the Yuan T'ing, a temple built by Ch'ien
Lung, not for his mother but for a Tibetan wife, after the style of her
country, that she might not feel so lonely in a strange land.
Its pinkish red arched walls and gateways seemed quite close, but
it was exceedingly difficult to get at, particularly for a tired woman
who, when she was not jolting in a Peking cart, had been climbing
up more steps than even now she cares to think about. And the
temple, save for that roof, was much like every other temple, a place
of paved courtyards with the grass and weeds growing up among
the stones, and grass and even young pine-trees growing on the
tiled roofs. The altars were shabby and decayed, and when I climbed
up till I was right under the domed roof—and it was a steep climb—
more than once I was tempted to turn back and take it as read, as
they do long reports at meetings. I found the round chamber was
the roosting-place of many pigeons, all the lacquer was perished,
the bronze rusted, and though the attendant opened many doors
with many keys, I know that the place is seldom visited, and but for
that vivid roof, it must be forgotten.
 And yet the people like to look at these things. There was not a
crowd following me as there was at the Bright-roofed Temple, but
there was still the ragged-looking coolie who was carrying my
camera. I suspected him of every filthy disease known in China, and
their name must be legion, any that had by chance escaped him I
thought might have found asylum with the boy who bore my
umbrella. I hoped that rude health and an open-air life would enable
me to throw off any germs. These two, who had had to walk where I
had ridden, I pitied, so I told Tuan to say they need not climb up as
I had used up all my plates and certainly had no use for an
umbrella.
“She say 'No matter,'” said Tuan including them both in the
feminine, “She like to come,” and I think he liked it as well, for they
escorted me with subdued enthusiasm round that domed chamber
inspecting what must have been a reproduction of a debased
Buddhist hell in miniature. It was covered with dust, faded, and
weather-worn, like everything else in the temple, but it afforded the
four who were with me great pleasure, and when with relief I saw a
figure instead of being bitten by a snake, or eaten by some
gruesome beast, or sawn asunder between two planks, merely
resting in a tree, Tuan explained with great gusto and evident
satisfaction: “Spikes in tree.” He took care I should lose none of the
flavour of the tortures. But even the tortures were faded and worn,
the dust had settled on them, the air and the sun had perished
them, and I could not raise a shudder. Dusty and unclean they
spoiled for me the beauty of the golden roof and the dark green
mountain pines. I was glad to go down the many steps again, glad
to go down to the courtyard where the temple attendant, who might
have been a priest, but was dressed in blue cotton and had the
shaven head and queue that so many of the Manchus still affect,
gave me tea out of his tiny cups, seated on the temple steps. A dirty
old man he was, but his tea was perfect, and I made up my mind
not to look whether the cups were clean, for his manners matched
his tea.
And then I went out on to the broad cleared space in front, and
feasted my eyes for the last time on the golden brown tiled roof set
amongst the green of the pines, and clear-cut against the vivid blue
of the sky.
And yet it is not the beauty only that appeals, there is something
more than that, for even as I look at those hills, I remember another
temple I visited just outside Peking, a little temple, and I went not
by myself but with a party of laughing young people. There was
nothing beautiful about this temple, the walls were crumbled almost
to dust, the roof was falling in, upon the tiles the grasses were
growing, the green kaoliang crept up to the forsaken altars, and the
dust-laden wind of Northern China swept in through the broken walls
and caressed the forgotten gods who still in their places look out
serenely on the world beyond.
