CHAPTER XXVII

TRAVELING TOWARD THE TROPICS

We left Yung-chang with no regret on Monday, January 28. Our stay there would have been exceedingly pleasant under ordinary conditions but it was impossible not to chafe at the delay occasioned by the caravan. Traveling southward for two days over bare brown mountain-sides, their monotony unrelieved except by groves of planted pine and fir trees, we descended abruptly into the great subtropical valley at Shih-tien.

Mile after mile this fertile plain stretches away in a succession of rice paddys and fields of sugar cane interspersed with patches of graceful bamboo, their summits drooping like enormous clusters of ostrich plumes; the air is warm and fragrant and the change from the surrounding hills is delightful. However, we were disappointed in the shooting for, although it appeared to be an ideal place for ducks and other water birds, we killed only five teal, and the great ponds were almost devoid of bird life. Even herons, so abundant in the north, were conspicuous by their absence and we saw no sheldrakes, geese, or mallards.

At Shih-tien we camped in a beautiful temple yard on the outskirts of the town, and with Wu I returned to the village to inquire about shooting places. We seated ourselves in the first open tea house and within ten minutes more than a hundred natives had filled the room, overflowed through the door and windows, and formed a mass of pushing, crowding bodies which completely blocked the street outside. It was a simple way of getting all the village together and Wu questioned everyone who looked intelligent.

We learned that shooting was to be found near Gen-kang, five days' travel south, and we returned to the temple just in time to receive a visit from the resident mandarin. He was a good-looking, intellectual man, with charming manners and one of the most delightful gentlemen whom we met in China.

During his visit, and until dinner was over and we had retired to our tents, hundreds of men, women and children crowded into the temple yard to gaze curiously at us. After the gates had been closed they climbed the walls and sat upon the tiles like a flock of crows. Their curiosity was insatiable but not unfriendly and nowhere throughout our expedition did we find such extraordinary interest in our affairs as was manifested by the people in this immediate region. They were largely Chinese and most of them must have met foreigners before, yet their curiosity was much greater than that of any natives whom we knew were seeing white persons for the first time.

Just before camping the next day we passed through a large village where we were given a most flattering reception. We had stopped to do some shooting and were a considerable distance behind the caravan. The mafus must have announced our coming, for the populace was out en masse to greet us and lined the streets three deep. It was a veritable triumphal entry and crowds of men and children followed us for half a mile outside the town, running beside our horses and staring with saucer-like eyes.

On the second day from Shih-tien we climbed a high mountain and wound down a sharp descent for about 4,000 feet into a valley only 2,300 feet above sea level. We had been cold all day on the ridges exposed to a biting wind and had bundled ourselves into sweaters and coats over flannel shirts. After going down about 1,000 feet we tied our coats to the saddle pockets, on the second thousand stripped off the sweaters, and for the remainder of the descent rode with sleeves rolled up and shirts open at the throat. We had come from mid-winter into summer in two hours and the change was most startling. It was as though we had suddenly ridden into an artificially heated building like the rooms for tropical plants at botanical gardens.

Our camp was on a flat plain just above the river where we had a splendid view of the wide valley which was like the bottom of a well with high mountains rising abruptly on all sides. It was a place of strange contrasts. The bushes and trees were in full green foliage but the grass and paddy fields were dry and brown as in mid-winter. The thick trees at the base of the hills were literally alive with doves but there were few mammal runways and our traps yielded no results. That night a muntjac, the first we had heard, barked hoarsely behind the tents.

The yamen "soldier" who accompanied us from Shih-tien delivered his official dispatch at the village (Ma-po-lo) which lies farther down the valley. The magistrate, who proved to be a Shan native, arrived soon after with ten or twelve men and we discovered that there was but one man in the village who spoke Chinese.

The magistrate at Ma-po-lo by no means wished to have the responsibility of our safety thrust upon him and consequently assured us that there were neither game nor hunters in this village. Although his anxiety to be rid of us was apparent, he was probably telling the truth, for the valley is so highly cultivated (rice), and the cover on the mountain-sides so limited, that it is doubtful if much game remains.

In the morning the entire valley was filled with a dense white fog but we climbed out of it almost immediately, and by noon were back again in winter on the summits of the ridges. The country through which we passed en route to Gen-kang was similar to that which had oppressed us during the preceding week—cultivated valleys between high barren mountains relieved here and there by scattered groves of planted fir trees. It was a region utterly hopeless from a naturalist's standpoint and when we arrived at a large town near Gen-kang we were well-nigh discouraged.

During almost a month of travel we had been guided by native information which without exception had proved worthless. It seemed useless to rely upon it further, and yet there was no other alternative, for none of the foreigners whom we had met in Yuen-nan knew anything about this part of the province. We were certain to reach a tropical region farther south and the fact that there were a few sambur skins for sale in the market offered slight encouragement. These were said to come from a village called Meng-ting, "a little more far," to the tune of four or five days' travel, over on the Burma frontier.

With gloom in our hearts, which matched that of the weather, we left in a pouring rain on February 5, to slip and splash southward through veritable rivers of mud for two long marches. In the afternoon of the second day the country suddenly changed. The trail led through a wide grassy valley, bordered by heavily forested hills, into a deep ravine. Along the banks of a clear stream the earth was soft and damp and the moss-covered logs and dense vegetation made ideal conditions for small mammalian life.

We rode happily up the ravine and stood in a rocky gateway. At the right a green-clothed mountain rose out of a tangle of luxuriant vegetation; to the left wave after wave of magnificent forested ridges lost themselves in the low hung clouds; at our feet lay a beautiful valley filled with stately trees which spread into a thick green canopy overhead.

We camped in a clearing just at the edge of the forest. While the tents were being pitched, I set a line of traps along the base of the opposite mountain and found a "runway" under almost every log. About eight o'clock I ran my traps and, with the aid of a lantern, stumbled about in the bushes and high grass, over logs and into holes. When I emptied my pockets there were fifteen mice, rats, shrews, and voles, representing seven species and all new to our collection. Heller brought in eight specimens and added two new species. We forthwith decided to stay right where we were until this "gold mine" had been exhausted.

In the morning our traps were full of mammals and sixty-two were laid out on the table ready for skinning. The length, tail, hind foot, and ear of each specimen was first carefully measured in millimeters and recorded in the field catalogue and upon a printed label bearing our serial number; then an incision was made in the belly, the skin stripped off, poisoned with arsenic, stuffed with cotton, and sewed up. The animal was then pinned in position by the feet, nose, and tail in a shallow wooden tray which fitted in the collecting trunk.

The specimens were put in the sun on every bright day until they were thoroughly dry and could be wrapped in cotton and packed in water-tight trunks or boxes. We have found that the regulation U.S. Army officer's fiber trunk makes an ideal collecting case. It measures thirty inches long by thirteen deep and sixteen inches wide and will remain quite dry in an ordinary rain but, of course, must not be allowed to stand in water. The skulls of all specimens, and the skeletons of some, are numbered like the skin, strung upon a wire, and dried in the sun. Also individuals of every species are injected and preserved in formalin for future anatomical study.

Larger specimens are always salted and dried. As soon as the skin has been removed and cleaned of flesh and fat, salt is rubbed into every part of it and the hide rolled up. In the morning it is unwrapped, the water which has been extracted by the salt poured off, and the skin hung over a rope or a tree branch to dry. If it is not too hot and the air is dry, the skin may be kept in the shade to good advantage, but under ordinary field conditions it should be placed in the sun. Before it becomes too hard, the hide is rolled or folded into a convenient package hair side in, tied into shape and allowed to become "bone dry." In this condition it will keep indefinitely but requires constant watching, for the salt absorbs moisture from the air and alternate wetting and drying is fatal.

We soon trained two of our Chinese boys to skin both large and small animals and they became quite expert. They required constant watching, however, and after each hide had been salted either Mr. Heller or I examined it to make sure that it was properly treated.

On our first day in camp we sent for natives to the village of Mu-cheng ten li distant. The men assured us that there were sambur, serow, and muntjac in the neighborhood, and they agreed to hunt. They had no dogs and were armed with crossbows, antiquated guns, and bows and arrows, but they showed us the skins of two sambur in proof of their ability to secure game.

Like most of the other natives, with the exception of the Mosos on the Snow Mountain, these men had no definite plan in hunting. The first day I went out with them they indicated that we were to drive a hill not far from camp. Without giving me an opportunity to reach a position in front of them, they began to work up the hill, and I had a fleeting glimpse of a sambur silhouetted against the sky as it dashed over the summit.

Two days later while I was out with ten other men who had a fairly good pack of dogs, the first party succeeded in killing a female sambur. The animal weighed at least five hundred pounds but they brought it to our camp and we purchased the skin for ten rupees. South of Gen-kang the money of the region, like all of Yuen-nan for some distance from the Burma frontier, is the Indian rupee which equals thirty-three cents American gold; in that part of the province adjoining Tonking, French Indo-China money is current.

My Journal of February 8 tells of our life at this camp, which we called "Good Hope."

