by H. Warington Smyth
reprinted from Mast and Sail in Europe and Asia
Sounds not seldom bring linked with them strange memories. Sitting in a London hansom with a fast trotter between the shafts, an old Siamese air called the ‘Trotting pony’ comes back to me with its quick rhythm and sweet, weird monotony. It brings old loved pictures of white sands, blue sea and green islets; I hear the swaying palm-tops chattering in the breeze, and the tall yellow matted mainaiIs of the boats rustling as they come head to wind to their anchors. Before my eyes again the white crests hurry off shore to the open sea, and in my eas the monsoon wind roars down across the bending forests from the purple mountains inland.
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