The lotus season is in full swing now at the southern capital. The peaches also are in their element—fat, plump and juicy. Arrivals began to put in an appearance several days ago here a solitary pale lotus, there a cheerful family waving boisterously in the wind, until now the Lotus Lake is a grand parade and many. thousands of them bask in the hot sunshine—the sunshine which turns human beings into copper coloured lumps of chocolate.
Along the esplanade which runs all the way round the top of Hung Wu's wonderful 24-mile long wall, very few people venture during the heat of the day. But in the cool of evening when the wall begins to cast long shadows across the lake, then two or three people, who are not otherwise intrigued by tennis, or the Chinese equivalent for tennis, appear on the grass-covered esplanade. On one si lies the lake—immediately below the wall—the bank of shadow cast across it only broken by narrow wares of departing sunlight gliating through the loopholes of the crenellated wall, the edge of the shadow forming delightful traceries.
Coy and demure are the lotus blossoms, bobbing up and down on the water. No wonder thay blush that faint pink, when such personality as Purple Mountain peers down at them all day and all through the night.
Directly below the wall on the other side are peaches galore, some of them hanging near the level of the Esplanade. Harvesters are busy, otherwise amateur assistance might be given by passers-by along the wall, anxious to relieve the laden trees of their heavy burdens. But the landowners will spare you some, if you are polite, even should you be a foreigner. The peaches can easily be chucked up by some Chinese village A. O. Jones standing below, and if expert and deft pitchers are not at a premium, a piece of string and a basket soon solve the difficulty.
Peaches on one side, lotuses on the other. Avd behind the peaches. the setting sun, while behind the lotuses, Purple Mountain, violet haze. there would be on Nanking's great walls were it not so hot!
Not a sound to be heard, except the humming, shrieking blast of a cicada settled on a tree bordering the Maloo, Or the tooting distant city railway train chugging its way lazily across from the local Marble Arch to the local Oxford Circus. Or the sobbing moan of a lonely temple bell, weird towards twilight. Or the wail of a bugle trembling across.the—reedy meadows—long drawn out music played with heart and soul behind it. Would that a bugle were always content with singing across fields of peach and lotus blossom instead of calling men to arms.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.