I could not but remember Swinburne, “Laugh out again for the
gods are dead.” Are they dead? Does anything die in China? In the
Ming Dynasty, some time in the fifteenth century, when the Wars of
the Roses were raging in England they built this little temple, nearly
three hundred years before Ch'ien Lung built the temples in the
valley at Jehol, and they installed the gods in all the glory of red
lacquer and gold, and when the last gold leaf had been laid on and
the last touches had been given to the dainty lacquer they walked
out and left it, left it to the soft, insidious decay that comes to things
forgotten. For it must be remembered, whether we look at this valley
of dead gods or this little temple outside Peking, that when a
memorial is put up it is not expected to last for ever, and no
provision is made or expected for its upkeep. If it last a year, well
and good, so was the man to whom it was put up, valued, and if it
last a hundred years—if five hundred years after it was dedicated
there still remains one stone standing upon the other, how fragrant
the memory of that man must have been. It is five hundred years
since this temple was built and still it endures. Behind is the wall of
the city, grim and grey, but the gods do not look upon the wall, their
faces are turned to the south and the gorgeous sunshine. They still
sit in their places, but the little figures that once adorned the
chamber are lying about on the ground or leaning up disconsolately
against the greater gods, and some of them are broken. On the
ground, in the dust, was a colossal head with a face that reminded
us that the silken robes of Caesar's wife came from China, for that
head was never modelled from any Mongolian, dead or alive. A
Roman Emperor might have sat for it. The faces that looked down
on it, lying there in the dust, were Eastern there were the narrow
eyes, the impassive features, the thin lips, but this, this was
European, this man had lived and loved, desired and mourned, and,
for there was just a touch of scorn on the lips, when he had drained
life to its dregs, or renounced its joys, said with bitterness: “All is
vanity.”
And the Chinese peasants came and looked at the aliens having
tiffin in the shade, and for them our broken meats were a treat. One
was crippled and one was blind and one was covered with the sores
of smallpox, so hideous to look upon that the lady amongst us who
prided herself upon her good looks turned shuddering away and
implored that they be driven off, before we all caught the terrible
disease.
What could life possibly hold for these people? Surely for them the
gods are dead?
I talked with an old woman, dirty and wrinkled, with a bald head
and maimed feet.
“She asks how old you are?” translated the young man beside me.
“Tell her I am sixty.” I thought it would sound more respectable.
“A-a-h!” She looked at me a moment. “She says,” he went on
translating, “that you have worn better than she has, for she is sixty
too. And have you any sons?”
For a moment I hesitated, but I was not going to lose face, what
would she think of a woman without sons, so I laid my hand on his
arm, and smiled to indicate that he was my son.
“A-a-h!” and she talked and smiled.
“What does she say?” He looked a little shy. “Tell me”
“She says you are to be congratulated,” and indeed he was a fine
specimen of manhood. “She says she has three sons.”
 And alas, alas, I had brought it on myself, for I was not to be
congratulated, I have no son, but I was answered too. I have called
the gods dead, but they are not dead. What if the temple crumbles?
There is the cloudless sky and the growing green around it. This
woman was old, and grey, and bent. The gods have given her three
sons, and she is content. This child had the smallpox, and by and by
when it shall have passed—Ah but that is beyond me. What
compensation can there be for the scarred face and blinded eyes?
Only if we understood all things, perhaps the savour would be gone
from life. Behind all is the All Merciful, the dead gods in the temples
are but a manifestation of the Great Power that is over all.
I thought of that little temple outside the walls of Peking, and the
old woman who congratulated me on the son I had not as I stood
taking my last look at the Yuan T'ing. And then I looked again away
down the valley to the folds of the hills where the other temples
nestled, embowered in trees. Far away I could see the sheer walls of
the Po Ta La climbing up the hill-side golden and red and white with
the evening sunlight falling upon them, and making me feel that just
so from this very spot at this very hour they should be looked at,
and then I went down, a ten minutes' weary scramble, I was very,
very tired, to my cart and across the Jehol River again, back to the
missionary compound.
Never again shall I visit that valley of temples that lies among the
hills of Inner Mongolia, never again, and though, of course, since the
days of Marco Polo Europeans have visited it, it is so distant, so
difficult to come at that they have not gone in battalions. But those
temples in the folds of the hills are beautiful beyond dreaming, and
though their glory has gone, still in their decay, with the eternal hills
round and behind them, they form a fitting memorial to the man
who set them there to the glory of God and for his humble mother's
sake.
 CHAPTER XVIII—IN A WUPAN
The difficulties of the laundry—A friend in need—A strange picnic
party—The authority of the parent—Travelling in a mule litter—Rain—
A frequented highway—Yellow oiled paper—Restricted quarters—
Dodging the smoke—“What a lot you eat!”—Charm of the river—
Modest Chinamen—The best-beloved grandchild—The gorges of the
Lanho—The Wall again—Effect of rain on the Chinaman—The
captain's cash-box—A gentleman of Babylon—Lanchou.

