Anyone wishing to visit Burma must land at Rangoon, for it is not only the largest and most important of its seaports, but the only one that has direct steamer communication with England, or by river traffic and railways affords access to the interior. The harbour is formed by the tidal estuary of one of the many mouths of the Irrawaddy. Here it is very wide, and a large number of steamers and sailing ships ride at anchor, loading or discharging their cargoes into lighters and quaintly-shaped native boats.

Huge rafts of teak wood drift slowly downstream to the saw-mills below the town, where trained elephants stack the logs with almost human intelligence, and queer uptilted rowing boats, called "sampans," ferry passengers across the river, or to the various vessels in the stream. Long stretches of timber-built quays and iron-roofed "godowns" (or warehouses) form the wharfs, upon which coolies of all nationalities toil under the tropical sun. European officers in white drill and sun-helmets superintend the loading of their vessels, longing to be finished and away from a spot where everything vibrates and dithers in the white glare.

On shore the smoke from the rice-mills adds to the already overpowering sense of heat, while from across the water the noise of hammered iron from the repairing yards completes a picture of bustle, heat, and toil.

Yet Rangoon is a very pleasant place to live in, and as many of my readers will, no doubt, have fathers or brothers in the East, they will like to hear something about the place, and how people live there.

Behind the quay and warehouses the city lies, well laid out in broad streets and squares, and having many fine shops and buildings. The houses are mostly of that curious half-Italian, half-Oriental style which we find in almost all Southern and Eastern seaports. They are usually painted white, with green shutters to the windows, and are often surrounded by broad verandas. The roofs are generally of red tiles, which look pretty among the dark foliage of the trees which often line the streets, and in spite of "topee"[1] and umbrella, pedestrians are thankful to avail themselves of their shade, for the air is hot and the white glare of the streets is most trying to the eyes.

People of all nations throng the thoroughfares and bazaars—Indians and Singalese, Chinese and Burmans—and one's first impression is a vague confusion of picturesque costumes and unaccustomed types of mankind; for Rangoon is cosmopolitan to a degree, and can hardly be called a Burmese town at all.

Anyone visiting Rangoon for the first time will, I think, be struck by the many strange trades carried on in the streets, and it is interesting to sit in the veranda of your hotel in the Strand and watch the crowd as it passes. Here is a water-carrier, whose terra-cotta water-jars are slung from a bamboo carried on his shoulder, another man bears on his head a tray upon which a charcoal fire is cooking a strong-smelling "tit-bit" some hungry labourer will presently enjoy. Again, a Chinaman, perhaps wearing black skull-cap and loose jacket and trousers, endeavours to tempt you to purchase the fans or sunshades he is hawking. Huge baskets of coco-nuts or vegetables, gaudily printed calicoes and haberdashery, cheap knives and looking-glasses, and baskets of cool melons, are some of the articles carried across the shoulders of the pedlars, while porters pass to and fro bearing huge burdens from one warehouse to another.

Flocks of goats are driven from house to house to be milked at the doorstep, and occasionally a hill-man may be seen wandering about in the hope of finding a purchaser for the freshly-caught leopard he is leading. What will, perhaps, most strike Europeans are the bullock gharries by which the heavy traffic of the town is carried on. These are carts curiously shaped and often carved, with large and very wide-rimmed wheels. They are drawn by a pair of Indian bullocks, sleek cream-coloured beasts with mild and patient eyes, and often bearing enormous horns, which, somewhat after the shape of a lyre, stand four feet above their heads.

Excepting for a single rein which is fastened to a ring through the nose, no harness is used; but, instead, the cattle press against the wooden yoke which is fixed to the pole of the cart, and is kept in position by long pins which lie on each side of their necks.

One thing which distinguishes these bullocks from our own is their hump, which nearly all Eastern cattle have. This hump not only enables them the better to work under the yoke, but, as in the case of the camel, is provided by Nature as a storing-place for surplus fat, upon which they can unconsciously nourish themselves when pasturage or food is scarce.

Large-turbaned Indian police keep order in the streets, where office "chuprassies," or messengers, wearing their broad, coloured sash of office across their shoulders, come and go upon their errands, and, with the white-clad butler of a "Sahib" intent upon his marketing, mingle with a crowd which is composed of all races and all stations of life, from the wizened labourer in his loin-cloth to the wealthy baboo or daintily-clad Burmese lady. It is a wonderful medley of strange faces, costumes, and tongues, and among it all the self-sufficient crow fights with the "pi" dogs over the garbage, to the amusement of the children, who, often quite naked, play about the gutters.