The weather is delightful for the sun is just warm enough for comfort and the nights are clear and cold. How we do sleep! It seems hardly an hour from the time we go to bed until we hear Wu rousing the servants, and the crackle of the camp-fire outside the tent. We half dress in our sleeping bags and with chattering teeth dash for the fire to lace our high boots in its comfortable warmth.

After breakfast when it is full daylight, my wife and I inspect the traps. The ground is white with frost and the trees and bushes are dressed in silver. Every trap holds an individual interest and we follow the line through the forest, resetting some, and finding new mammals in others. Yvette has conquered her feminine repugnance far enough to remove shrews or mice from the traps by releasing the spring and dropping them on to a broad green leaf, but she never touches them.

We go back to meet the hunters and while I am away with the men, the lady of the camp works at her photography. I return in the late afternoon and after tea we wander through the woods together. It is the most delightful part of the day when the sun goes down and the shadows lengthen. We sit on a log in a small clearing where we can watch the upper branches of a splendid tree. It is the home of a great colony of red-bellied squirrels (Callosciurus erythraeus subsp.) and after a few moments of silence we see a flash of brown along a branch, my gun roars out, and there is a thud upon the ground.

Yvette runs to find the animal and ere the echoes have died away in the forest the gun bangs again. We have already shot a dozen squirrels from this tree and yet more are there. Sometimes a tiny, striped chipmunk (Tamiops macclellandi subsp.) will appear on the lower branches, searching the bark for grubs, and after he falls we have a long hunt to find him in the brown leaves. When it is too dark to see the squirrels, we wander slowly back to camp and eat a dinner of delicious broiled deer steak in front of the fire; over the coffee we smoke and talk of the day's hunting until it is time to "run the traps."

Of all the work we enjoy this most. With lanterns and a gun we pick our way among the trees until we strike the trail along which the traps are set. On the soft ground our feet are noiseless and, extinguishing the lanterns, we sit on a log to listen to the night sounds. The woods are full of life. Almost beside us there is a patter of tiny feet and a scurry among the dry leaves; a muntjac barks hoarsely on the opposite hillside, and a fox yelps behind us in the forest. Suddenly there is a sharp snap, a muffled squeal, and a trap a few yards away has done its work. Even in the tree tops the night life is active. Dead twigs drop to the ground with an unnatural noise, and soft-winged owls show black against the sky as they flit across an opening in the branches.

We light the lanterns again and pass down the trail into a cuplike hollow. Here there are a dozen traps and already half of them are full. In one is a tiny brown shrew caught by the tail as he ran across the trap; another holds a veritable treasure, and at my exclamation of delight Yvette runs up excitedly. It is a rare Insectivore of the genus Hylomys and possibly a species new to science. We examine it beside the lantern, wrap it carefully in paper, and drop it into a pocket by itself.

The next bit of cotton clings to a bush above a mossy log. The trap is gone and for ten minutes we hunt carefully over every inch of ground. Finally my wife discovers it fifteen feet away and stifles a scream for in it, caught by the neck and still alive, is a huge rat nearly two feet long; it too is a species which may prove new.

When the last trap has been examined, we follow the trail to the edge of the forest and into the clearing where the tents glow in the darkness like great yellow pumpkins. Ours is delightfully warmed by the charcoal brazier and, stretched comfortably on the beds, we write our daily records or read Dickens for half an hour. It is with a feeling of great contentment that we slip down into the sleeping bags and blow out the candles leaving the tent filled with the soft glow of the moonlight.



CHAPTER XXVIII

MENG-TING: A VILLAGE OF MANY TONGUES

During the eight days in which we remained at the "Good Hope" camp, two hundred specimens comprising twenty-one species were added to our collection. Although the altitude was still 5,000 feet, the flora was quite unlike that of any region in which we had previously collected, and that undoubtedly was responsible for the complete change of fauna. We were on the very edge of the tropical belt which stretches along the Tonking and Burma frontiers in the extreme south and west of the province.

It was already mid-February and if we were to work in the fever-stricken valleys below 2,000 feet, it was high time we were on the way southward. The information which we had obtained near Gen-kang had been supplemented by the natives of Mu-cheng, and we decided to go to Meng-ting as soon as possible.

The first march was long and uneventful but at its end, from the summit of a high ridge, we could see a wide valley which we reached in the early morning of the second day. The narrow mountain trail abruptly left us on a jutting promontory and wandered uncertainly down a steep ravine to lose itself in a veritable forest of tree ferns and sword grass. The slanting rays of the sun drew long golden paths into the mysterious depths of the mist-filled valley. To the right a giant sentinel peak of granite rose gaunt and naked from out the enveloping sea of green which swelled away to the left in huge ascending billows.

We rested in our saddles until the faint tinkle of the bell on the leading mule announced the approach of the caravan and then we picked our way slowly down the steep trail between walls of tangled vegetation. In an hour we were breathing the moist warm air of the tropics and riding across a wide valley as level as a floor. The long stretches of rank grass, far higher than our heads, were broken by groves of feathery bamboos, banana palms, and splendid trees interlaced with tangled vines.

Near the base of the mountains a Shan village nestled into the grass. The bamboo houses, sheltered by trees and bushes, were roofed in the shape of an overturned boat with thatch and the single street was wide and clean. Could this really be China? Verily, it was a different China from that we had seen before! It might be Burma, India, Java, but never China!

Before the door of a tiny house sat a woman spinning. A real Priscilla, somewhat strange in dress to be sure and with a mouth streaked with betel nut, but Priscilla just the same. And in his proper place beside her stood John Alden. A pair of loose, baggy trousers, hitched far up over one leg to show the intricate tattoo designs beneath, a short coat, and a white turban completed John's attire, but he grasped a gun almost as ancient in design as that of his Pilgrim fathers. Priscilla kept her eyes upon the spinning wheel, but John's gaze could by no stretch of imagination be called ardent even before we appeared around a corner of the house and the pretty picture resolved into its rightful components—a surprised, but not unlovely Shan girl and a well-built, yellow-skinned native who stared with wide brown eyes and open mouth at what must have seemed to him the fancy of a disordered brain.

For into his village, filled with immemorial peace and quiet, where every day was exactly like the day before, had suddenly ridden two big men with white skins and blue eyes, and a little one with lots of hair beneath a broad sun helmet. And almost immediately the little one had jumped from the horse and pointed a black box with a shiny front at him and his Priscilla. At once, but without loss of dignity, Priscilla vanished into the house, but John Alden stood his ground, for a beautiful new tin can had been thrust into his hand and before he had really discovered what it was the little person had smiled at him and turned her attention to the charming street of his village. There the great water buffalos lazily chewed their cuds standing guard over the tiny brown-skinned natives who played trustingly with the calves almost beneath their feet.

Such was our invasion of the first Shan village we had ever seen, and regretfully we rode away across the plain between the walls of waving grass toward the Nam-ting River. Two canoes, each dug out of a single log, and tightly bound together, formed the ferry, but the packs were soon across the muddy stream and the mules were made to swim to the other bank. Shortly after leaving the ferry we emerged from the vast stretches of rank grass on to the open rice paddys which stretched away in a gently undulating plain from the river to the mountains. Strangely enough we saw no ducks or geese, but three great flocks of cranes (probably Grus communis) rose from the fields and wheeled in ever-widening spirals above our heads until they were lost in the blue depths of the sky.

Away in the distance we saw a wooded knoll with a few wisps of smoke curling above its summit, but not until we were well-nigh there did we realize that its beautiful trees sheltered the thatched roofs of Meng-ting. But this was only the "residential section" of the village and below the knoll on the opposite side of a shallow stream lay the shops and markets.

We camped on a dry rice dyke where a fringe of jungle separated us from the nearest house. As soon as the tents were up I announced our coming to the mandarin and requested an interview at five o'clock. Wu and I found the yamen to be a large well-built house, delightfully cool and exhibiting several foreign articles which evinced its proximity to Burma.

We were received by a suave Chinese "secretary" who shortly introduced the mandarin—a young Shan not more than twenty years old who only recently had succeeded his late father as chief of the village. The boy was dressed in an exceedingly long frock coat, rather green and frayed about the elbows, which in combination with his otherwise typical native dress gave him a most extraordinary appearance.

We soon discovered that the Chinese secretary who did all the talking was the "power behind the throne." He accepted my gift of a package of tea with great pleasure, but the information about hunting localities for which we asked was not forthcoming. He first said that he knew of a place where there were tiger and leopard, but that he did not dare to reveal it to us for we might be killed by the wild animals and he would be responsible for our deaths; bringing to his attention the fact that tigers had never been recorded from the Meng-ting region did not impress him in the slightest.

It did tend to send him off on another track, however, and he next remarked that if he sent us to a place where the hunting was disappointing we probably would report him to the district mandarin. Assurances to the contrary had no effect. It was perfectly evident that he wished only to get us out of his district and thus relieve himself of the responsibility of our safety. During the conversation, which lasted more than an hour, the young Shan was not consulted and did not speak a word; he sat stolidly in his chair, hardly winking, and except for the constant supply of cigarettes which passed between his fingers there was no evidence that he even breathed.

