Word: hangchow
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China's story is not all one of civil war, economic fever and malice domestic. Last week, it was spring in Hangchow, the city of Buddhist temples and merry poets, and Chinese in holiday mood were making their annual pilgrimage thither. Armed with a well-thumbed copy of Herbert Allen Giles's translations of Chinese verse, TIME Correspondent Frederick Gruin joined them. His report...
April has brought some 20,000 visitors daily to Hangchow in the greatest pilgrimage since some long-ago poetaster wrote: "Over and above there is a heavenly abode. Here below, there are Soochow and Hangchow." The city's 40 big & little hotels are so full that pilgrims are sleeping in lake boats, on park benches and lawns, and in temples...
...causeways and moon-bridges, sampans drift full of rubber-necking tourists, earnest young intellectuals, tired officials and fat merchants on holiday. Lolling in one, with the tolling bells of distant temples in your ears and a book of verse before your eyes, you come a bit closer to understanding Hangchow's appeal-and maybe to understanding China and her people...
...with 80 Chinese passengers and a crew of four Americans crashed near Hangchow, killing all the occupants - the greatest loss of life in any U.S. plane any where. A C46 struck a radio tower at Peiping and crashed. There were other casualties when superstitious Chinese walked across the runways in front of whirring propellers, hoping that the blades would chew up the evil spirits which they believed were following them. Some propellers missed the shadows but devoured the substance. But loss of life was amazingly small in proportion to the magnitude of the undertaking. Army airmen again had reason...
Rice-eating Southerners, the slim, shrewd sophisticates of Chekiang and Fukien, would go back to their poems, books and lotus seeds. Canton's markets and midnight snackeries would be abuzz again. The Hangchow people would see their lovely lakes. The Soochow girls would croon their languid songs...