258 ACROSS MONGOLIAN PLAINS 



Hutung bearing a letter beautifully written in Chinese 

 characters. 



Everett Smith and I left next morning for the East- 

 ern Tombs. We went by train to Tung-cho, twelve 

 miles away, where a mafu was waiting with our ponies 

 and a cart for baggage. The way to the Tung Ling 

 is a delight, for along it north China country life passes 

 before one in panoramic completeness. For centuries 

 this road has been an imperial highway. I could imag- 

 ine the gorgeous processions that had passed over it and 

 the pomp and ceremony of the visits of the living em- 

 perors to the resting places of the dead. 



Most vivid of all was the picture in my mind of the 

 last great funeral only nine years ago. I could see the 

 imperial yellow bier slowly, solemnly, borne over the 

 gray Peking hills. In it lay the dead body of the Dow- 

 ager Empress, Tz'u-hsi most dreaded yet most beloved 

 the greatest empress of the last century, the woman 

 who tasted of life and power through the sweetest joys 

 to their bitter core. 



We spent the first night at an inn on the outskirts of 

 a tiny village. It was a clean inn, too very different 

 from those in south China. The great courtyard was 

 crowded with arriving carts. In the kitchen dozens of 

 tired mafus were noisily gulping huge bowls of maca- 

 roni, and others, stretched upon the kang, had already 

 become mere, shapeless bundles of dirty rags. After 

 dinner Smith and I wandered outside the court. An 

 open-air theater was in full operation a few yards from 

 the inn, and all the village had gathered in the street. 



