 The golden land of Burma turns many faces to those who seek to know her. A big river sometimes comforts the land they serve, sometimes punishes it. Her friendly roads link village to village and all the villages to far and rarely sought horizons. A quick rain swirls out of the skies to bring life back to dry earth and good yield from the plantings year after fortunate year. The strong and patient people of Burma's heartland have worked for and reaped to this harvest through times of torment and times of peace. In their strength within themselves and their union with each other is the strength and the union of Burma. This is a folk tale of one who might be one of them. Once they lived in a deep valley beyond a dark hill, a young man. He had been separated from his family when he was only a child. And when he came of age he set forth to look for his family and to know something of the world. He was of his home valley, was known to him and loved by him. And he was reluctant to leave. But the urge to know more of himself whence he came, whether he might go, was very great. But it came from a hidden far away source and went down to a sea almost infinitely distant. He wanted to know both that source and that sea. He had his weight as a child. But now he would learn where their cargo came to rest. Toward the evening of the first day he saw on the horizon the seven-tiered roof which shelters wisdom. He walked on to the monastery and came upon an old Ponji. He knew that this was a wise man who might help him find his family and learn something of the world. He told the Ponji of his home valley and his dreams of finding his own people. And the Ponji reassured him and foretold success in his search. In Burma there are many families, my son, he said. Some of them will show you strange ways and speak in strange tongues. For the people of Burma come from many sources and many of their origins are dim in the past. These origins are like the deep hidden roots of a great tree through which the leaves and the branches are nourished. So do the people of Burma today draw strength from their own deepest roots. You should know something of the country which is the home of your family. Oh, it has a gentle shape like a bending tree. But it has had many shapes and many characters in its long history. Enough of its ancient cities remain for you to know what those characters were. Many lines have crossed and recrossed the land. Under Anarapha, nine centuries ago, it was united. But the army of Kublaqon rented a pot. Long years later, Alangpaya united it again. But the armies of the White Queen of the West again broke it apart and brought it under a long subjection. One black day, death fell from the heavens upon our Burma and nothing was ever the same again. But through back in fright from the images the Ponji conjured up of broken temples and wrecked cities and the face of the beloved country distorted almost beyond knowing. After the first day of death from the heavens, when so many men of Burma and their works were destroyed, the little bands of warriors stood as firm as had any of their fathers in the days when they rode elephants to battle. But it was of no use and it was a long and bitter time before even a small measure of freedom was regained. And even then, the wreckage of war remained upon the works of men and upon their wounded spirits. When the young man set forth again the next day, he remembered much the Ponji had told him of where he should go and what he should see. He would look for signs, for good portents, he would be watchful for good qualities in those he met and some day he would find his family. And as he walked on he came to a river. It was a tormented river, swollen beyond its greatest borders. It had brought loss and change to all those who had lived upon its mountain. But their lives went on as little changed as might be. That was good to know. As a peasant he knew that nature is capricious, but always stronger than man and he must bend to its will. So the people hounded by the river took their goods to higher ground where they would wait until the river should have spent its passion. It was good, the young man thought, for a family to have courage for such crises. Those who lived by a river must also live by its floods and the traveler walked on. He came to a village called by the sound of drums. He found dancing and laughter and was ready for them, for he had been long from home now and was already lonely. And they became acquainted and watched the dancers and smiled together. These seemed like good people, strong and friendly. He had not yet, he thought, found his own true family, but with these people he was at ease as he would have been in his own village. Outside his valley the young man walked away content.