The interview closed with assurances from the Chinaman that he would make inquiries concerning hunting grounds and communicate with us in the morning. We returned to camp and half an hour later a party of natives arrived from the yamen bearing about one hundred pounds of rice, a sack of potatoes, two dozen eggs, three chickens, and a great bundle of fire wood. These were deposited in front of our tent as gifts from the mandarin.

We were at a loss to account for such generosity until Wu explained that whenever a high official visited a village it was customary for the mandarin to supply his entire party with food during their stay. It would be quite polite to send back all except a few articles, however, for the supplies were levied from the inhabitants of the town. We kept the eggs and chickens, giving the yamen "runners" considerably more than their value in money, and they gratefully returned with the rice and potatoes.

On the hill high above our camp was a large Shan Buddhist monastery, bamboo walled and thatched with straw, and at sunset and daybreak a musical chant of childish voices floated down to us in the mist-filled valley. All day long tiny yellow-robed figures squatted on the mud walls about the temple like a flock of birds peering at us with bright round eyes. They were wild as hawks, these little priests and, although they sometimes left the shelter of their temple walls, they never ventured below the bushy hedge about our rice field.

In the village we saw them often, wandering about the streets or sitting in yellow groups beneath the giant trees which threw a welcome shade over almost every house. They were not all children, and finely built youths or men so old that they seemed like wrinkled bits of lemon peel, passed to and fro to the temple on the hill.

There is no dearth of priests, for every family in the village with male children is required to send at least one boy to live a part of his life under the tutelage of the Church. He must remain three years, and longer, if he wishes. The priests are fed by the monastery, and their clothing is not an important item of expenditure as it consists merely of a straw hat and a yellow robe. They lead a lazy, worthless life, and from their sojourn in religious circles they learn only indolence and idleness.

The day following our arrival in Meng-ting the weekly market was held, and when Wu and I crossed the little stream to the business part of the village, we found ourselves in the midst of the most picturesque crowd of natives it has ever been my fortune to see. It was a group flashing with color, and every individual a study for an artist. There were blue-clad Chinese, Shans with tattooed legs, turbans of pink or white, and Burmans dressed in brilliant purple or green, Las, yellow-skinned Lisos, flat-faced Palaungs, Was, and Kachins in black and red strung about with beads or shells. Long swords hung from the shoulders of those who did not carry a spear or gun, and the hilts of wicked looking daggers peeped from beneath their sashes. Every man carried a weapon ready for instant use.

Nine tribes were present in the market that day and almost as many languages were being spoken. It was a veritable Babel and half the trading was done by signs. The narrow street was choked with goods of every kind spread out upon the ground: fruit, rice, cloth, nails, knives, swords, hats, sandals, skins, horns, baskets, mats, crossbows, arrows, pottery, tea, opium, and scores of other articles for food or household use.

Dozens of natives were arriving and departing, bringing new goods or packing up their purchases; under open, thatched pavilions were silent groups of men gambling with cash or silver, and in the "tea houses" white-faced natives lay stretched upon the couches rolling "pills" of opium and oblivious to the constant stream of passers-by.

It was a picturesque, ever changing group, a kaleidoscopic mass of life and color, where Chinese from civilized Canton drank, and gambled, and smoked with wild natives from the hills or from the depths of fever-stricken jungles.

After one glimpse of the picture in the market I dashed back to camp to bring the "Lady of the Camera." On the way I met her, hot and breathless, half coaxing, half driving three bewildered young priests resplendent in yellow robes. All the morning she had been trying vainly to photograph a priest and had discovered these splendid fellows when all her color plates had been exposed. She might have succeeded in bringing them to camp had I not arrived, but they suddenly lost courage and rushed away with averted faces.

When the plate holders were all reloaded we hurried back to the market followed by two coolies with the cameras. Leaving Yvette to do her work alone I set up the cinematograph. Wu was with me and in less than a minute the narrow space in front of us was packed with a seething mass of natives. It was impossible to take a "street scene" for the "street" had suddenly disappeared. Making a virtue of necessity I focused the camera on the irregular line of heads and swung it back and forth registering a variety of facial expressions which it would be hard to duplicate. For some time it was impossible to bribe the natives to stand even for a moment, but after one or two had conquered their fear and been liberally rewarded, there was a rush for places. Wu asked several of the natives who could speak Chinese if they knew what we were doing but they all shook their heads. None of them had ever seen a camera or a photograph.

The Kachin women were the most picturesque of all the tribes as well as the most difficult to photograph. Yvette was not able to get them at all, and I could do so only by strategy. When Wu discovered two or three squatting near their baskets on the ground I moved slowly up behind them keeping in the center of the crowd. After the "movie camera" was in position Wu suddenly "shooed" back the spectators and before the women realized what was happening they were registered on twenty-five or thirty feet of film.

One of the Kachin men, who had drunk too much, suddenly became belligerent when I pointed the camera in his direction, and rushed at me with a drawn knife. I swung for his jaw with my right fist and he went down in a heap. He was more surprised than hurt, I imagine, but it took all of the fight out of him for he received no sympathy from the spectators.

Poor Yvette had a difficult time with her camera operations and a less determined person would have given up in despair. The natives were so shy and suspicious that it was well-nigh impossible to bribe them to stand for a second and it was only after three hours of aggravating work in the stifling heat and dust that she at last succeeded in exposing all her plates. Her patience and determination were really wonderful and I am quite sure that I should not have obtained half her results.

The Kachin women were extraordinary looking individuals. They were short, and strongly built, with a mop of coarse hair cut straight all around, and thick lips stained with betel nut. Their dress consisted of a short black jacket and skirt reaching to the knees, and ornamented with strings of beads and pieces of brass or silver. This tribe forms the largest part of the population in northern Burma and also extends into Assam. Yuen-nan is fortunate in having comparatively few of them along its western frontier for they are an uncivilized and quarrelsome race and frequently give the British government considerable trouble.

There were only a few Burmans in the market although the border is hardly a dozen miles to the west, but the girls were especially attractive. Their bright pretty faces seemed always ready to break into a smile and their graceful figures draped in brilliant sarongs were in delightful contrast to the other, not over-clean, natives.

The Burma girls were not chewing betel nut, which added to their distinction. The lips of virtually every other woman and man were stained from the red juice, which is in universal use throughout India, the Malay Peninsula, and the Netherlands Indies. In Yuen-nan we first noted it at the "Good Hope" camp, and the Shans are generally addicted to the practice.

The permanent population of Meng-ting is entirely Shan, but during the winter a good many Cantonese Chinamen come to gamble and buy opium. The drug is smuggled across the border very easily and a lucrative trade is carried on. It can be purchased for seventy-five cents (Mexican) an ounce in Burma and sold for two dollars (Mexican) an ounce in Yuen-nan Fu and for ten dollars in Shanghai.

Opium is smoked publicly in all the tea houses. The drug is cooked over an alcohol lamp and when the "pill" is properly prepared it is placed in the tiny bowl of the pipe, held against the flame and the smoke inhaled. The process is a rather complicated one and during it the natives always recline. No visible effect is produced even after smoking several pipefuls, but the deathly paleness and expressionless eye marks the inveterate opium user.

There can be no doubt that the Chinese government has been, and is, genuinely anxious to suppress the use of opium and it has succeeded to a remarkable degree. We heard of only one instance of poppy growing in Yuen-nan and often met officials, accompanied by a guard of soldiers, on inspection trips. Indeed, while we were in Meng-ting the district mandarin arrived. We were sitting in our tents when the melodious notes of deep-toned gongs floated in through the mist. They were like the chimes of far away cathedral bells sounding nearer and louder, but losing none of the sweetness. Soon a long line of soldiers appeared and passed the camp bearing in their midst a covered chair. The mandarin established himself in a spacious temple on the opposite side of the village, where I visited him the following day and explained the difficulty we had had at the Meng-ting yamen. He aided us so effectually that all opposition to our plans ended and we obtained a guide to take us to a hunting place on the Nam-ting River, three miles from the Burma border.



CHAPTER XXIX

CAMPING ON THE NAM-TING RIVER

Every morning the valley at Meng-ting was filled with a thick white mist and when we broke camp at daylight each mule was swallowed up in the fog as soon as it left the rice field. We followed the sound of the leader's bell, but not until ten o'clock was the entire caravan visible. For thirty li the valley is broad and flat as at Meng-ting and filled with a luxuriant growth of rank grass, but it narrows suddenly where the river has carved its way through a range of hills.

The trail led uncertainly along a steep bank through a dense, tropical jungle. Palms and huge ferns, broad-leaved bananas, and giant trees laced and interlaced with thorny vines and hanging creepers formed a living wall of green as impenetrable as though it were a net of steel. We followed the trail all day, sometimes picking our way among the rocks high above the river or padding along in the soft earth almost at the water's edge. At night we camped in a little clearing where some adventurous native had fought the jungle and been defeated; his bamboo hut was in ruins and the fields were overgrown with a tangle of throttling vegetation.

