CANTON
of murderous river pirates momentarily banished from their minds.
The sun is still hesitating below the rim of the earth when the steamer from Hongkong breasts the muddy waters of that part of the river which flows through the fringes of Canton.
Most of the buildings in Canton crouch low, as if apprehensive of an angry, sweeping blow from the typhoons brewed occasionally in the atmospheric kettle of the China Sea. They are more humble, these buildings, than the skyscrapers of the American continent. One of the lords among them is the five-storied Pagoda which looks calmly down on other structures from its superior height.
Seasoned travelers prefer to arrive in Canton early in the morning, for then the life of the city may be observed under more favorable conditions. The maxim "early to bed and early to rise" is observed in Canton as well as in the service, for, as the steamer approaches the wharf, the river seems to be alive with scores of craft, ranging from unwieldy junks to small sampans, which dart in and out among the slower moving, more sedate
boats, as children play tag around a crowd of their elders.
Every boat paddler appears to be trying his best to throw his or her voice across the river, and the range varies
Nineteen
