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+} + +.rightnote, .pagenum, .linenum, .pagenum a +{ +color: #AAAAAA; +} + +a.hidden:hover, a.noteref:hover +{ +color: red; +} + +p.dropcap:first-letter +{ +color: #001FA4; +font-weight: bold; +} + + + +</style></head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Fil and Filippa, by John Stuart Thomson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Fil and Filippa + Story of Child Life in the Philippines + +Author: John Stuart Thomson + +Illustrator: Maud Petersham + Miska Petersham + +Release Date: August 24, 2008 [EBook #26414] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FIL AND FILIPPA *** + + + + +Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was +produced from images generously made available by The +Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="front"> +<div class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><p></p> +<div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Original Front Cover." width="481" height="720"></div><p> + + +</p> +</div> +<div class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><p></p> +<div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/frenchtitle.gif" alt="Fil and Filippa" width="325" height="87"></div><p> + + +</p> +</div> +<div class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><p></p> +<div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0006.gif" alt="Decorative Text: Fil and Filippa" width="720" height="409"></div><p> + +</p> +<p></p> +<div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0006-2.gif" alt="Map showing location of the Philippines and the U.S." width="796" height="720"></div><p> + + +</p> +</div> +<div class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><p></p> +<div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0007.gif" alt="Original Title Page." width="486" height="720"></div><p> + + +</p> +</div> +<div class="titlePage"> +<h1 class="docTitle">Fil and Filippa</h1> +<h2 class="docTitle">Story of Child Life +in the Philippines +</h2> +<h2 class="byline">By +<br> +<span class="docAuthor">John Stuart Thomson</span> +<br> +Author of +“China Revolutionized” +“The Chinese” +“Bud and Bamboo” Etc. +<br> +Illustrations by +<br> +<span class="docAuthor">Maud and Miska Petersham</span></h2> +<h2 class="docImprint">The Macmillan Company, Publishers +<br> +New York MCMXXIX +</h2> +</div><div class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><p class="aligncenter"><span class="smallcaps">Copyright</span>, 1917,<br> +<span class="smallcaps">By the Macmillan Company.</span> + +</p> +<p class="aligncenter">Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1917. + +</p> +<p class="aligncenter">Printed in the United States of America + + +</p> +</div> +<div class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><p class="aligncenter">Dedicated to my Little Friend + +</p> +<p class="aligncenter">Francis Doris + +</p> +<p class="aligncenter">By the Author + + + +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="xd0e157" href="#xd0e157">vii</a>]</span></p> +</div> +<div id="toc" class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><h2 class="normal">Contents</h2> +<ol class="lsoff"> +<li>Chapter <span class="tocPagenum">Page</span> + +</li> +<li>I. <a href="#ch1"><span class="smallcaps">Names.</span></a> <span class="tocPagenum">4</span> + +</li> +<li>II. <a href="#ch2"><span class="smallcaps">Climate, Typhoons, Volcano</span></a> <span class="tocPagenum">6</span> + +</li> +<li>III. <a href="#ch3"><span class="smallcaps">At Worship</span></a> <span class="tocPagenum">10</span> + +</li> +<li>IV. <a href="#ch4"><span class="smallcaps">Houses</span></a> <span class="tocPagenum">14</span> + +</li> +<li>V. <a href="#ch5"><span class="smallcaps">Cocoa and Coffee</span></a> <span class="tocPagenum">16</span> + +</li> +<li>VI. <a href="#ch6"><span class="smallcaps">Hemp and Sugar</span></a> <span class="tocPagenum">19</span> + +</li> +<li>VII. <a href="#ch7"><span class="smallcaps">The Coconut</span></a> <span class="tocPagenum">21</span> + +</li> +<li>VIII. <a href="#ch8"><span class="smallcaps">Indigo; Mango; Guava; Durian</span></a> <span class="tocPagenum">23</span> + +</li> +<li>IX. <a href="#ch9"><span class="smallcaps">The Forest</span></a> <span class="tocPagenum">26</span> + +</li> +<li>X. <a href="#ch10"><span class="smallcaps">Minerals</span></a> <span class="tocPagenum">29</span> + +</li> +<li>XI. <a href="#ch11"><span class="smallcaps">Water Buffalo</span></a> <span class="tocPagenum">31</span> + +</li> +<li>XII. <a href="#ch12"><span class="smallcaps">Bats; Cattle; Horses; Cats; Monkeys</span></a> <span class="tocPagenum">33</span> + +</li> +<li>XIII. <a