Suppose we get on board a steamer and sail from Bangkok down to the mouth of the Menam. The distance from Bangkok to the mouth of the river, measured as the crow flies, is only twelve miles, but so much does the river twist and turn that we shall be three hours before we reach the sea. But there is much to be seen in those three hours, and the time passes away merrily enough. [Illustration: THE GULF OF SIAM--MOONLIGHT. _Page 10._] Everywhere there are boats--boats of all sizes and shapes, and without number. Many of these belong to the Chinese, and bear upon the prow a very realistic representation of an eye; for, says John Chinaman, "If boat no got eye, how can him see?" Siamese boats are chiefly canoes, or long, narrow, heavy _rua-changs_. Both classes of boats are built of teak, a wood which is plentiful and cheap, and which is not attacked by the so-called "white ant." The canoes are paddled in the ordinary way, but they are very upsettable. Many of these will not even sit upright in the water unless someone gets inside. Yet great fat men, whose weight sinks the boat to the very edge of the water, and tiny children, whose weight looks little more than nothing, can be seen at all hours of the day darting here and there, like so many flies, on the surface of the water. The _rua-changs_ are larger, and are used for carrying people about from one part of the river to another. They serve the same purpose as our omnibuses. The boatman, who is naked except for a cloth round the loins, stands to his work like a Venetian gondolier. He has only one oar, which works in a groove cut in the side of a short pole that is fixed on the edge of the boat. With long graceful sweeps of the heavy oar the boatman both steers and propels his craft at the same time. The passengers are squatting under paper umbrellas, which keep off a little of the heat of the sun, and blinking behind the blue spectacles that guard their eyes from the powerful and painful reflection of the sun upon the shining waters.