A dish of boiled fish, pickled ginger, chicken entrees, young
onions, together with rice enough to feed a pig, form the ingredients of
a very good Chinese meal. Chop-sticks are, of course, provided; but, as
yet, my dexterity in the manipulation of these articles is decidedly of
the negative order, and so my pocket-knife performs the dual office of
knife and fork; for the rice, one can use, after a manner, the little
porcelain dipper provided for ladling an evil-smelling liquid over that
staple. Bread, there is none in China; rice is the bread of both this
country and Japan. During the night one gets a reminder of the bek-jees
of Constantinople in the performances of a night policeman, who passes by
at intervals loudly beating a drum. This, together with roystering
mosquitoes, and a too liberal indulgence in strong tea, banishes sleep
to-night almost as effectually as the pounding of the old drug-vender's
pestle did at Chun-Kong-hoi.
The rooms below are full of sleeping coolies, cat-and-dog hucksters and
travellers, when I descend at day-break to start. The first two hours are
wasted in wandering along a levee that leads up a tributary stream,
coming back again and getting ferried to the right embankment. The riding
is variable, and the zigzagging of the levee often compels me to travel
three miles for the gaining of one.
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