href="#ch13"><span class="smallcaps">Flying Ants; Locusts</span></a> <span class="tocPagenum">35</span> + +</li> +<li>XIV. <a href="#ch14"><span class="smallcaps">Boats and Fish</span></a> <span class="tocPagenum">37</span> + +</li> +<li>XV. <a href="#ch15"><span class="smallcaps">Saw Mill; Mudsleighs; Wooden Plows</span></a> <span class="tocPagenum">39</span> + +</li> +<li>XVI. <a href="#ch16"><span class="smallcaps">Umbrellas; Chairs; Milk-bottle; Milkman</span></a> <span class="tocPagenum">42</span> + +</li> +<li>XVII. <a href="#ch17"><span class="smallcaps">Home Life</span></a> <span class="tocPagenum">44</span> + +</li> +<li>XVIII. <a href="#ch18"><span class="smallcaps">Dress</span></a> <span class="tocPagenum">47</span> + +</li> +<li>XIX. <a href="#ch19"><span class="smallcaps">The “Adios” Feast</span></a> <span class="tocPagenum">49</span></li> +</ol><span class="pagenum">[<a id="xd0e337" href="#xd0e337">viii</a>]</span></div> +<div class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><h2 class="normal">Persons</h2> +<ol class="lsoff"> +<li><span class="smallcaps">Fil</span>, a Filipino boy. + +</li> +<li><span class="smallcaps">Filippa</span>, his sister. + +</li> +<li><span class="smallcaps">Favra</span>, her playmate. + +</li> +<li><span class="smallcaps">Moro</span>, Fil’s playmate, a Mohammedan. + +</li> +<li><span class="smallcaps">Fil’s Father.</span> + +</li> +<li><span class="smallcaps">Fil’s Mother.</span> + +</li> +<li><span class="smallcaps">The Padre-priest.</span> + +</li> +<li><span class="smallcaps">The Guest.</span> + +</li> +<li><span class="smallcaps">Driver of the Water Buffalo Cart.</span></li> +</ol> +</div> +</div> +<div class="body"><span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb1" href="#pb1">1</a>]</span><div id="ch1" class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0013.gif" alt="Ornament" width="615" height="320"></div> +<h2 class="super">Fil and Filippa</h2> +<h2 class="label">Chapter I</h2> +<h2 class="normal">Names</h2> +<p>It took me over a month and a half to reach the summer islands that I sought. In three weeks I had gone through the Panama +Canal and had reached San Francisco, and in four weeks more I had crossed the world’s widest, most peaceful, and bluest ocean, +the Pacific. + +</p> +<p>There, like a string of pearls hanging from the golden Equator, I found thousands of wonderful islands of all sizes, but only +two of them are very large. I found also my new and kind young friends: Fil; his sister Filippa; Fil’s boy playmate named +Moro, who came from the large southern island; their parents and friends; and the good Padre. Each one of them was shorter +and darker than I. Yet they said to me: “The Stars and Stripes, now our flag also, makes us all American brothers, which we +will be always.” +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb2" href="#pb2">2</a>]</span></p> +<p>“But how is it that you are called Filipinos, and live in the Philippine Islands?” I asked. + +</p> +<p>Fil smiled and said: “Though I believe you know without asking me, I shall tell you to show that I know our romantic and interesting +history. + +</p> +<p>“Hundreds of years ago, many years before America became a nation, the roving Spaniards discovered these islands, and named +them the Philip-pines, in honor of their king Philip. When the American Admiral Dewey won these islands from Spain, our name +was not changed. + +</p> +<p>“And our Christian names of Fil and Filippa have the same sound, and almost the same meaning, as Philippines,” added Filippa, +her eyes smiling from under her cloud of beautiful hair,—hair longer and richer than an American girl’s hair,—and eyes darker +and deeper than an American girl’s eyes. Perhaps her brows were a little bit flatter, and her nose was a little bit shorter +and wider, than ours; but still she was pretty, especially when she smiled, for she had beautiful white teeth. + +</p> +<p>Then I turned to Fil’s playmate, Moro, and asked him what his rolling name could mean. Moro was even more eager and darker +than Fil. He replied, as he bravely touched his toy sword: + +</p> +<p>“I, too, am of the Malay race, but of a different religion from Fil. I am a Mohammedan; <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb3" href="#pb3">3</a>]</span>that is, I reverence the same prophets whom the Turks worship. I come from the southern islands of the Philippines. There +we spend most of our time roving in boats, and hunting over the hills. The first white man who met us saw that we were as +dark, and had the same religion, as the tribes of Morocco in Africa. That perhaps is why I am called Moro, the Mohammedan, +whose father fears no man; nor shall I, when I grow