We had seen no mammals, but the birds along the road were fascinating. Brilliant green parrots screamed in the tree tops and tiny sun-birds dressed in garments of red and gold and purple, flashed across the trail like living jewels. Once we heard a strange whirr and saw a huge hornbill flapping heavily over the river, every beat of his stiff wing feathers sounding like the motor of an aeroplane. Bamboo partridges called from the bushes and dozens of unfamiliar bird notes filled the air.

At eleven o'clock on the following morning we passed two thatched huts in a little clearing beside the trail and the guide remarked that our camping place was not far away. We reached it shortly and were delighted. Two enormous trees, like great umbrellas, spread a cool, dark shade above a sparkling stream on the edge of an abandoned rice field. From a patch of ground as level as a floor, where our tents were pitched, we could look across the brown rice dykes to the enclosing walls of jungle and up to the green mountain beyond. A half mile farther down the trail, but hidden away in the jungle, lay a picturesque Shan village of a dozen huts, where the guide said we should be able to find hunters.

As soon as tiffin was over we went up the creek with a bag of steel traps to set them on the tiny trails which wound through the jungle in every direction. Selecting a well-beaten patch we buried the trap in the center, covered it carefully with leaves, and suspended the body of a bird or a chunk of meat by a wire over the pan about three feet from the ground. A light branch was fastened to the chain as a "drag." When the trap is pulled this invariably catches in the grass or vines and, while holding the animal firmly, still gives enough "spring" to prevent its freeing itself.

Trapping is exceedingly interesting for it is a contest of wits between the trapper and the animal with the odds by no means in favor of the former. The trap may not be covered in a natural way; the surroundings may be unduly disturbed; a scent of human hands may linger about the bait, or there may be numberless other possibilities to frighten the suspicious animal.

In the evening our guide brought a strange individual whom he introduced as the best hunter in the village. He was a tall Mohammedan Chinese who dressed like a Shan and was married to a Shan woman. He seemed to be afflicted with mental and physical inertia, for when he spoke it was in slow drawl hardly louder than a whisper, and every movement of his body was correspondingly deliberate. We immediately named him the "Dying Rabbit" but discovered very shortly that he really had boundless energy and was an excellent hunter.

The next morning he collected a dozen Shans for beaters and we drove a patch of jungle above camp but without success. There were many sambur tracks in the clearings, but we realized at once that it was going to be difficult to get deer because of the dense cover; the open places were so few and small that a sambur had every chance to break through without giving a shot.

Nearly all the beaters carried guns. The "Dying Rabbit" was armed with a .45-caliber bolt action rifle into which he had managed to fit a .303 shell and several of the men had Winchester carbines, model 1875. The guns had all been brought from Burma and most were without ammunition, but each man had an assortment of different cartridges and used whichever he could force into his rifle.

The men worked splendidly under the direction of the "Dying Rabbit." On the second day they put up a sambur which ran within a hundred feet of us but was absolutely invisible in the high grass. When we returned to camp we found that a civet (Viverra) had walked past our tent and begun to eat the scraps about the cook box, regardless of the shouts of the mafus and servants who were imploring Heller to bring his gun. After considerable difficulty they persuaded him that there really was some cause for their excitement and he shot the animal. It was probably ill, for its flesh was dry and yellow, but the skin was in excellent condition.

Civets belong to the family Viverridae and are found only in Asia and Africa. Although they resemble cats superficially they are not directly related to them and their claws are only partly retractile. They are very beautiful animals with a grayish body spotted with black, a ringed tail, and a black and white striped pointed head. A scent gland near the base of the tail secretes a strong musk-like odor which, although penetrating, is not particularly disagreeable. The animals move about chiefly in the early morning and evening and at night and prey upon birds, eggs, small mammals, fish, and frogs. One which we caught and photographed had a curious habit of raising the hair on the middle of its back from the neck to the tail whenever it was angry or frightened.

Although there were no houses within half a mile of camp we were surprised on our first night to hear cocks crowing in the jungle. The note was like that of the ordinary barnyard bird, except that it ended somewhat more abruptly. The next morning we discovered Chanticleer and all his harem in a deserted rice field, and he flew toward the jungle in a flash of red and gold.

I dropped him and one of his hens with a right and left of "sixes" and found that they were jungle fowl (Gallus gallus) in full plumage. The cock was a splendid bird. The long neck feathers (hackles) spread over his back and wings like a shimmering golden mantle, but it was hardly more beautiful than the black of his underparts and green-glossed tail. Picture to yourself a "black-breasted red" gamecock and you have him in all his glory except that his tail is drooping and he is more pheasant-like in his general bearing. The female was a trim little bird with a lilac sheen to her brown feathers and looked much like a well-kept game bantam hen.

The jungle fowl is the direct ancestor of our barnyard hens and roosters which were probably first domesticated in Burma and adjacent countries long before the dawn of authentic history. According to tradition the Chinese received their poultry from the West about 1400 B.C. and they are figured in Babylonian cylinders between the sixth and seventh centuries B.C.; although they were probably introduced in Greece through Persia there is no direct evidence as to when and how they reached Europe.

The black-breasted jungle fowl (Gallus gallus) inhabit northern India, Burma, Indo-Chinese countries, the Malay Peninsula, and the Philippine Islands; a related species, G. lafayetti, is found in Ceylon; another, G. sonnerati, in southern India, and a fourth, G. varius, in Java.

We found the jungle fowl wild and hard to kill even where they were seldom hunted. During the heat of the day they remain in thick cover, but in cloudy weather and in the early morning and evening they come out into clearings to feed. At our camp on the Nam-ting River we could usually put up a few birds on the edge of the deserted rice fields which stretched up into the jungle, but they were never far away from the edge of the forest.

We sometimes saw single birds of either sex, but usually a cock had with him six or eight hens. It was interesting to watch such a flock feeding in the open. The male, resplendent in his vivid dress, shone like a piece of gold against the dull brown of the dry grass and industriously ran about among his trim little hens, rounding up the stragglers and directing his harem with a few low-toned "clucks" whenever he found some unusually tempting food.

It was his duty, too, to watch for danger and he usually would send the flock whirring into the jungle while they were well beyond shotgun range. When flushed from the open the birds nearly always would alight in the first large tree and sit for a few moments before flying deeper into the jungle. We caught several hens in our steel traps, and one morning at the edge of a swamp I shot a jungle fowl and a woodcock with a "right and left" as they flushed together.

We were at the Nam-ting camp at the beginning of the mating season for the jungle fowl. It is said that they brood from January to April according to locality, laying from eight to twelve creamy white eggs under a bamboo clump or some dense thicket where a few leaves have been scratched together for a nest. The hen announces the laying of an egg by means of a proud cackle, and the chicks themselves have the characteristic "peep, peep, peep" of the domestic birds. After the breeding season the beautiful red and gold neck hackles of the male sometimes are molted and replaced by short blackish feathers.

There seems to be some uncertainty as to whether the cocks are polygamous, but our observations tend to show that they are. We never saw more than one male in a flock and in only one or two instances were the birds in pairs. The cocks are inveterate fighters like the domestic birds and their long curved spurs are exceedingly effective weapons.

We set a trap for a leopard on a hill behind the Nam-ting River camp and on the second afternoon it contained a splendid polecat. This animal is a member of the family Mustelidae which includes mink, otter, weasels, skunks, and ferrets, and with its brown body, deep yellow throat, and long tail is really very handsome. Polecats inhabit the Northern Hemisphere and are closely allied to the ferret which so often is domesticated and used in hunting rats and rabbits. We found them to be abundant in the low valleys along the Burma border and often saw them during the day running across a jungle path or on the lower branches of a tree. The polecat is a blood-thirsty little beast and kills everything that comes in its way for the pure love of killing, even when its appetite has been satisfied.

On the third morning we found two civets in the traps. The cook told me that some animal had stolen a chicken from one of his boxes during the night and we set a trap only a few yards from our tent on a trail leading into the grass. The civet was evidently the thief for the cook boxes were not bothered again.

Inspecting the traps every morning and evening was a delightful part of our camp life. It was like opening a Christmas package as we walked up the trails, for each one held interesting possibilities and the mammals of the region were so varied that surprises were always in store for us. Besides civets and polecats, we caught mongooses, palm civets, and other carnivores. The small traps yielded a new Hylomys, several new rats, and an interesting shrew.

We saw a few huge squirrels (Ratufa gigantea) and shot one. It was thirty-six inches long, coal black above and yellow below. The animals were very shy and as they climbed about in the highest trees they were by no means easy to see or shoot. They represent an interesting group confined to India, Siam, the Malay Peninsula, the islands of the Dutch East Indies, and Borneo.



CHAPTER XXX

MONKEY HUNTING

Our most exciting sport at the Nam-ting camp was hunting monkeys. Every morning we heard querulous notes which sounded much like the squealing of very young puppies and which were followed by long, siren wails; when the shrill notes had reached their highest pitch they would sink into low mellow tones exceedingly musical.

