The wall is in fairly good repair, but there are no guns in the town, except a few old-fashioned cannon lying half buried in the ground near the north gate.
One afternoon we climbed up the mountain intending to reach a famous cave, "The Phoenix-eyed Cave" (_Fung-yen-tung_) which overlooks a precipice, of some fame in years gone by as a favourite spot for suicides.

We did not reach the cave.

My energy gave out when we were only half-way, so we sat down in the grass and, to use a phrase that I fancy I have heard before, we feasted our eyes on the scene before us.
And here we gathered many bunches of edelweiss.
As we were coming back down the hill, picking our way among the graves, a pensive Chinaman stopped us to ask our assistance in finding him a lucky spot in which to bury his father, who died a year ago but was still above ground.

He was sorry to hear that we could not pretend to any knowledge of such things.

He was of an inquiring mind, for he then asked us if we had seen any precious stones in the hillside--every Chinaman knows that the foreigner with his blue eyes can see four feet underground--but he was again disappointed with our reply, or did not believe us.
At the poor old shrine to the God of Riches, half a dozen Chinamen in need of the god's good offices were holding a small feast in his honour.
They had prepared many dishes, and, having "dedicated to the god the spiritual essence, were now about to partake of the insipid remains." "_Ching fan_," they courteously said to us when we approached down the path.