University of Nanking - Linguist Yearbook (Nanking, China)

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THE LINGUIST 43 light, the bamboos bend above them. Searfs of darkness are flung across the CI'0Zy huts of matting and mud, where before our curious eyes the peoble hide their faces behind bowls of rice. The great wall looms across our Willy, with an old man's growth of beard upon its gaunt old face. Inside, behind the spirit walls arc dim little rooms where light flickers over U10 silver and gold patterns on thc looms. The ricksha coolie coughs and Ulops his face. His feet, padpadding under the lantern arc thc only focus of light, on the moon ofthe East shall rise. EVENING IN CHINA The grey curve of the crumbling wall- Just beauty piled for grassy fing'ring- And the deep boom-boom of the temple call, From thc near-by hill Now black with t-he swoop of the magpics winging The golden dusk to their hainhoos tall. From the wind-swept hush on the ancient wall - The beauty of Night alone is speaking- To the cobbled pavement. The sea-slugs sprawl In a welter of mud. Wheel-barrows squeaking, And vendors hawking, and chickens squawl-:ingg Then the half-moon rising over all.

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42 ROADS There is a village through which we must pass. You will have time for only a quick glance about, for in these narrow dirty streets we pick our way with care. Did you see what I saw? A starved, wet-looking kitten in a patch of sung a poultry shop with its rows of lacquered chickens, strung up by the neckg a frightened monkey in a crowd of delighted children whose noses rung vendors and their gongsg a wild-eyed, wild-haired devotee with a fluteg a blear-eyed ancient holding a ehild's soft, roughed cheek against her own. And always the lean dogs will be sniffing at our heels. We are again on the open road. In a private ricksha is a young exquisite wearing a pale blue broeaded garment over pale blue trousers. He is airing his pet cricket in a tiny polished cage. I will tell you so that you need not look, that four men are coming, pulling a wooden truck. They wear a greasy circlet of braided hair. For, when the labor of the day is done, these burdened men have no mind left to discover that queues are out of style. The last red is pricking thc graying memories of yet another day in this so-ancient land. Purple Mountain is showing you why it bears ihat name. lVe are weary, and the ricksha men know it. Their Smiles grgw more ingratiating, and we relent. The old ponds are quiet vvhere all day long the women have gathered water-chestnuts in wooden washtubs, and beaten dirty clothes clean upon a board. Now in the purple and Silver

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