The calls usually started shortly after daylight and continued until about nine o'clock, or later if the day was dark or rainy. They would be answered from different parts of the jungle and often sounded from half a dozen places simultaneously. The natives assured us that the cries were made by hod-zu (monkeys) and several times we started in pursuit, but they always ceased long before we had found a way through the jungle to the spot from which they came. At last we succeeded in locating the animals.

We were inspecting a line of traps placed along a trail which led up a valley to a wide plateau. Suddenly the puppy-like squealing began, followed by a low tremulous wail. It seemed almost over our heads but the trees were empty. We stole silently along the trail for a hundred yards and turned into a dry creek bed which led up the bottom of the forested ravine. With infinite caution, breathing hard from excitement, we slipped along, scanning the top of every tree. A hornbill sitting on a dead branch caught sight of us and flapped heavily away emitting horrid squawks. A flock of parrots screamed overhead and a red-bellied squirrel followed persistently scolding at the top of its voice, but the monkeys continued to call.

The querulous squealing abruptly ceased and we stood motionless beside a tree. For an instant the countless jungle sounds were hushed in a breathless stillness; then, low and sweet, sounded a moaning wail which swelled into deep full tones. It vibrated an instant, filling all the forest with its richness, and slowly died away. Again and again it floated over the tree tops and we listened strangely moved, for it was like the music of an exquisite contralto voice. At last it ceased but, ere the echoes had reached the valley, the jungle was ringing with an unlovely siren screech.

The spell was broken and we moved on, alert and tense. The trees stretched upward full one hundred and fifty feet, their tops spread out in a leafy roof. Long ropelike vines festooned the upper branches and a luxuriant growth of parasitic vegetation clothed the giant trunks in a swaying mass of living green. Far above the taller trees a gaunt gray monarch of the forest towered in splendid isolation. In its topmost branches we could just discern a dozen balls of yellow fur from which proceeded discordant squeals.

It was long range for a shotgun but the rifles were all in camp. I fired a charge of B.B.'s at the lowest monkey and as the gun roared out the tree tops suddenly sprang into life. They were filled with running, leaping, hairy forms swinging at incredible speed from branch to branch; not a dozen, but a score of monkeys, yellow, brown, and gray.

The one at which I had shot seemed unaffected and threw itself full twenty feet to a horizontal limb, below and to the right. I fired again and he stopped, ran a few steps forward and swung to the underside of the branch. At the third charge he hung suspended by one arm and dropped heavily to the ground stone dead.

We tossed him into the dry creek bed and dashed up the hill where the branches were still swaying as the monkeys traveled through the tree tops. They had a long start and it was a hopeless chase. At every step our clothes were caught by the clinging thorns, our hands were torn, and our faces scratched and bleeding. In ten minutes they had disappeared and we turned about to find the dead animal. Suddenly Yvette saw a splash of leaves in the top of a tree below us and a big brown monkey swung out on a pendent vine. I fired instantly and the animal hung suspended, whirled slowly around and dropped to the ground. Before I had reloaded my gun it gathered itself together and dashed off through the woods on three legs faster than a man could run. The animal had been hiding on a branch and when we passed had tried to steal away undiscovered.

We found the dead monkey, a young male, in the creek bed and sat down to examine it. It was evidently a gibbon (Hylobates), for its long arms, round head, and tailless body were unmistakable, but in every species with which I was familiar the male was black. This one was yellow and we knew it to be a prize. That there were two other species in the herd was certain for we had seen both brown and gray monkeys as they dashed away among the trees, but the gibbons were far more interesting than the others.

Gibbons are probably the most primitive in skull and teeth of all the anthropoid, or manlike, apes,—the group which also includes the gorilla, chimpanzee, and orangutan. They are apparently an earlier offshoot of the anthropoid stem, as held by most authorities, and the giant apes and man are probably a later branch. Gibbons are essentially Oriental being found in India, Burma, Siam, Tonking, Borneo, and the Islands of Hainan, Sulu, Sumatra, and Java.

For the remainder of our stay at the Nam-ting River camp we devoted ourselves to hunting monkeys and soon discovered that the three species we had first seen were totally different. One was the yellow gibbon, another a brown baboon (Macacus), and the third a huge gray ape with a long tail (Pygathrix) known as the "langur." On the first day all three species were together feeding upon some large green beans and this happened once again, but usually they were in separate herds.

The gibbons soon became extremely wild. Although the same troop could usually be found in the valley where we had first discovered them, they chose hillsides where it was almost impossible to stalk them because of the thorny jungle. Usually when they called, it was from the upper branches of a dead tree where they could not only scan every inch of the ground below, but were almost beyond the range of a shotgun. Sometimes we climbed upward almost on our hands and knees, grasping vines and creepers, drawing ourselves up by tree trunks, crawling under thorny shrubs and bushes, slipping, falling, scrambling through the indescribable tangle. We went forward only when the calls were echoing through the jungle, and stood motionless as the wailing ceased. But in spite of all our care they would see or hear us. Then in sudden silence there would be a tremor of the branches, splash after splash of leaves, and the herd would swing away through the trackless tree tops.

The gibbons are well named Hylobates or "tree-walkers" for they are entirely arboreal and, although awkward and almost helpless on the ground, once their long thin hands touch a branch they become transformed as by a miracle.

They launch themselves into space, catch a limb twenty feet away, swing for an instant, and hurl themselves to another. It is possible for them to travel through the trees faster than a man can run even on open ground, and when one examines their limbs the reason is apparent. The fore arms are so exceedingly long that the tips of the fingers can touch the ground when the animal stands erect, and the slender hands are longer than the feet.

The gibbons were exceedingly difficult to kill and would never drop until stone dead. Once I shot an old male with my 6-1/2 mm. Mannlicher rifle at about one hundred yards and, even though the ball had gone clear through his body, he hung for several minutes before he dropped into a tangle of vines.

It was fifteen minutes before we were able to work our way through the jungle to the spot where the animal had fallen, and we had been searching for nearly half an hour when suddenly my wife shouted that a monkey was running along a branch above our heads. I fired with the shotgun at a mass of moving leaves and killed a second gibbon which had been hiding in the thick foliage. Instead of running the animals would sometimes disappear as completely as though they had vanished in the air. After being fooled several times we learned to conceal ourselves in the bushes where we could watch the trees, and sooner or later the monkeys would try to steal away.

The langurs and baboons were by no means as wild as the gibbons and were found in larger herds. Some of the langurs were carrying babies which clung to their mothers between the fore legs and did not seem to impede them in the slightest on their leaps through the tree tops.

The young of this species are bright orange-red and strangely unlike the gray adults. As they grow older the red hair is gradually replaced by gray, but the tail is the last part of the body to change. Heller captured one of the tiny red monkeys and brought it back to camp in his coat pocket. The little fellow was only a few days old, and of course, absolutely helpless.

When it was wrapped in cotton with only its queer little wizened face and blue eyes visible it had a startling resemblance to a human baby until its long tail would suddenly flop into sight and dispel the illusion. It lived only four days in spite of constant care.

There are fifty-five species of langurs (Pygathrix) all of which are confined to the Orient. In some parts of India the animals are sacred and climb about the houses or wander in the streets of villages quite without fear. At times they do so much damage to crops that the natives who do not dare to kill the animals themselves implore foreigners to do so. The langurs are not confined to the tropics, but in the Tibetan mountains range far up into the snow and enjoy the cold weather. In the market at Li-chiang we saw several skins of these animals which had been brought down by the Tibetans; the hair was long and silky and was used by the Chinese for rugs and coats.

The species which we killed at the Nam-ting River camp, like all others of the genus Pygathrix, was interesting because of the long hairs of the head which form a distinct ridge on the occiput. We never heard the animals utter sounds, but it is said that the common Indian langur, Pygathrix entellus, gives a loud whoop as it runs through the tree tops. Often when a tiger is prowling about the jungle the Indian langurs will follow the beast, keeping in the branches just above its head and scolding loudly.

The baboon, or macaque, which we killed on the Nam-ting was a close relative of the species (Macacus rhesus) which one sees parading solemnly about the streets of Calcutta, Bombay, and other Indian cities. In Agra, the home of the beautiful Taj Mahal, the Monkey Temple is visited by every tourist. A large herd of macaques lives in the grounds and at a few chuckling calls from the native attendants will come trooping over the walls for the food which is kept on sale at the gate. These animals are surprisingly tame and make most amusing pets.

On one of our hunts my wife and I discovered a water hole in the midst of a dense jungle where the mud was trodden hard by sambur, muntjac, wild boar, and other animals. We decided to spend a night watching beside it, but the "Dying Rabbit" who was enthusiastic in the day time lost his courage as the sunlight waned. Very doubtfully he consented to go.

Although the trip netted us no tangible results it was an experience of which we often think. We started just at dusk and installed ourselves in the bushes a few yards from the water hole. In half an hour the forest was enveloped in the velvety blackness of the tropic night. Not a star nor a gleam of light was visible and I could not see my hand before my face.