up.” + +</p> +<p>“But we are all friends now under a new, friendly flag; and we preach and practice love, instead of fear and fighting,” I +replied. + +</p> +<p>Filippa looked upon me with very happy eyes, when I said this; for a girl seems to know wiser ways of settling quarrels than +do boys. A boy becomes excited; a girl thinks longer and acts more slowly. Certainly, Filippa’s gentle ways and the expression +in her wonderfully deep eyes had more power with Fil and Moro than would strife and force. + +</p> +<p>“Every name seems to have a pretty meaning in your Edenlike Philippines,” I remarked to Filippa’s playmate, Favra. + +</p> +<p>“Yes,” she replied, “the Padre (pă′drāi), our pastor or cleric, who knows so much, tells me that my name means the friendly +one who does favors.” + + + +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb4" href="#pb4">4</a>]</span></p> +</div> +<div id="ch2" class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0016.gif" alt="Ornament" width="611" height="391"></div> +<h2 class="label">Chapter II</h2> +<h2 class="normal">Climate, Typhoons, Volcano</h2> +<p>Next day I met the Padre. He was seated on a cane chair under a clump of whispering bamboos, which are giant grasses as tall +and as strong as trees. + +</p> +<p>We had hardly exchanged morning greetings, by saying “Buenos dias (boo āi′nos dē′as),” before we heard the children running +along the white shell path, between the parklike tropical woods. + +</p> +<p>“Every one awakens early in this wonderful climate, yet no one seems to be fully awake,” I said. + +</p> +<p>The good Padre replied: “We are situated so near the Equator that the sun rises into full and bright daylight at once.” +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb5" href="#pb5">5</a>]</span></p> +<p>“I seem to half dream all day. Is it the balmy warm air, or the scents of new flowers, or the equatorial sun?” I asked. + +</p> +<p>The Padre explained it by saying: “The sun throws more direct rays here; and they pierce through thin hats, and especially +through black clothes. It is best to wear thick, white paper helmets. Moreover, our climate is more damp than is America’s +climate. + +</p> +<p>“That is why you feel somewhat dreamy; and that is why everything in Nature, such as trees, fruits, flowers, ferns, and even +animals and birds, grow so richly; and why the flowers shed influences and perfumes on the air. It all appeals to the warmth, +color, and dreaminess in your happy imagination. + +</p> +<p>“You think of stories of Eden or Paradise perhaps, where one imagines no hard winter, no bare trees or lawns, no whiteness. +Everything is more beautiful to look upon here. The birds and winds and rains drop seeds; and at once lavish plants grow up. +You will soon become used to our warmer climate, because you will need to eat less meat and butter, which is the fuel that +keeps you warm. Instead you will eat more rice and fruit, which will give you strength, without heating you.” + +</p> +<p>At this moment, our little friend Moro pursed <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb6" href="#pb6">6</a>]</span>out his cheek and made a sound like a howling siren or a storm. + +</p> +<p>“That noise reminds me of your awful typhoons. I passed through one of those whirling storms, just as I approached these islands +of beauty,” I exclaimed. “Can you explain that great wonder?” I asked. + +</p> +<p>“It is God, the Creator’s, magnificent but terrible act, such as you read about in the Book of Job or in the Psalms,” said +the Padre, who crossed himself and bowed in piety. The good children, except Moro, all made the holy sign. + +</p> +<p>Then the wise Padre continued: “Like great characters, for a long time gentle,—like peace which has covered the earth for +years,—so, in our still, summer seas, suddenly in September, everything seems to contradict and be in rebellion, with a force +unknown and unexpected before,—a force all the greater, because it was accumulating quietly for many months. + +</p> +<p>“The heat becomes unbearable. The winds arise and sweep all one way, for a time. Then comes the black rain. The heavy typhoon +soon begins to howl and to turn in a circle for two or three days. The wheeling storm moves from place to place, and finally +dies down at sea.” + +</p> +<p>Filippa inquired: “Why is such a circular storm of the Oriental tropics, called a typhoon?” +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb7" href="#pb7">7</a>]</span></p> +<p>The Padre explained: “It is a word that we have taken from the Chinese, who live not many hours away from us, across the water +to the northwest. ‘Tai’ means great. ‘Fung’ or ‘phoon,’ means a wind. These storms sweep all the way from the