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0195 Tibet and Turkestan : vol.1
Tibet and Turkestan : vol.1 / Page 195 (Grayscale High Resolution Image)

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doi: 10.20676/00000231
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through it, a line of small black figures, men and
yaks and ponies, surging slowly forward to some
end known only to these heavily burdened, uncouth
Tibetans striding cheerfully in the van of the pant-
ing column. Sound is dead. It lives again in the
heavy grunt of some shaggy beast as he slips, re-
covers, and struggles forward. Then up to the
high, clear heaven floats the wild song of the moun-
taineers. It rings in the empty air, a triumphant
bugle-cry flung into the face of Mother Nature,
who, with icy fingers, would slay her children and
shroud them here in the eternal silent snows. It is
a brave, confident, manly note. By memory's trick
comes back to me, as my soul rises to the carol,
another song of Asia—the last-heard music ere this
—three months agone, in fetid Bokhara. 'T is the
low whining and womanish drone of the boy bay-
adere, the voice of weakness and of shame.
And if, indeed, in the tired tumult of the city
the only concord heard is that which sated luxury
sounds, forget not that Asia has yet her mountain-
tops and her mountain tribes, who shall lift their
incorrigible heads to shout and to echo the cry of a
strong man's heart. We may spurn the heavy-eyed
sloth of the crowded town, but this man of the hills
is our brother.
Another memory of the great glacier is that which
pictures two among the exhausted toilers, slow,
overcome, but persistent. Last of all were they to
reach the spent camp at nightfall. They had joined
us near the Kirghiz tents, the good Hadji (pilgrim)
and his wife. Bound from some obscure town in
Western China, they had reached Yarkand in sixty