ABSTRACT
ALWAYS there are hills in the distance, backed by mountains, wreathed in mist, and always the sound of water. These are the things that have inspired the country's poets and artists and haunt the dreams of its exiles. An eastern backbone of sharp mountains has ribs that run westward and from these wooded hills flow the water that trickles through the rice fields. Climatic maps show it to be at the centre of a small area that is almost unique in its combination of cold dry winters and hot rainy summers. Most of its plants and animals are common to the temperate zone of the Northern Hemisphere but they are tested almost to destruction by seasonal alternations of Siberian cold and summer monsoons. In May the brown desert of winter begins to shimmer in a delicate veil of green which grows into a summer jungle and dies with glory in a long warm autumn of red and gold.