We sat absolutely motionless and listened to the breath of the jungle, which although without definite sound, was vibrant with life. Now and then a muntjac barked hoarsely and the roar of a sambur stag thrilled us like an electric shock. Once a wild boar grunted on the opposite bank of the river, the sound coming to us clear and sharp through the stillness although the animal was far away.

Tiny forest creatures rustled all about us in the leaves and a small animal ran across my wife's lap, leaping frantically down the hill as it felt her move. For five hours we sat there absolutely motionless. Although no animals came to the water hole we were silent with a great happiness as we groped our way back to camp, for we had been close to the heart of the jungle and were thrilled with the mystery of the night.



CHAPTER XXXI

THE SHANS OF THE BURMA BORDER

We saw many Shans at the Nam-ting River, for not only was there a village half a mile beyond our camp, but natives were passing continually along the trail on their way to and from the Burma frontier. The village was named Nam-ka. Its chief was absent when we arrived, but the natives were cordial and agreed to hunt with us; when the head man returned, however, he was most unfriendly. He forbade the villagers from coming to our camp and arguments were of no avail. It soon became evident that only force could change his attitude, and one morning, with all our servants and mafus, we visited his house. He was informed that unless he ceased his opposition and ordered his men to assist us in hunting we would take him to Meng-ting for trial before the mandarin. He grudgingly complied and we had no further trouble.

We found the Shans at Nam-ka to be simple and honest people but abnormally lazy. During our three weeks' stay not a single trap was stolen, although the natives prized them highly, and often brought to us those in which animals had been caught. Shans were continually about our camp where boxes were left unlocked, but not an article of our equipment was missed.

The Nam-ka Shans elevated their houses on six-foot poles and built an open porch in front of the door, while the dwellings at Meng-ting and farther up the valley were all placed upon the ground. The thatched roofs overhung several feet and the sides of the houses were open so that the free passage of air kept them delightfully cool. Moreover, they were surprisingly clean, for the floors were of split bamboo, and the inmates, if they wore sandals, left them at the door. In the center of the single room, on a large flat stone, a small fire always burned, but much of the cooking was done on the porch where a tiny pavilion had been erected over the hearth.

The Shans at Nam-ka had "no visible means of support." The extensive rice paddys indicated that in the past there had been considerable cultivation but the fields were weed-grown and abandoned. The villagers purchased all their vegetables from the Mohammedan hunter and two other Chinese who lived a mile up the trail, or from passing caravans whom they sometimes entertained. In all probability they lived upon the sale of smuggled opium for they were only a few miles from the Burma border.

Virtually every Shan we saw in the south was heavily tattooed. Usually the right leg alone, but sometimes both, were completely covered from the hip to the knee with intricate designs in black or red. The ornamentations often extended entirely around the body over the abdomen and waist, but less frequently on the breast and arms.

All the natives were inordinately proud of these decorations and usually fastened their wide trousers in such a way as to display them to the best advantage. We often could persuade a man to pose before the camera by admiring his tattoo marks and it was most amusing to watch his childlike pleasure.

The Shan tribe is a large one with many subdivisions, and it is probable that at one time it inhabited a large part of China south of the Yangtze River; indeed, there is reason to believe that the Cantonese Chinamen are chiefly of Shan stock, and the facial resemblance between the two races certainly is remarkable.

Although the Shans formerly ruled a vast territory in Yuen-nan before its conquest by the Mongol emperors of China in the thirteenth century A.D., and at one time actually subdued Burma and established a dynasty of their own, at present the only independent kingdom of the race is that of Siam. By far the greatest number of Shans live in semi-independent states tributary to Burma, China, and Siam, and in Yuen-nan inhabit almost all of the southern valleys below an altitude of 4,000 feet.

The reason that the Chinese allow them to hold such an extent of fertile land is because the low plains are considered unhealthy and the Chinese cannot, or will not, live there. Whether or not the malarial fever of the valleys is so exceedingly deadly remains to be proved, but the Chinese believe it to be so and the result is the same. Where the Shans are numerous enough to have a chief of their own they live in a semi-independent state, for although their head man is subordinate to the district Chinese official, the latter seldom interferes with the internal affairs of the tribe.

The Shans are a short, strongly-built race with a distinct Mongolian type of features and rather fair complexions. Their dress varies decidedly with the region, but the men of the southern part of the province on the Nam-ting River wear a pair of enormous trousers, so baggy that they are almost skirtlike, a white jacket, and a large white or pink turban surmounted by a huge straw hat. The women dress in a white jacket and skirt of either striped or dark blue cloth; their turbans are of similar material and may be worn in a high cylinder, a low oval, or many other shapes according to the particular part of the province in which they live.



CHAPTER XXXII

PRISONERS OF WAR IN BURMA

Y.B.A.

The camp at Nam-ka was a supremely happy one and we left it on March 7, with much regret. Its resources seemed to be almost exhausted and the Mohammedan hunter assured us that at a village called Ma-li-ling we would find excellent shooting. We asked him the distance and he replied, "About a long bamboo joint away." It required three days to get there!

Whether the man had ever been to Ma-li-ling we do not know but we eventually found it to be a tiny village built into the side of a hill in an absolutely barren country where there was not a vestige of cover. Our journey there was not uneventful. We left Nam-ka with high hopes which were somewhat dampened after a day's unsuccessful hunting at the spot where our caravan crossed the Nam-ting River.

With a Shan guide we traveled due north along a good trail which led through dense jungle where there was not a clearing or a sign of life. In the afternoon we noted that the trail bore strongly to the west and ascended rapidly. Soon we had left the jungle and emerged into an absolutely treeless valley between high barren hills. We knew that the Burma frontier could not be far away, and in a few moments we passed a large square "boundary stone"; a hundred yards on the other side the hills were covered with bright green stalks and here and there a field glistened with white poppy blossoms. The guide insisted that we were on the direct road to Ma-li-ling which for the first time he said was in Burma. On our map it was marked well over the border in Chinese territory and we were greatly puzzled.

About six o'clock the brown huts of a village were silhouetted against the sky on a tiny knoll in the midst of a grove of beautiful trees, and we camped at the edge of a water hole. The pool was almost liquid mud, but we were told that it was the only water supply of the village and its cattle. As though to prove the statement a dozen buffalos ambled slowly down the hill, and stood half submerged in the brown liquid, placidly chewing their cuds; meanwhile blue-clad Shan women with buckets in their hands were constantly arriving at the pond for their evening supply of water. We had no filter and it was nauseating to think of drinking the filthy liquid but there was no alternative and after repeated boiling and several strainings we settled it with alum and disguised its taste in tea and soup.

After dinner we questioned the few natives who spoke Chinese, but we became only more and more confused. They knew of no such place as Ma-li-ling and our Shan guide had discreetly disappeared. But they were familiar with the trail to Ma-li-pa, a village farther west in Burma and, moreover, they said that two hundred foreign soldiers were stationed there. We were quite certain that they must be native Indian troops but thought that a white officer might perhaps be in command.

We did not wish to cross the frontier because of possible political difficulties since we had no permits to shoot in Burma, but there seemed to be no alternative, for we were hopelessly bewildered by the mythical Ma-li-ling. We eventually discovered that there were two villages by that name—one in Burma, and the other in China, where it was correctly placed on the map which we were using.

While we were discussing the matter a tremendous altercation arose between the Chinese mafus and the servants. For some time Roy did not interfere, supposing it to be a personal quarrel, but the disturbance at last became unbearable. Calling Wu we learned that because we had been so careful to avoid English territory the mafus had conceived the idea that for some reason we were afraid to meet other foreigners. Since we had inadvertently crossed into Burma it appeared to them that it would be an opportune time to extort an increase of wages. They announced, therefore, that unless extra money was given them at once they would untie the loads and leave us.

They were hardly prepared for what followed, however. Taking his Mannlicher rifle, Roy called the mafus together and told them that if any man touched a load he would begin to shoot the mules and that if they made the slightest resistance the gun would be turned on them. A mafus' mules represent all his property and they did not relish the turn affairs had taken. They subsided at once, but we had the loads guarded during the night. In the morning the mafus were exceedingly surprised when they learned that we were going to Ma-li-pa and their change of front was laughable; they were as humble and anxious to please as they had been belligerent the night before.

The trail led over the same treeless rolling hills through which we had passed on the previous afternoon. There was only one village, but it was surrounded by poppy fields in full blossom. It must be a rather difficult matter for a native living in China near the border to understand why he should not be allowed to produce the lucrative opium while only a few yards away, over an imaginary line, it can be planted without restriction. Poppies seem to grow on hillsides better than on level ground. The plants begin to blossom in late February and the petals, when about to fall, are collected for the purpose of making "leaves" with which to cover the balls of opium. The seed pods which are left after the petals drop off are scarified vertically, at intervals of two or three days, by means of a sharp cutting instrument. The operation is usually performed about four o'clock in the afternoon, and the opium, in the form of dried juice, is collected the next morning. When China, in 1906, forbade the consumption of opium and the growing of poppies, it was estimated that there were from twenty-five to thirty millions of smokers in the Empire.

