An Early Morning in Hongkew Market By "The Idler."
As I turned north on the Bund from the Rue clu Consular, great golden banners—borne by the outriders of the sun—flaunted above the ramparts of Pootung and transformed the unsightly chimneys into battlements and the godowns into mysterious castle walls. Near at hand, the familiar Semaphore Column, with its swaying red lights, became the watch tower which guarded countless nondescript vessels moored along the jetty side. A great junk slipped noiselessly past on the breast of the outgoing tide and was soon enshrouded in a grey pall of fog. Tired Chinese, with drawn grey faces, moved hither and thither with never a glance to the right or left, so weary were they from their night's labours. As I crossed the narrow canyon of the Dar Ma Loo, the wind swept ahead of it wisps of white mist freighted with poignant memories of the night. A Sikh policeman, undoubtedly a descendant of Aladin's Genii, so tall was he, gave me a curious glance, saluted, and continued on his rounds.
Before I arrived opposite the Public Gardens, the number of pedestrians on the Bund had increased. Hurrying and scurrying to their various occupations they pushed and jostled: each other goodhumouredly, occasionally playing a practical joke on their comrades who were less wide awake, and creating a vivid contrast to the tired: toilers who had passed me 15 minutes previously.
On the Garden Bridge I paused to watch the never-ending stream of cargo boats, junks, and an occasional sampan, join the shouting throng below, and literally fight their way through the congestion to their ultimate destinations. I suddenly became aware of the fact that both junks and individuals were adorned with branches of willow leaves, which they waved back and forth in high ecstasy.
Festival, 7sing Ming, the Day of It. was the Chinese Sprin;
Pure Brightness, consecrated to ancestor worship, and prayers for a bountiful harvest. While
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.