THE POMEROON TRAIL 87 



we did not topple over more of the great head- 

 carried loads I do not know. We left behind 

 us a world of scared coolies and gaping chil- 

 dren. 



The road was excellent, but it twisted and 

 turned bewilderingly. It was always the same 

 rich red hue — made of earth-clinker burned 

 under sods. Preparing this seemed a frequent 

 occupation of the natives, and the wood piles on 

 the carts melted away in the charcoal-like fires 

 of these subterranean furnaces. Here and there 

 tiny red flags fluttered from tall bamboo poles, 

 reminiscent of the evil-spirit flags in India and 

 Burma. But with the transportation across the 

 sea of these oriental customs certain improve- 

 ments had entered in, — adaptations to the gods 

 of ill of this new world. So the huts in course 

 of alteration, and the new ones being erected, 

 were guarded, not only by the fluttering and the 

 color, but by a weird little figure of a dragon 

 demon himself drawn on the cloth, a quite un- 

 oriental visualizing of the dreaded one. 



As we flew along, we gradually left the vil- 

 lages of huts behind. Single thatched houses 

 were separated by expanses of rice-fields, green 

 rectangles framed in sepia mud walls, picked 



