The Yangtse River and the Yellow River are both symbolic of our national spirit. The two mighty rivers negotiate deserts and gorges until their turbid torrents surge forward with irresistible force.
Now, on reflection, I realize that in the days before steamers and aircraft came into use, people used to travel by wooden boat up and down the Sichuan section of the Yangtse River.
Often tucked away in a small town south of the Yangtse River, the lane, like a maiden of ancient times hidden away in a secluded boudoir, is reluctant to make its appearance in public.
Here at the western border of the province and at the foot of the giant Omei Mountain, is Loshan, called Kiachow in the days of Su Tungpo. At this point the Min River flows into the Yangtse.
I spent the first day in Nanjing strolling about with some friends at their invitation, and was ferrying across the Yangtse River to Pukou the next morning and thence taking a train for Beijing on the afternoon of the same day.