Peking

Sunday in the British Empire:  Hong Kong

In the aisle of the cathedral it lies, an army rifle of
    the latest type. 
It is laid on the black and white mosaic, between the
    carved oaken pews and the strip of brown carpet
    in the aisle. 
A crimson light from the stained-glass window yonder
    glints on the blue steel of its barrel, and the
    khaki of its shoulder-strap blends with the brown
    of the carpet.

The stiff backs of its owner and a hundred like him
    are very still. 
The vested choir chants prettily. 
Then the bishop speaks: 
“O God, who art the author of peace and lover of
    concord,... defend us thy humble servants
    in all assaults of our enemies.” 
“Amen!” say the owners of the khaki backs.

The light has shifted a little.  On the blue steel barrel
    of the rifle the glint is turquoise now. 
That will be from the robe of the shepherd in the window
    yonder, He of the quiet eyes....

  Hong Kong

On the Canton River Boat

Up and down, up and down, paces the sentry. 
He is dressed in a uniform of khaki and his socks are
    green.  Over his shoulder is slung a rifle, and
    from his belt hang a pistol and cartridge pouch. 
He is, I think, Malay and Chinese mixed.

Behind him the rocky islands, hazed in blue, the yellow
    sun-drenched water, the tropic shore, pass as a
    background in a dream. 
He only is sweltering reality. 
Yet he is here to guard against a nightmare, an
    anachronism, something that I cannot grasp. 
He is guarding me from pirates.

Piracy!  The very name is fantastic in my ears, colored
    like a toucan in the zoo. 
And yet the ordinance is clear:  “Four armed guards,
    strong metal grills behind the bridge, the engine-room
    enclosed—­in case of piracy.”

The socks of the sentry are green. 
Up and down, up and down he paces, between the
    bridge and the first of the life-boats. 
In my deck chair I grow restless.

Am I then so far removed from life, so wrapped in
    cotton wool, so deep-sunk in the soft lap of civilization,
    that I cannot feel the cold splash of truth? 
It is a disquieting thought—­for certainly piracy seems
    as fantastic as ever.

The socks of the sentry annoy me.  They are too
    green for so hot a day. 
And his shoes squeak. 
I should feel much cooler if he wouldn’t pace so. 
Piracy!

  Somewhere on the River

The Altar of Heaven

Beneath the leaning, rain-washed sky this great white
    circle—­beautiful!