Once upon an evening a foreign missy went walking down the street. She walked with an air for she knew that she was good to look upon, that her clothes were right, and her position assured. As she approached the corner where a building was in construction, she read a simple awe at her wonder in the eyes of the coolies driving in piles to the rhythm of the builders' chant. Suddenly one burst into song while the others continued the one syllable accompaniment. They waxed so enthusi-ostic that a foreign overseer appeared around the corner of the bamboo fence and gazed with interest into the street. The foreigi. missy also read her own meaning into his appreciative smile. She did not see him take out his notebook and jot down the song of the coolies. Nor hear him laugh. But later she received a translation—
"A foreign missy is coming down the road, Her hair is as smooth as rice straw in a big wind Her eyes are the colour of an old blue coat a beggar would throw away."
All of which is a fable worthy of ZEsop or a paradox that Chester-ten might grieve for. It is vain to be vain in China: One gathers little by little that things are not always what they seem, and has an uncertain feeling as she starts out her 1923 model frock from homeside that she may be that thing.
It would obviously be vanity of vanities to suggest that there is no vanity in China. But if after years or even months of intercourse with Oriental conditions, one is still able to flush rosily with self admiration, he is entitled to the additional satisfaction that he has left most of us panting in the distance. We are excepting of course, those blithe spirits who come and g9 as a mist on a mirror, reflecting nothing while they are here, leavin no trace when they are gone. hey are as unnatural as the carrou roses with which the cook adorns the meat course.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.