No such crowd in England could possibly have the same charm, for here dirt, hunger, and rags are always apparent, while there the dirt is lost in the glorious sunshine, and, instead of rags, we find bright colours, while the people, though often poor, seldom, if ever, go hungry.

I have tried to give you some little idea of the life of the streets, and now let us see something of the life of the "Sahib" in Rangoon.

You boys and girls whose fathers are in India know that "Sahib" means the Englishman, the merchant or official who carries on the business affairs or government of the country, and many of you may remember something of your very young days out there, before the time arrived when it became necessary for you to leave the East and come to school in England.

Well, I may say that the English "Sahib" works very hard indeed, and I am afraid he is already busy at his office long before we in England have thought of getting up. Somewhere about six o'clock, after a light breakfast called "chota-hazri," he is at his office, which he seldom leaves till the evening. The offices are large and airy, and all the windows are shaded by jalousies, or grass mats, which in hot weather are wetted so as to cool the air as it passes through them. Slung from the ceiling in long rows over tables or desks are the "punkahs," or fans, which a "punkah-wallah" outside in the veranda pulls to and fro with a rope in order to keep the hot air moving, and prevent the flies and mosquitoes from settling. Every one, though clothed in the lightest suit, works with his coat off, and in many cases, so as not to interrupt the day's routine, "tiffin," or lunch, is eaten in the office. Work is hard, steady, and continuous, and no one who has not been there knows how well our relations in the East earn its many compensations.

Life there is not all work, however, and its social conditions are very attractive. From the time when his "tum-tum"[2] arrives at the close of office-hours and the "Sahib" bowls merrily homewards, a new life begins. Town becomes deserted, and the suburbs awake to offer amusement and relaxation to the workers.

Let us accompany one of our friends on his way home. The sun is declining and the air already much cooler, and the drive through the shopping streets and the squares is very enjoyable. The town is soon passed, however, and broad roads well shaded with many tropical growths lead to cantonments, as the suburbs are called. Here are the military lines as well as the bungalows of the residents. These bungalows are generally large and comfortable-looking, and one can see from their broad verandas and well-shaded windows that they are designed for coolness. Nearly all are built of timber, and each stands in its own compound, which is usually gay with flowers and well provided with shade-trees. Separated from the house but connected with it by a covered walk are the kitchens, and in a corner of the garden are the stables, for horses are an essential in Rangoon.

As we drive along the quiet roads they gradually become animated. The ladies, who have been resting indoors during the great heat of the day, pass us on their way to their tennis-parties or other engagements, while, in charge of picturesquely-clad Burmese or Indian ayahs, the little ones take their evening walk. Groups of Burmans of the better class with their wives promenade the cool avenues in happy contentment, or wend their way towards Dalhousie Park. The whole scene is pretty and domestic, and the roads themselves form beautiful vistas in the evening light, which gilds the feathery crests of the coco-nuts and gives added colour to the deep-toned foliage of the padouk and other trees which fringe them. Song-birds which are strange to us call each other from the groves, and in the bamboo clumps the grasshoppers are beginning to sing, while floating in the air, which is now fresh and cool, is the scent of many flowers from the gardens.

Dalhousie Park is one of the many attractions of Rangoon. It is large and well laid out, with a very pretty lake, which winds among the well-arranged groups of forest trees. There is a boat club here, and gliding over the still water are many rowing boats and small sailing craft. Swans and ducks are swimming about as the swallow skims the surface of the water, breaking its deep reflections with a silver streak. All the paths are thronged with people, some driving, others on foot, and most of them presently congregate about the bandstand to enjoy the music or exchange the gossip of the day. It is quite an interesting sight. All the fashionable life of Rangoon is represented here, and mingling with it are yellow-robed Buddhist priests and natives of all classes; for the Burman loves to come here in the evening, to listen to the band or watch the changing glory of the sky as the sun slowly sets behind his beloved pagoda.

Now the sun has set, and every one hastily puts on overcoats or wraps before driving home, for the air becomes suddenly cold, and neglect of these precautions will probably result in fever.

Many adjourn to the gymkhana club before returning home. This is principally a man's club, but here also on many days a band plays, and the sight is a pretty one indeed as the children and their ayahs play about the lawn, while their parents enjoy their tea at the little tables scattered about it, before the falling dew drives the little ones homewards, and their elders to the club-house for a game of billiards or a chat.

All this side of Rangoon life is very pleasant and very interesting, but it is not Burmese. Rangoon has for so long been a great trade centre that the easy-going Burman is rather overshadowed; but as it is typical of many foreign places where our fathers or brothers are occupied, and where some of my readers may presently have to go, I thought it would be interesting to give you this glimpse of European life in India, and in the next chapter I will tell you something about the Burmans themselves.