We reached Ma-li-pa about one o'clock in the afternoon and found it to be a straggling village built on two sides of a deep ravine, with a mixed population of Shans and Chinese. It happened to be the weekly market day and the "bazaar" was crowded. A number of Indian soldiers in khaki were standing about, and I called out to Roy, "I wonder if any of them speak English." Instantly a little fellow approached, with cap in hand, and said, "Yes, Madame, I speak English."

One cannot realize how strange it seemed to hear our own language from a native in this out-of-the-way spot! He was the "compounder," or medical assistant, and told us that the hundred native troops were in charge of a white officer whose house was on the opposite side of the river gorge. He guided us to a temple and, while the mules were being unloaded, in walked a tall, handsome young British officer who introduced himself as Captain Clive. He was almost speechless with surprise at seeing me, for he had not spoken a sentence in English or seen a white person since his arrival at this lonely post five months before.

He asked us at once to come to his quarters for tiffin and we accepted gladly. On the way he gave us our first news of the outside world, for we had been beyond communication of any sort for months, and we learned that the United States had severed diplomatic relations with Germany.

Captain Clive's bungalow was a two-room bamboo house with a broad veranda and thatched with straw. It was delightfully cool and dark after the glare of the yellow sun-baked plains about us, and in perfect order. The care which Britishers take to keep from "letting down" while guarding the frontiers of their vast empire is proverbial, and Captain Clive was a splendid example of the Indian officer. He was as clean-shaved and well-groomed as though he had been expecting us for days and the tiffin to which we sat down was as dainty and well served as it could have been in the midst of civilization.

The great Lord Clive of India was an ancestor of our young officer who had been temporarily detached from his regiment, the 129th Baluchis, and sent on border duty. He was very unhappy, for his brother officers were in active service in East Africa, and he had cried to resign several times, but the Indian government would not release him. When we reached Rangoon some months later we were glad to learn that he had rejoined his regiment and was at the front. Ma-li-pa was a recently established "winter station" and in May would be abandoned when the troop returned to Lashio, ten days' journey away. Comfortable barracks, cook houses, and a hospital had been erected beside a large space which had been cleaned of turf for a parade ground.

Captain Clive was in communication by heliograph with Lashio, at the end of the railroad, and received a resume of world news two or three times a week. With mirrors during the day and lanterns at night messages were flashed from one mountain top to another and, under favorable conditions, reached Lashio in seven or eight hours.

We pitched our tents a short distance from the barracks in an open field, for there was no available shade. Although Captain Clive was perfectly satisfied with our passports and credentials he could not let us proceed until he had communicated with the Indian government by heliograph. The border was being guarded very closely to prevent German sympathizers from crossing into Burma from China and inciting the native tribes to rebellion.

In December, 1915, a rather serious uprising among the Kachins in the Myitkyina district on the upper waters of the Irawadi River had been incited by a foreigner, I believe, and Clive had assisted in suppressing it. The Indian government was taking no further chances and had given strict orders to arrest and hold anyone, other than a native, who crossed the border from China.

Very fortunately H.B.M. Consul-General Goffe at Yuen-nan Fu had communicated with the Lieutenant-Governor of Burma concerning our Expedition and we consequently expected no trouble, but Captain Clive could not let us proceed until he had orders to do so from the Superintendent of the Northern Shan States. Through a delayed message this permission did not reach him for five days and in the meantime we made the most of the limited collecting resources which Ma-li-pa afforded.

Clive ordered his day like all the residents of Burma. He rose at six o'clock and after coffee and rolls had drill for two hours. At half past ten a heavy meal took the place of breakfast and tiffin; tea, with sandwiches and toast, was served at three o'clock, and dinner at eight. His company was composed of several different native tribes, and each religious caste had its own cook and water carrier, for a man of one caste could not prepare meals for men of another. It is an extraordinary system but one which appears to operate perfectly well under the adaptable English government. Certainly one of the great elements in the success of the British as colonizers is their respect for native customs and superstitions!

The company drilled splendidly and we were surprised to hear all commands given in English although none of the men could understand that language. This is done to enable British and Indian troops to maneuver together. Captain Clive, himself, spoke Hindustani to his officers. In the evening the men played football on the parade ground and it seemed as though we had suddenly been transported into civilization on the magic carpet of the Arabian Nights.

Every morning we went shooting at daylight and returned about nine o'clock. Conditions were not favorable for small mammals and although we could undoubtedly have caught a few civets, mongooses, and cats we did not set a line of steel traps for we expected to leave at any time. Our attention was mostly devoted to bird collecting and we obtained about two hundred interesting specimens.

We had our mid-morning meal each day with Captain Clive and he dined with us in the evening. He had brought with him from Lashio a large quantity of supplies and lived almost as well as he could have done at home. Although the days were very warm, the nights were cold and a camp fire was most acceptable.

Captain Clive was on excellent terms with the Chinese authorities and, while we were there, a very old mandarin, blind and infirm, called to present his compliments. He had been an ardent sportsman and was especially interested in our guns; had we been willing to accept the commission he would have paid us the money then and there to purchase for him a Savage .250-.300 rifle like the one we were carrying. The old gentleman always had been very loyal to the British and had received several decorations for his services.

A few days after our arrival a half dead Chinaman crawled into camp with his throat terribly cut. He had been attacked by brigands only a few miles over the border and had just been able to reach Ma-li-pa. The company "compounder" took him in charge and, when Clive asked him about the patient, his evasive answers were most amusing; like all Orientals he would not commit himself to any definite statement because he might "lose face" if his opinion proved to be wrong.

Captain Clive said to him, "Do you think the Chinaman will die?" Looking very judicial the native replied, "Sir, he may die, and yet, he may live." "But," said Clive, "he will probably die, won't he?" "Yes," was the answer, "and yet perhaps he will live." That was all the satisfaction he was able to get.

Clive told us of another native who formerly had been in his company. He had been transferred and one day the Captain met him in Rangoon. When asked if his pay was satisfactory the answer was typical, "Sir, it is good, but not s-o-o good!"

On the afternoon of our fourth day in Ma-li-pa a heliograph from Rangoon announced that "The Asiatic Zooelogical Expedition of the American Museum of Natural History is especially commended to His Majesty's Indian Government and permission is hereby granted to carry on its work in Burma wherever it may desire." This was only one of the many courtesies which we received from the British.

The morning following the receipt of the heliogram we broke camp at daylight. When the last mule of the caravan had disappeared over the brown hills toward China we regretfully said farewell and rode away. If we are ever again made "prisoners of war" we hope our captor will be as delightful a gentleman as Captain Clive.



CHAPTER XXXIII

HUNTING PEACOCKS ON THE SALWEEN RIVER

From Ma-li-pa we traveled almost due north to the Salween River. The country through which we passed was a succession of dry treeless hills, brown and barren and devoid of animal life. On the evening of the third day we reached the Salween at a ferry a few miles from the village of Changlung where the river begins its great bend to the eastward and sweeps across the border from China into Burma.

The stream has cut a tremendous gorge for itself through the mountains and the sides are so precipitous that the trail doubles back upon itself a dozen times before it reaches the river 3,500 feet below. The upper half of the gorge is bare or thinly patched with trees, but in the lower part the grass is long and rank and a thin dry jungle straggles along the water's edge. The Salween at this point is about two hundred yards wide, but narrows to half that distance below the ferry and flows in a series of rapids between rocky shores.

The valley is devoid of human life except for three boatmen who tend the ferry, but the deserted rice fields along a narrow shelf showed evidence of former cultivation. On the slopes far up the side of the canon is a Miao village, a tribe which we had not seen before. Probably the valley is too unhealthy for any natives to live close to the water's edge and, even at the time of our visit in early March, the heated air was laden with malaria.

The ferrymen were stupid fellows, half drugged with opium, and assured us that there were no mammals near the river. They admitted that they sometimes heard peacocks and, while our tents were being pitched on a steep sand bank beneath a giant tree, the weird catlike call of a peacock echoed up the valley. It was answered by another farther down the river, and the report of my gun when I fired at a bat brought forth a wild "pe-haun," "pe-haun," "pe-haun" from half a dozen places.

The ferry was a raft built of long bamboo poles lashed together with vines and creepers. It floated just above the surface and was half submerged when loaded. The natives used a most extraordinary contrivance in place of oars. It consisted of a piece of tightly woven bamboo matting three feet long and two feet wide at right angles to which was fastened a six-foot handle. With these the men nonchalantly raked the water toward them from the bow and stern when they had poled the raft well into the current. The invested capital was not extensive, for when the ferry or "propellers" needed repairs a few hours' work in the jungle sufficed to build an entirely new outfit.

All of the peacocks were on the opposite side of the river from our camp where the jungle was thickest. On the first morning my wife and I floated down the river on the raft for half a mile and landed to stalk a peacock which had called frequently from a rocky point near the water's edge. We picked our way through the jungle with the utmost caution but the wary old cock either saw or heard us before we were within range, and I caught just a glimpse of a brilliant green neck as he disappeared into the bushes. A second bird called on a point a half mile farther on, but it refused to come into the open and as we started to stalk it in the jungle we heard a patter of feet among the dry leaves followed by a roar of wings, and saw the bird sail over the tree tops and alight on the summit of a bush-clad hill.