Philippine Islands, +across the seas to China. We like the expressive word which the Chinese have given these wind storms.” + +</p> +<p>“We have another natural wonder here, the volcano,” said Favra. + +</p> +<p>“Yes,” replied the Padre, “the Taal (Tä′al) and Mayon (Mä y[+o]n′) volcanoes once were smoking and fiery mountains, shaped +like a cone. Years ago fire and lava, which is molten rock that has cooled, poured from their hot, pointed tops, ran down +the sides, and destroyed everything in their path.” + +</p> +<p>“What is lava?” asked Fil. + +</p> +<p>The Padre replied: “Even a volcano produces some good. This melted rock, when it becomes cold, forms a light, porous stone, +which is used for polishing. You use it in your bathroom, to rub ink off your hands. Lava stone is easily ground into powder. +When mixed with soap, this ground lava becomes a useful cleaning and polishing powder.” + +</p> +<p>“Nature is always useful, as well as grand <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb8" href="#pb8">8</a>]</span>and beautiful,” remarked Fil’s father, who, dressed in a white silk suit and abacá hat, had just then come up the path. + +</p> +<p>“Where did you get that hat?” I laughingly asked Fil’s father. + +</p> +<p>“I’ll tell you some other time. It is made from reeds, woven under water to keep them damp and pliant. The hat, therefore, +is light, durable, and cool,” he replied. + + + +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb9" href="#pb9">9</a>]</span></p> +</div> +<div id="ch3" class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0021.gif" alt="Ornament" width="617" height="496"></div> +<h2 class="label">Chapter III</h2> +<h2 class="normal">At Worship</h2> +<p>When I arose next day and walked to the usual morning seat under the bamboos, I found only Moro there. + +</p> +<p>“Where is everybody else?” I asked. + +</p> +<p>“At the Iglesia (ig lāi sē′a),” replied Moro. + +</p> +<p>I knew iglesia was the Philippine word for church; so I said to Moro: “Let us go there too, and see what they are all doing.” + +</p> +<p>After we had walked along the white shell paths, past the swaying fisher boats, over an ancient stone bridge, beneath tall +palms and hanging vines and thick bananas, we beheld a wonderfully carved doorway, with statues in the niches. Over the tree +tops, rose a noble <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb10" href="#pb10">10</a>]</span>white dome. From the open windows, the sweet singing of sacred music came to our ears. It was the well-known Mass or communion +music of our own land, consisting of the beautiful strains of the Gloria, the Sanctus, and the Benedictus. As we came nearer, +the breeze wafted us sweet incense from the altar, sandal and spice and flower and cinnamon scents. + +</p> +<p>Though Moro was of a different faith, he took off his hat; so did I. The short Filipino men were dressed in white. The sweet-looking +Filipino women were dressed in wide-striped skirts, and white waists, with very large collars starched stiff. Over their heads +were large lace shawls called mantillas. They wore no hats, for they were very proud to show their fine long hair, filled +with gold and jeweled pins. + +</p> +<p>Every one dipped a finger in the water which was placed in a huge shell near the door. Then they bowed before the cross on +the altar, which was shining at the end of the long aisle. + +</p> +<p>In the front seats, under the high dome, we could see Filippa, her parents, and Favra. The colored light from the stained +glass windows fell down in rays and clouds of beauty upon the altar boys, who wore robes of purple and white lace. +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb11" href="#pb11">11</a>]</span></p> +<p>The music of the blue and gold organ was subdued to a velvet whisper. Suddenly a boy arose behind the carved benches of the +choir. He sang in a voice as clear as a bird’s: + + +</p> +<div class="
 poem
 "> +<p class="line" style=""><span>“Come, Holy Spirit, Come.”</span></p> +</div> +<p>It was Fil who was singing. The censers were swinging. The organ began to drown even Fil’s clear voice. Then all the singers +in the choir arose and filled the great dome, the long cathedral aisles, and even the palm grove outside the windows, with +a great burst of sacred music: + + +</p> +<div class="
 poem
