140
W. J. HINTON
not so very different in their essence from those of greater cities. "Aes alienis" is much the same all the world over.
Farther west a rope walk stretches back across several streets on the landward side, where they are twisting a mighty bamboo cable for the big junk being built in the Yard at the end of the bay. On the seaward side one of the long dark houses frames a picture of the bay and the ships seen through a verandah three rooms distant; within is the rich glow of lacquer chest. It is a picture for a Dutch master. For the most part the well-built doorways are closed by lacquered or painted doors or screens. We are in the West End; the crowd is thinner, but the dogs, pigs, fowls, and cats, if anything, more densely strew the scene. Through little lanes and alleys, we can see the Hoklo boats drawn up on the beach or riding a little from the land. Their owners are busy about them or putting out to fish with net and line in neighbouring bays.
A dry nullah, and we are on a flight of steps leading to the terrace of the Pak Tai Temple. This terrace is a spacious place at times covered with a huge matshed theatre, which will house all the population that can leave home or junk for the show. Just now, it is occupied by children and by two parties of fishermen making fishing lines of some tough fibre on a primitive bamboo contrivance doubling and redoubling the thread. Under the groves, we see the eaves of another and smaller temple, and the tall wooden dyeing vats in which the nets are dyed blue and so made invisible to fishy eyes in the blue water.
The Pak Tai Temple must await another visit, for dusk has fallen, and bright lights are burning on the junks. There is no moon, but the stars are reflected in the still water. On the stern of every junk, the little cooking stoves glow, and family groups crouch round the rice bowl, half-illuminated by the glow, or brightly lit by a fishing flare where such extravagance can be afforded. Our yacht lies far out, and we hire a sampan, sitting side by side in the middle while the woman plies the "ulch" like a Venetian gondolier, crooning meantime to the baby on her back. Now we are among the junks, and the water lanes are full of small craft loaded with miscellaneous wares. A pedlar dips his paddle and cries his wares set out in a tray on his tiny dug-out. Sampans carry happy parties going ashore, or quiet ones coming off to their floating homes. There are no noisy parties of drunken sailors, but plenty of jollity and even a little horseplay here and there. Our boat moves
140
W. J. HINTON
not so very different in their essence from those of greater cities. "Aes alienis" is much the same all the world over.
Farther west a rope walk stretches back across several streets on the landward side, where they are twisting a mighty bamboo cable for the big junk being built in the Yard at the end of the bay. On the seaward side one of the long dark houses frames a picture of the bay and the ships seen through a verandah three rooms dis- tant within is the rich glow of lacquer chest. It is a picture for a dutch master. For the most part the well built doorways are closed by lacquered or painted doors or screens. We are in the West End, the crowd is thinner, but the dogs, pigs, fowls and cats if anything more densely strew the scene. Through little lanes and alleys we can see the Hoklo boats drawn up on the beach or riding a little from the land. Their owners are busy about them or putting out to fish with net and line in neighbouring bays.
A dry nullah, and we are on a flight of steps leading to the terrace of the Pak Tai Temple. This terrace is a spacious place at times covered with a huge matshed theatre which will house all the population that can leave home or junk for the show. Just now it is occupied by children and by two parties of fishermen making fishing lines of some tough fibre on a primitive bamboo contrivance doubling and redoubling the thread. Under the groves we see the eaves of another and smaller temple, and the tall wooden dyeing vats in which the nets are dyed blue and so made invisible to fishy eyes in the blue water.
The Pak Tai Temple must await another visit for dusk has fallen, and bright lights are burning on the junks. There is no moon, but the stars are reflected in the still water. On the stern of every junk the little cooking stoves glow and family groups crouch round the rice bowl, half illuminated by the glow, or brightly lit by a fishing flare where such extravagance can be afforded. Our yacht lies far out and we hire a sampan, sitting side by side in the middle while the woman plies the "ulch" like a Venetian gondolier, croon- ing meantime to the baby on her back. Now we are among the junks, and the water lanes are full of small craft loaded with mis- cellaneous wares. A pedlar dips his paddle and cries his wares set out in a tray on his tiny dug-out. Sompans carry happy parties going ashore, or quiet ones coming off to their floating homes. There are no noisy parties of drunken sailors, but plenty of jollity and even a little horse play here and there. Our boat moves
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