A
nd now it was time to bid farewell to my kind hosts and start
back to Peking. Thank goodness it was going to be fairly easy.
Instead of the abominable cart I was going to float down the
River Lan in a wupan, a long, narrow, flat-bottomed boat.
First I sent my servant with my card to the Tartar General to thank
him for all his kindness. This brought Mr Wu down again with the
General's card at the most awkward hour of course, in the middle of
tiffin, and Mr Wu, much to my surprise, was dignified and even
stately in full Chinese dress. He was all grey and black. His petticoat
or coat or whatever it is called was down to his ankles and was of
silk, he wore a little sleeveless jacket, and his trousers were tied in
with neat black bands at his neat little ankles. So nice did he look,
such a contrast to the commonplace little man I had seen before,
that I felt obliged to admire him openly. Besides, I am told that is
quite in accordance with Chinese good manners.
He received my compliments with a smile, and then explained the
reason of the change.
“Must send shirt, collar, Tientsin, be washed. I very poor man, no
more got.”
And Tientsin was three or four days by river, sometimes much
more, as well as five hours by train! I felt he had indeed done me an
honour when he had used up his available stock of linen in my
entertaining, and to think I had only admired him when he was in
native dress!
Another Chinese gentleman came in that day and was introduced
to me. He contented himself with Chinese dress, and he had more
English, though it was of a peculiar order.
“But I hate to hear people laugh at Mr Chung's English,” said the
missionary who was a man of the world. “He was a good friend to
me and mine. If it hadn't been for him, I doubt if I or my wife or
children would be here now.”
It was the time of the Boxer trouble, and the missionary was
stationed at Pa Kou where Mr Chung had charge of the telegraph
station. The missionaries grew salads in their garden, which the
head of the telegraphs much appreciated, and even when he felt it
wiser not to be too closely in touch with the foreigners, he still sent
down a basket for a salad occasionally. One day in the bottom of the
basket he put a letter. “The foreign warships are attacking the Taku
Forts,” it ran, “better get away. I am keeping back the news.”
But the missionary could not get away. Up and down the town he
went, but he could get no carts. All the carters raised their prices to
something that was prohibitive, even though death faced them. And
then came the basket again for more salads and in the bottom was
another letter.
“The foreign ships have taken the Taku Forts,” it said. “I am
keeping back the news. Go away as soon as possible.”
And then the missionary spoke outright of his dilemma, and Mr
Chung went to the Prefect of the town and enlisted him on their
side. The carters were sent for.
“You would not go,” said the Prefect, “when this man offered you
a great sum of money,” it sounded quite Biblical as he told it. “Now
you will go for the ordinary charge or I will take off your heads.”
 So two carts were got, and the missionary, his wife, and children,
and as much of their household goods as they could take, were
hustled into them, and they started off for the nearest port.
“If ever I am in a hole again I hope I travel with such women,”
said the missionary; “they were as cheerful as if it was a picnic-
party.”
All went well for a couple of days, and then one day, passing
through a town, a man came up and addressed them, and said he
was servant to some Englishmen, a couple of mining engineers, who
were held up in this town, because they had heard there was an
ambush laid for all foreigners a little farther down the road. And the
missionaries had thought they were the last foreigners left in the
country!
They promptly sought out the Englishmen, who confirmed the
boy's story. It was not safe to go farther. The little party decided to
stick together, and finally the missionary went to the Prefect and told
him how the Prefect at Pa Kou had helped them, and suggested it
would be wise to do likewise, especially as the foreigners were sure
to win in the end.
The Prefect considered the matter and finally promised to help
them, provided they put themselves entirely in his hands and said
nothing, no matter what they heard. It seemed a desperate thing to
do to put themselves entirely in the hands of their enemies, but it
was the only chance, that chance or Buckley's and Buckley, says the
Australian proverb, never had a chance. They agreed to the Prefect's
terms; he set a guard of soldiers over them, and they travelled
surrounded by them. But at first they were very doubtful whether
they had been wise in trusting a man who was to all intents and
purposes an open enemy.
