CANTON
imprinted on his mind, and even after the passage of years will find his ears ringing with the sound of screeching Chinese voices.
A number of the mourners in the procession carry towels of the generously proportioned, fuzzy, Turkish variety, and use them to wipe away copious tears which would otherwise actually pour in trickling streams on the street. They are the finest kind of crocodile tears.
"Ai-ai-ai-e-e-e-e-c-!" the mourners scream. And shed more tears, with a furtive glance now and then at the pedestrians lining the streets—as if they are anticipating something in the way of approval for their excellent acting.
The sound of music from the head of the procession has almost died away when a new chorus of rattles, bangs, and crashes enlivens the spectacle. More necks are craned, and the guides inform the travelers that the end of the funeral procession is in sight.
There is a fanfare of drums and then the most unrestrained, unmusical, and barbaric noise imaginable breaks out. The traveler is reminded of the steam
calliope at the end of the circus parade at home. The comparison is irreverent, of course; but still, is true, and that is the excuse for making it.
The din continues. It grows rather than slackens. "Gongs!" remarked the
Thirty-One