 "> +<p class="line" style=""><span>“Holy, Holy is the Lord.”</span></p> +</div> +<p>It was all very solemn and very sweet. Far richer than in the homeland, seemed the music, because of the greater natural beauty +of the tropics. + +</p> +<p>Then our good friend, the Padre, arose, and spoke to his people, about charity and missions and peace and the stranger within +the doors. He spoke so kindly that we all regretted war, and even hated the name of war. He asked us to give gifts for the +wounded and the poor in other sad, colder, harder lands of hate and evil. + +</p> +<p>Then he extended his hands. A great blessing <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb12" href="#pb12">12</a>]</span>seemed to flow down from the pulpit and even from the walls of the holy temple of peace, where the white altar, the golden +cross, and the colored windows shone out as signs of purity and love. + +</p> +<p>When the service was dismissed, we all walked home together. + +</p> +<p>“When are you going to be a Christian, little Moro?” inquired the kind Padre. + +</p> +<p>“I am a Mohammedan. My people come from the southern Philippines. We worship one God, and Mohammed is his prophet. We make +converts by the sword of force, rather than by preaching,” replied Moro, his eyes looking strange and brave. + +</p> +<p>“Tell me more about your religion. I have heard it is peculiar,” said Filippa. + +</p> +<p>“When we pray, we face Mecca, instead of Jerusalem or Rome. At Mecca in Arabia is the Holy Book, which we call the Koran. +There, also, is the birthplace of Mohammed, our prophet. We believe in troops of angels above, as well as in ‘jinns,’ or spirits, +on earth, who are ready to help us. We have no altars in our mosques or churches. + +</p> +<p>“Our mosques are immense, plain structures, with only large Arabic letters of texts, painted on the walls and ceiling. Five +times a day, the <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb13" href="#pb13">13</a>]</span>Muezzin priest mounts the outside of the mosque tower, and calls the faithful to prayer. Each Mohammedan carries his own praying +mat. After placing it on the tile floor beneath the thin pillars, he kneels and bows upon his mat, facing Mecca, where our +prophet was born. We do not use music or organs.” + + +</p> +<p></p> +<div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0025.jpg" alt="Moro’s Father" width="465" height="720"><p class="figureHead">Moro’s Father</p> +</div><p> + + +</p> +<p>All this Moro explained to us. What he told about his religion was very different, very interesting, very new. + +</p> +<p>“There are good things in your religion,” said the kind Padre, as he placed his hand gently on Moro’s dark head. + +</p> +<p>“You despise the use of intoxicating liquor. You teach the duty of giving alms and of being charitable to the poor, the unfortunate, +and the sick. You teach that every one is his brother’s keeper, and should help his brother to succeed in life. You teach +that cleanliness and plain living are almost a part of religion. And we Christians agree with you, Moro, in all these grand +ideas; for I think that, with all the sorrow now in the world, some of us have been too selfish, too luxurious, as though +we thought we would live forever, and had no duty except to ourselves.” + +</p> +<p>I, too, felt conscience-stricken for my homeland and for myself, when I heard, in this odd <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb14" href="#pb14">14</a>]</span>and different quarter of our large world, the Filipino Padre’s true but kind moralizing over Moro’s different religion. + +</p> +<p>“The bells! Oh, the silver-sweet bells!” exclaimed Filippa’s mother. + +</p> +<p>“The bells of love and peace,” replied the Padre, as he glanced back at the twin towers of his white Iglesia (church) that +shone over the grove of coconut palms. + + + +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb15" href="#pb15">15</a>]</span></p> +</div> +<div id="ch4" class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0029.gif" alt="Ornament" width="603" height="391"></div> +<h2 class="label">Chapter IV</h2> +<h2 class="normal">Houses</h2> +<p>“What odd homes! toy houses toppling over from their stilts!” I exclaimed, as we passed a remarkable village. All the buildings +were set up on poles, and had ladders for their dwellers to climb up to the high doors. The houses looked as though the lower +story had been washed away, and only the second story remained. Over each window and door projected a very neat eyebrow, so +to speak, either to shed rain or to keep out the sun. + +</p> +<p>“That is our famous nipa-thatch house used by the original Filipinos,” said Moro. “I can explain all about it, for all Moros, +and many backward tribes, use these houses.” + +</p> +<p>“Tell me everything,” I urged. + +</p> +<p>“First,” said Moro, “there is not one nail in a nipa-thatch house. Perched high in the <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb16" href="#pb16">16</a>]</span>air on poles, as it is, you perhaps would think our typhoons would blow it over, just like a light