Yunnan and Laos in a narrow valley, and, entering Cambodia, pours its waters over it for about four months of every year. In the heart of this country the river is divided into three arms, two of which continue their course as the front and the back river, while the third turns back toward the Toulé-Sap lake. This arm presents the phenomenon, which is believed to be unique, of flowing during part of the year in one direction, and the rest of the time in another. When the snows melt, it is swelled to above the level of the lake, and turns its flood into it, and away from the sea. The lake thus serves as a waste-weir and regulator, and is capable of holding in reserve some thirty-five milliards of cubic metres of water. But this is not enough, and in some seasons the water, overflowing the banks of the river and its affluents, covers at least a third of the country and transforms it into a sea navigable for boats having a very respectable draught of water. This periodical inundation has impressed the manners and customs of the Cambodians with a peculiar stamp. The lake itself forms a prominent feature in the life of the people. It is about seventeen miles wide and ninety miles long, and furnishes in its fisheries one of the most reliable sources of the country's wealth.
The character of the Cambodian house is largely determined by the phenomenon of the inundation. It is built on piles, often, on one side at least, some twenty or twenty-five feet above the ground. The piles on one side stand in the river, and the door is on the other side. All that the proprietor asks is that the floor shall be a few inches above the water in time of freshet. He might put it on the level ground near the stream, but he prefers to have it overhang, in part at least, and slope. The floor is reached by ladders, which are drawn up in the evening—the surest mode of closing the house in a country where there are no locks.
Under the floor the pirogue is moored on one side, while the poultry, dogs, and pigs live on the other side. The pigs have hollow backs and their bellies drag on the ground, but their owner does not disdain to share his abode with them. I have seen the Cambodian and his pig lying side by side at noonday, enjoying their siesta. Places are also found under the house for the wagons, plows, and fishing-tackle. The floor is usually a wicker-work of woven bamboo laths, which bend and creak at every step, and which we, with our shoes and heavy walk, find it hard to get over. But the Cambodian walks light-footed and carefully, much as we try to do when we go on tip-toe, but, not being troubled by shoes, with vastly better success. Bending his legs a little and leaning forward, with his arms brought up toward his chest, he puts his foot delicately on two or three of the slats at a time, and walks noiselessly on, while we would always feel as if we were going to break through. These open floors are easily cleaned with a dash of water which runs off, no one cares where. In case the inundation should threaten to rise above them,