“Where did you get them?” asked the people of the soldiers as
they passed. And the soldiers detailed at length their capture.
“And what are you going to do with them?” And the soldiers
always said that, by the orders of the Prefect of the town where they
had been captured, they were taking them on to be delivered over
to the proper authorities, who would know what to do with them,
doubtless the least that could happen would be that they would
have their heads taken off.
And the man who told me the story had lived through such days
as that. Had seen his wife and children live through them!
But the Prefect was as good as his word, the soldiers saw them
through the danger-zone to safety.
“But if it had not been for Mr Chung in the first instance———-”
says the missionary, and his gratitude was in his voice.
And Mr Chung had his own troubles. He was progressive and
modern, not, I think, Christian, and he had actually himself taught
his daughters to read. Also he had decided not to bind their feet.
And then, the pity of it—and the extraordinary deference that is paid
to elders in China—there came orders from his parents in Canton—
he must be a man over forty—the daughters' feet were to be bound.
I was glad indeed to have heard the story of Mr Chung before I
set out on my journey.
The Lanho is seven miles, a two hours' journey by mule litter or
cart from Cheng Teh Fu, and I decided to go by litter and send my
things by cart, for, not only did I object to a cart, but I thought I
would like to see what travelling by mule litter was like. I am
perfectly satisfied now—I don't ever want to go by one again.
I had to get in at the missionary compound, because it takes four
men to lift a litter on to the mules, and there was only one to attend
to it. It was early in the morning, only a little after six, but all the
missionaries walked about a mile of the way with me—I felt it was
exceedingly kind of them, because it was the only time I ever saw
men and women together outside the compound—then they bade
me good-bye, and I was fairly started on my journey. I sat in my
litter on a spring cushion, lent me for the cart by a Chinese
gentleman, and I endeavoured to balance myself so that the litter
should not—as it seemed to me to be threatening to do—turn topsy-
turvy. It made me rather uncomfortable at first, because once in
there is no way of getting out without lifting the litter off the mules.
You may indeed slip down between it and the leading mule's hind
legs, but that proceeding strikes me as decidedly risky, for a mule
can kick and his temper does not seem to be improved by having
the shafts of a litter on his back.
It was a cloudy morning and it threatened rain. I had only seen
one day's rain since I had been in China. The scenery was wild and
grand. We went along by the Jehol River, on the edge of one range
of precipitous mountains, while the other, on the other side of the
river, towered above us. We were going along the bottom of a valley,
as is usual in this part of the world, but as the Jehol is a flowing
river and takes up a good part of the bottom, we very often went
along a track that was cut out of the mountain-side. The white mule
in front with the jingling bells and red tassels on his collar and
headstall, always preferred the very edge, so that when I looked out
of the left-hand side of my litter, I looked down a depth of about
thirty or forty feet, as far as I could guess, into the river-bed below.
I found it better not to look. Not that it was very deep or that there
was any likelihood of my going over. I am fully convinced, in spite of
the objurgations showered upon him by the driver, that that white
mule knew his business thoroughly. Still it made me uncomfortable
to feel so helpless.
And the way was very busy indeed, even thus early in the
morning. All sorts of folk were going along it, there were heavy
country carts drawn by seven strong mules, they were taking grain
to the river to be shipped “inside the Wall,” and the road that they
followed was abominable. Every now and again they would stick in
the heavy sand or ruts, or stones of the roadway—everything that
should not be in a road, according to our ideas, was there—and the
driver would promptly produce a spade and dig out the wheels,
making the way for the next cart that passed worse than ever. Two
litters passed us empty, and we met any number of donkeys laden, I
cannot say with firewood, but with bundles of twigs that in any other
country that I know would not be worth the gathering, much less
the transport, but would be burnt as waste. And there were
numberless people on foot, this was evidently a much-frequented
highway, since it was busy now when it was threatening rain, for no
Chinese go out in the rain if they can help it. I thoroughly
sympathise, I should think twice myself before going if I had but one
set of clothes and nowhere to dry them if they got wet. The hill-
sides were rocky and sterile, but wherever there was a flat place,
wherever there was a little pocket of fertile ground, however
inaccessible it might appear, it was carefully cultivated, so was all the
valley bottom along the banks of the river, and all this ground was
crying out for the rain. And then presently down it came, heavy,
pouring rain such as I had only seen once before in China. It drove
across our pathway like a veil, all the rugged hills were softened and
hidden in a grey mist, and my muleteer drew over and around me
sheets of yellow oiled paper through which I peered at the
surrounding scenery. I wasn't particularly anxious to get wet myself,
because I did not see in an open boat how on earth I was ever to
get dry again, and three or four days wet or even damp, would not
have been either comfortable, or healthy.