bandbox.” + +</p> +<p>“So I would think,” I replied. + +</p> +<p>“Well,” laughed bright Moro, “let me ask you a question. What makes a pole snap before the rush of a storm? What makes a brick +wall give way before a sudden wind? And why does a tree or a reed bear the storm easily?” + +</p> +<p>“Because the tree and the reed are elastic enough to give a little,—to bend instead of breaking,” I answered. + +</p> +<p>“That is just it,” again laughed my little Master Moro. “Our small nipa hut, high in the air, sways a little, but rides out +the storm. Every pole, every beam, and every rafter of the frame, is all made of hollow bamboo. Bamboo is stronger than steel, +because it bends and gives, and then springs back. There is no nail in the house. Every crosspiece is tied with rattan, the +same vine with which you make cane chairs; so you know how strong and elastic it is.” + +</p> +<p>“And of what are the sloping roofs and the side walls made?” I inquired. + +</p> +<p>“Of the famous nipa palm,” Moro replied. “It grows in swamps, often near the sea. It looks <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb17" href="#pb17">17</a>]</span>like a gigantic fern. Its wide leaves we lap one over another, and tie them to the bamboo frame by withes of tough cogon grass.” + +</p> +<p>“Are you not afraid of fire?” I asked. + +</p> +<p>Moro frankly said: “Yes, but as our house is so cheap, we can build a new one easily. However, in this warm climate we cook +in a separate house, and we bathe out of doors. We do not smoke within our nipa houses; it is too dangerous.” + +</p> +<p>“Tell our friend from across the purple ocean how we use the bamboo and the nipa plants, for other purposes besides building,” +remarked little Fil. + +</p> +<p>Moro continued: “From the sap of the nipa palm, we distill alcohol. From the hollow bamboo we make pipes for carrying water. +We boil the tender new shoots of bamboo, and eat them like celery. We put a stopper into one joint of a hollowed bamboo, and +use it for a bottle. The pliant bamboo root we make into whips. We make bridges, fences, window blinds, furniture, and carriages +out of bamboo. We even make blow guns and shoot our arrows at birds, through the bamboo stalk.” + +</p> +<p>“There are one hundred kinds of bamboo, and a thousand uses for the plant,” added Filippa. +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb18" href="#pb18">18</a>]</span></p> +<p>“I should imagine that the bamboo is the skeleton or the framework, and that the nipa is the skin of the Philippine structure,” +I remarked. + +</p> +<p>“That is the doctor’s way of drawing a figure of speech,” laughed the Padre. + + + +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb19" href="#pb19">19</a>]</span></p> +</div> +<div id="ch5" class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0033.gif" alt="Ornament" width="614" height="416"></div> +<h2 class="label">Chapter V</h2> +<h2 class="normal">Cocoa and Coffee</h2> +<p>The next morning Filippa’s mother refreshed us all with a cup of fragrant cocoa, so that we might begin the day in good spirits. +As I was sipping it, the Padre remarked in good humor: + +</p> +<p>“Did you Americans seize the Philippines merely for a cup of cocoa?” + +</p> +<p>I replied laughingly: “This cup of cocoa is so good, that I certainly would try to seize the Philippines for it.” + +</p> +<p>Filippa’s mother and father both bowed and said I was complimentary, like a diplomat. + +</p> +<p>Then I continued: “I am glad the Philippines are now ours, and yours too, because our money can help to develop the wonderful +tropical products which do not grow in our colder America. I wish you would explain <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb20" href="#pb20">20</a>]</span>something about cocoa and coffee, which we prize very much and which we send our ships a long way to secure.” + +</p> +<p>Fil’s father, who was a planter of wide acres, replied: + +</p> +<p>“The cocoa bean and the coconut are two very different plants. Do not confuse them. The cocoa bean, out of which you grind +cocoa powder and chocolate for a drink, for bonbons, and for puddings, comes out of a fruit shaped like a large red cucumber. +This fruit grows on a tender bush, which must be shaded by a thick banana palm. In each fruit are twenty of these seeds, or +cocoa beans. + +</p> +<p>“They have hard skins, and are very bitter and stimulating. When eaten, they excite the heart, and thus make a person feel +active and alive. Soldiers and athletes eat them, to relieve fatigue. As soon as the fruit is gathered, the beans must be +dried in the sun, or be roasted. The cocoa bean is very oily. To make cocoa, the oil is extracted, when the beans are ground +into