This was the only peacock which we were ever able to flush when it had already gained cover. Usually the birds depend entirely upon their ability to hide or run through the bushes. After several attempts we learned that it was impossible to stalk the peacocks successfully. The jungle was so crisp and parched that the dry leaves crackled at every step and even small birds made a loud noise while scratching on the ground.

The only way to get the peacocks was to watch for them at the river when they came to drink in the early morning and evening. Between two rocky points where we had first seen the birds there was a long curved beach of fine white sand. One morning Heller waited on the point nearest camp while my wife and I posted ourselves under a bush farther down the river. We had been sitting quietly for half an hour when we heard a scratching in the jungle. Thinking it was a peacock feeding we turned our backs to the water and sat motionless peering beneath the bushes. Meanwhile, Heller witnessed an interesting little drama enacted behind us.

An old male peacock with a splendid train stole around the point close to the water, jumped to a high stone within thirty yards of us and stood for a full minute craning its beautiful green neck to get a better view as we kneeled in front of him totally unconscious of his presence. After he had satisfied his curiosity he hopped off the observation pinnacle and, with his body flattened close to the ground, slipped quietly away. It was an excellent example of the stalker being stalked and had Heller not witnessed the scene we should never have known how the clever old bird had fooled us.

The following morning we got a peahen at the same place. Heller had concealed himself in the bushes on one side of the point while I watched the other. Shortly after daylight an old female sailed out of the jungle on set wings and alighted at the water's edge. She saw Heller almost instantly, although he was completely covered by the vines, and started to fly, but he dropped her with a broken wing. Recovering herself, she darted around the rocky point only to meet a charge of B.B.'s from my gun. She was a beautiful bird with a delicate crown of slender feathers, a yellow and blue face patch and a green neck and back, but her plumes were short and inconspicuous when compared with those of the male.

Probably these birds had never before been hunted but they were exceedingly shy and difficult to kill. Although they called more or less during the entire day and we could locate them exactly, they were so far back in the jungle that the crackling of the dry leaves made a stalk impossible. We tried to drive them but were unsuccessful, for the birds would never flush unless they happened to be in the open and cut off from cover. Apparently realizing that their brilliant plumage made them conspicuous objects, the birds relied entirely upon an actual screen of bushes and their wonderful sight and hearing to protect themselves from enemies.

They usually came to the river to drink very early in the morning and just before dusk in the afternoon, but on cloudy days they might appear at almost any hour. If undisturbed they would remain near the water's edge for a considerable time or strut about the sand beach just at the edge of the jungle. At the sound of a gun or any other loud sharp noise the peacocks would answer with their mournful catlike wail, exactly as the domesticated birds will do.

The Chinese believe that the flesh of the peafowl is poison and our servants were horrified when they learned that we intended to eat it. They fully expected that we would not survive the night and, even when they saw we had experienced no ill effects, they could not be persuaded to touch any of it themselves. An old peacock is too tough to eat, but the younger birds are excellent and when stuffed with chestnuts and roasted they are almost the equal of turkey.

The species which we killed on the Salween River is the green peafowl (Pavo munticus) which inhabits Burma, Sumatra, Java, and the Malay Peninsula. Its neck is green, instead of purple, as is that of the common Indian peacock (Pavo cristatus), and it is said that it is the most beautiful bird of the world.

The long ocellated tail coverts called the "train" are dropped about August and the birds assume more simple barred plumes, but the molt is very irregular; usually the full plumage is resumed in March or even earlier. The train is, of course, an ornament to attract the female and, when a cock is strutting about with spread plumes, he sometimes makes a most peculiar rustling sound by vibrating the long feathers.

The eight or ten eggs are laid on the bare ground under a bush in the dense jungle, are dull brownish white and nearly three inches long. The chicks are sometimes domesticated, but even when born in captivity, it is said they are difficult to tame and soon wander away. The birds are omnivorous, feeding on insects, grubs, reptiles, flower buds, young shoots, and grain.

The common peafowl (Pavo cristatus) is a native of India, Ceylon, and Assam. It is held sacred by some religious castes and we saw dozens of the birds wandering about the grounds of the temples in Benares, Agra, and Delhi. Peafowl are said to be rather disagreeable pets because they often attack infirm persons and children and kill young poultry.

In some parts of Ceylon and India the birds are so abundant and easily killed that they do not furnish even passable sport, but in other places they are as wild and difficult to shoot as we found them to be on the Salween River. In India it is a universal belief among sportsmen that wherever peafowls are common, there tiger will be found.

A very beautiful variety which seems to have arisen abruptly in domestication is the so-called "japanned" or black-shouldered peacock named Pavo nigripennis by Mr. Sclater. In some respects it is intermediate between P. munticus and P. cristatus and apparently "breeds true" but never has been found in a wild state. Albino specimens are by no means unusual and are a feature of many zooelogical gardens.

Peacocks have been under domestication for many centuries and are mentioned in the Bible as having been imported into Palestine by Solomon; although the bird is referred to in mythology, the Greeks probably had but little knowledge of it until after the conquests of Alexander.

In the thick jungle only a few hundred yards from our camp on the Salween River I put up a silver pheasant (Euplocamus nycthemerus), one of the earliest known and most beautiful species of the family Phasianidae. Its white mantle, delicately vermiculated with black, extends like a wedding veil over the head, back and tail, in striking contrast to the blue-black underparts, red cheek patches, and red legs.

This bird was formerly pictured in embroidery upon the heart and back badges of the official dresses of civil mandarins to denote the rank of the wearer, and is found only in southern and western China. It is by no means abundant in the parts of Yuen-nan which we visited and, moreover, lives in such dense jungle that it is difficult to find. The natives sometimes snare the birds and offer them for sale alive.

We also saw monkeys at our camp on the Salween River, but were not successful in killing any. They were probably the Indian baboon (Macacus rhesus) and, for animals which had not been hunted, were most extraordinarily wild. They were in large herds and sometimes came down to the water to skip and dance along the sand and play among the rocks. The monkeys invariably appeared on the opposite side of the river from us and by the time we hunted up the boatmen and got the clumsy raft to the other shore the baboons had disappeared in the tall grass or were merrily running through the trees up the mountain-side.

The valley was too dry to be a very productive trapping ground for either small or large mammals, but the birds were interesting and we secured a good many species new to our collection. Jungle fowl were abundant and pigeons exceedingly so, but we saw no ducks along the river and only two cormorants.

Very few natives crossed at the ferry during our stay, for it is a long way from the main road and the climb out of the gorge is too formidable to be undertaken if the Salween can possibly be crossed higher up where the valley is wide and shallow. While we were camped at the river the heat was most uncomfortable during the middle of the day and was but little mitigated by the wind which blew continually. During mid-summer the valley at this point must be a veritable furnace and doubtless reeks with fever. We slept under nets at night and in the early evening, while we were watching for peacocks, the mosquitoes were very troublesome.



CHAPTER XXXIV

THE GIBBONS OF HO-MU-SHU

It is a long hard climb out of the Salween valley. We left on March 24 and all day crawled up the steep sides on a trail which doubled back and forth upon itself like an endless letter S. From our camp at night the river was just visible as a thin green line several thousand feet below, and for the first time in days, we needed a charcoal fire in our tents.

We were en route to Lung-ling, a town of considerable size, where there was a possibility that mail might be awaiting us in care of the mandarin. Although ordinarily a three days' journey, it was more than four days before we arrived, because I had a sharp attack of malaria shortly after leaving the Salween River and we had to travel half stages.

When we were well out of the valley and at an altitude of 5,000 feet, we arrived at a Chinese town. Its dark evil-smelling houses, jammed together in a crowded mass, and the filthy streets swarming with ragged children and foot-bound women, were in unpleasant contrast to the charming little Shan villages which we had seen in the low country. The inhabitants themselves appeared to no better advantage when compared with their Shan neighbors, for their stares and insolent curiosity were almost unbearable.

The region between the Salween River at Changlung and Lung-ling is as uninteresting to the zooelogist as it could possibly be, for the hills are dry and bare and devoid of animal life. Lung-ling is a typical Chinese town except that the streets are wide and it is not as dirty as usual. The mandarin was a jolly rotund little fellow who simulated great sympathy when he informed me that he had received no mail for us. We had left directions to have a runner follow us from Yung-chang and in the event that he did not find our camp to proceed to Lung-ling with the mail. We learned some weeks later that the runner had been frightened by brigands and had turned back long before he reached Meng-ting.

We had heard from our mafus and other natives that black monkeys were to be found on a mountain pass not far from the village of Ho-mu-shu, on the main Yung-chang-Teng-yueh road and, as we were certain that they would prove to be gibbons, we decided to make that our next hunting camp. It was three stages from Lung-ling and, toward evening of the second day, we again descended to the Salween River.