 At last we arrived at the river, a broad, swift-flowing, muddy river
running along the bottom of the valley and apparently full to the
brim, at least there were no banks, and needless to say, of course,
there was not a particle of vegetation to beautify it. There was a
crossing here very like the ferrying-place I had crossed on my
journey up, and there were a row of long boats with one end of
them against the bank. It was raining hard when I arrived, and the
litter was lifted down from the mules, but the only thing to do was to
sit still and await the arrival of Tuan and my baggage in the Peking
cart.
 They came at last, and the rain lifting a little Tuan set about
preparing one of the boats for my reception.
I must confess I looked on with interest, because I did not quite
see how I was going to spend several days with a servant and three
boatmen in such cramped quarters. The worst of it was there was
no getting out of it now if I did not like it, it had to be done. Though
I do worry so much I always find it is about the wrong thing. I had
never—and I might well have done so—thought about the difficulties
of this boat journey until I stood on the banks of the river,
committed to it, and beyond the range of help from any of my own
colour. For one moment my heart sank. If it had been the evening I
should have despaired, but with fourteen good hours of daylight
before me I can always feel hopeful, especially if they are to be
spent in the open air. The wupan is about thirty-seven feet long, flat
bottomed, and seven feet wide in the middle, tapering of course
towards the ends. In the middle V-shaped sticks hold up a ridge
pole, and across this Tuan put a couple of grass mats we had bought
for this purpose, then he produced some unbleached calico—and
when I think of what I paid for that unbleached calico, and how poor
the Chinese peasants are, I am surprised that the majority of them
do not go naked—and proceeded to make of it a little tent for me
right in the middle of the awning. I stood it until I discovered that
the idea was he should sleep at one end and the boatmen at the
other, and then I protested. What I was to be guarded from I did not
know, but I made him clearly understand that one end of the boat I
must have to myself. There might be a curtain across the other end
of the awning, that I did not mind, but I must be free to go out
without stepping on sleeping servant or boatmen. That little matter
adjusted, much to his surprise, the next thing we had to think about
was the stove. I wanted it so placed that when the wind blew the
matting did not make a funnel that would carry the smoke directly
into my face. But that is just exactly what it did do, and I've come to
the conclusion there is no possible way of arranging a stove
comfortably on a winding river. We tried it aft, and we tried it for'ard,
and when it was aft it seemed the wind was behind, and when it
was for'ard the wind was ahead, and whichever way the smoke
came it was equally unpleasant, so I decided the only thing to be
done was to smile and look pleasant, and be thankful that whereas I
required three meals a day to sustain me in doing nothing, my
boatmen who did all the work and had a stove of their own,
apparently, sustained life on two. The ideal way would be to have a
companion and two boats, and then the trip would be delightful. As
it was I found it well worth doing.
The rain stopped that first day soon after we left the crossing-
place, and from the little low boat the mountains on either side
appeared to tower above us, rugged, precipitous, sterile; they were
right down to the waters edge and the river wound round, and on
the second day we were in the heart of the mountains, and passed
through great rocky gorges. It was lonely for China, but just as I
thought that no human being could possibly live in such a sterile
land, I would see far up on the hills a little spot of blue, some small
boy herding goats, or a little pocket of land between two great
rocks, carefully tilled, and the young green crops just springing up.
And then again there were little houses, neat, tidy little houses with
heavy roofs, and I wondered what it must be like to be here in the
mountains when the winter held them in its grip. Somehow it
seemed to me far more lonely and desolate than anything I had
seen on my way across country.