a paste. To make chocolate, the oil is not extracted.” + +</p> +<p>“I never ate a cocoa bean which was sweet; but a chocolate-drop is sweet,” said Filippa, who had bought chocolate-drops in +the candy stores. +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb21" href="#pb21">21</a>]</span></p> +<p>Her father explained: “We add sugar and vanilla, to the brown cocoa bean paste.” + +</p> +<p>“Just think of practically growing chocolate bonbons on a tree, beneath the window of your nipa huts, in these wonderful Philippine +Islands,” I added, and every one smiled. + +</p> +<p>“It is really true, when one adds the sugar,” remarked the Padre. + +</p> +<p>“Now tell me please about coffee, also,” I begged. + +</p> +<p>Fil’s father continued: + +</p> +<p>“The coffee comes from another low bush. You choose a hillside, for, although the plant likes our heavy rains in the Philippines, +it does not like to keep its roots long in water. It wants to drain them and to feel the warm sun. The leaves are long and +glossy; the blossoms are waxy white. The fragrance is richer than rose sweetened with sugar. The fruit is like a scarlet cherry; +each contains two seeds. These two seeds are the coffee bean of commerce and of the breakfast table. They are ground in a +small mill, as you know.” + +</p> +<p>“How were the beans first discovered?” I inquired. + +</p> +<p>Fil’s father smiled and told this story: “One day a shepherd noticed that his goats, which had eaten the cherries off a coffee +bush, danced <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb22" href="#pb22">22</a>]</span>about in high excitement as though they, instead of their master, were going to a fiesta. Then the shepherd ate the berries, +too, and felt stimulated himself. That is how coffee in time came to our breakfast table. Instead of eating the berry, we +grind it and steep it, and drink the liquor.” + +</p> +<p>“But, father, the seeds are light colored, and not deep brown, when you open the fruit,” said Fil. + +</p> +<p>“I know,” replied Fil’s father. “We roast the seeds in an oven, to get rid of the moisture and to preserve and ripen the stimulating +oils.” + +</p> +<p>“Thank you all;” I exclaimed, “now I will behold a whole tropical story of geography and commerce, every time I look into +a grocer’s window at home.” + + + +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb23" href="#pb23">23</a>]</span></p> +</div> +<div id="ch6" class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0037.gif" alt="Ornament" width="621" height="516"></div> +<h2 class="label">Chapter VI</h2> +<h2 class="normal">Hemp and Sugar</h2> +<p>“However, the richest products of our Philippine Islands are abaca (ab′aca) and sugar,” said the fatherly Padre next morning, +when I met him under the shade of the bamboos and the madre trees. + +</p> +<p>“I am sure you do not know what abacá is,” laughed Filippa. + +</p> +<p>“I guess from its name that it may be a cousin of tobacco; it sounds like it: abacá,—tobacco.” + +</p> +<p>“Names are sometimes misleading,” replied the Padre. “The manila hemp, or abacá plant, is a nearer cousin of the banana palm. +You <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb24" href="#pb24">24</a>]</span>cannot make a sail or tie up a bag of potatoes, without using our manila hemp, or abacá. It is the strongest fiber known; +it does not weaken in water. The great hawsers that are used to pull the great ships, are made out of it. It all comes from +the leaf of this Philippine palm.” + +</p> +<p>“Wonderful and beautiful and useful islands,” I confessed. “But how do you make a leaf into a cord, a hawser, a sail, or a +bag?” + +</p> +<p>The Padre continued: “This big plant with leaves taller than a man, grows on a hill. We do not let it flower. The huge leaves +are cut near the root, and new leaves grow up at once. All through the leaf run long tough ribs. We drag this over a big rough +knife that is fastened in a board; and thus we scrape away the soft pulp without breaking the fiber. The wet fibers, we hang +over a fence in the sun, to dry. + +</p> +<p>“Then we press the fibers all together, and ship them to you in big heavy bales, in the bottom of a ship. You weave the bales +of fiber into bags, cloth, hawser ropes, canvas, tents, and cordage. We Filipinos, also, split the fiber and weave it into +many kinds of cloth. Sometimes we mix silk or cotton with the abacá hemp.” + +</p> +<p>“I am sure our friend would like to learn about sugar,” remarked Fil, who had a sweet tooth for candy. +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb25" href="#pb25">25</a>]</span></p> +<p>Fil’s father took up this part of the story, and said: + +</p> +<p>“Sugar of course comes from a sweet cane, which