We always tied up for the men to eat their midday meal, and we
always tied up for the night. But we wakened at the earliest glimmer
of dawn. They evidently breakfasted on cold millet porridge, and I,
generally, was up and dressed and had had my breakfast and
forgotten all about it by five-thirty in the morning. My bed took up
most of the room in my quarters, I dressed and washed on it, a bath
was out of the question, and pulling aside the curtains sat on it and
had my breakfast, the captain of the boat, the gentleman with the
steering-oar, looking on with the greatest interest.
He spoke to Tuan evidently about my breakfast, and I asked him
what he said.
 “She say what a lot you eat,” said Tuan. “Not in ten days she have
so much.”
And I was surprised, because I had thought my breakfast
exceedingly frugal. I had watched the eggs being poached, and I ate
them without butter or toast or bacon, I had a dry piece of bread,
tea, of course, and some unappetising stewed pears. But by and by
I was watching my captain shovelling in basinsful of millet porridge,
about ten times as much as I ate, and I came to the conclusion it
was the variety he was commenting on, not the amount.
They were things of delight those early mornings on the river. At
first all the valley would be wrapped in a soft grey mist, with here
and there the highest peaks, rugged and desolate, catching the
sunlight; then gradually, gradually, the sun came down the valley
and the mists melted before his rays, lingering here and there in the
hollows, soft and grey and elusive, till at last the sunlight touched
the water and gave this muddy water of the river a golden tint, and
all things rejoiced in the new-born day. The little blue kingfishers
preened themselves, the blue-grey cranes with white necks and
black points that the Chinese call “long necks” sailed with outspread
wings slowly across the water, and the sunlight on the square sails
of the upcoming boats made them gleam snow white. For there was
much traffic on the river. Desolate as the country round was, the
river was busy. The boats that were going down stream were rowed,
and those that were coming up, when the wind was with them, put
out great square sails, and when it was against them were towed by
four men. They fastened the towing rope to the mast, stripped
themselves, and slipping a loop over their heads fixed it round their
chests and pulled by straining against a board that was fast in the
loop. The current was strong, and it must have been hard work
judging by the way they strained on the rope. The missionaries were
afraid I would be shocked at the sight of so many naked men, but it
was the other way round, my presence, apparently the only woman
on the river, created great consternation, for the Chinaman is a
modest man. Badly I wanted to get a photograph of those straining
men, for never have I seen the Chinese to greater advantage. In
their shabby blue cotton they look commonplace and of the slums,
you feel they are unwashed, but these suggest splendid specimens
of brawny manhood. They don't need to be washed. However, as we
approached, boatmen and servant all raised their voices in a loud
warning singsong. What they said, I do not know, but it must have
been something like: “Oh brothers, put on your clothes. We have a
bothering foreign woman on board.” The result would be a wild
scramble and everybody would be getting into dirty blue garments,
only some unfortunate, who was steering in a difficult part or had
hold of a rope that could not be dropped was left helpless, and he
crouched down or hid behind a more lucky companion. If there had
been anybody with whom to laugh I would have laughed many a
time when we met or passed boats on the Lanho. But I never got a
really good photograph of those towing men. My men evidently felt
it would be taking them at a disadvantage, and the production of my
camera was quite sufficient to send us off into mid stream, as far
away from the towing boat as possible.
Occasionally the hills receded just a little and left a small stretch of
flat country where there were always exceedingly neat-looking huts.
There were the neatest bundles of sticks stacked all round them,
just twigs, and we landed once to buy some, for the men cooked
entirely with them, and my little stove needed them to start the
charcoal. But oh, the people who came out of those houses were
dirty. Never have I seen such unclean-looking unattractive women.
One had a child in her arms with perfectly horrible-looking eyes, and
I knew there was another unfortunate going to be added to the
many blind of China. She ran away at the sight of me, and so did
two little stark-naked boys. I tempted them with biscuits, and their
grandfather or great-grandfather, he might have been, watched with
the deepest interest. He and I struck up quite a friendship over the
incident, smiling and laughing and nodding to one another, as much
as to say, “Yes, it was natural they should be afraid, but we—we,
who had seen the world—of course knew better.” Then he went
away and fetched back in his arms another small shaven-headed
youngster whom he patted and petted and called my attention to, as