is grown on high land. The cane is cut down. A pony or a water buffalo is +harnessed to a roller. We feed the ripened cane into the rollers. As the animal drives this roller around, the sugar cane +is pressed through. The sweet juice is caught and put into kettles. This juice is heated several times, and stirred, and purified +by bone charcoal. The white crystals separate from the dark molasses sirup. We sometimes feed the molasses to cattle and pigs, +to make them fat for market.” + +</p> +<p>Fil’s eyes looked very longingly as he listened to this tale of good things; so I passed him a penny or two. + +</p> +<p>“Is not sugar made also from very sweet, dark beets?” I inquired. + +</p> +<p>“Not in these islands,” replied the Padre. “We find that the sugar cane gives a sweeter and a more nutritious product. The +beet sugar is made in Europe and in the western states of America.” + +</p> +<p>“What do you do with the pressed sugar cane?” I inquired. + +</p> +<p>“We spread it out in the sun and dry it in large yards. It still contains much sugar. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb26" href="#pb26">26</a>]</span>We use it for fuel, to light the fires under the kettles.” + +</p> +<p>“What a waste!” I exclaimed. “You should use oil or gas for fuel, and should press every drop of sugar out of that valuable +cane. Waste not; want not, is as good a maxim for a nation as for a boy.” + +</p> +<p>“If you are always that serious, like a lecturer, the children may not like you so well,” remarked the gentle Padre. + +</p> +<p>“Not at all,” replied Fil and Moro and Filippa and Favra, who perhaps remembered the pennies I had given to them. Then I hummed +as we went home to have lunch, or “tiffin,” as they call it: + + +</p> +<div class="
 poem
 "> +<p class="line" style=""><span>“All lectures and no candy or fun +</span></p> +<p class="line" style=""><span>Make Moro and Fil dull boys.”</span></p> +</div><span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb27" href="#pb27">27</a>]</span></div> +<div id="ch7" class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0041.gif" alt="Ornament" width="618" height="473"></div> +<h2 class="label">Chapter VII</h2> +<h2 class="normal">The Coconut Tree</h2> +<p>Moro was always up to tricks. I noticed that he was whispering something to Filippa who was laughing. + +</p> +<p>“Tell it out,” demanded Filippa’s mother. + +</p> +<p>“The bad boy said the coconut, which we are trying to break, is a hairy monkey’s head dried.” + +</p> +<p>“Let me see it,” I demanded. + +</p> +<p>Surely enough, there was plainly marked a monkey’s eyes and mouth and hair and nose. + +</p> +<p>“We’ll soon settle this,” said Fil, who dashed the coconut on a stone, broke the hard shell, wasted half the sweet milk,—exposing +the white, fragrant meat. + +</p> +<p>“Did you know that the coconut furnishes <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb28" href="#pb28">28</a>]</span>cloth, mats, roofs, fuel, soap oil, candy, puddings, cups, dyes, lamp oil, butter, candles, axle grease, ropes, brushes, furniture, +shade, food, drink, and liquor to intoxicate,” asked Filippa’s mother, who was as wise as Fil’s father. + +</p> +<p>“Please go slowly,” I remarked, “for you are making me think that these islands are Paradise; that you touch some button, +and every wish comes true, as in the fairy stories. In our country, a tree furnishes only lumber; or sometimes nuts or sugar +in addition, but never over two things at once. Now you would have me believe that one slim tree with only a tuft of leaves +at the top, furnishes you twenty useful and rich products. This is really too much to believe, though I ask you to forgive +me for being so frank.” + +</p> +<p>Filippa’s mother replied: “These are the gardens of the sunny Equator; and you can, therefore, expect wonderful things. The +rough covering of the shell is woven into mats, brushes, ropes, and bags. The fibers of the leaves make a fine cloth. The +dried leaves make a roof-thatch. The trunk makes foundation poles. The coconut itself is fruit and drink. When the white meat +is dried, it is shredded for pastry and candy. When the coconut meat is pressed, the oil extracted is used for fuel, <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb29" href="#pb29">29</a>]</span>light, hair pomades, butter, candles, and grease. It is used also in making the best hand soaps; in fact, it makes the only +soap that can be used with salt sea water.” + +</p> +<p>“Please let me tell all its other valuable qualities,” said Fil. + +</p> +<p>“If you cut a coconut in half, you have two cups, or dishes. You can draw the milk through a small hole, plug the hole, and +use the shell as a float. If you burn the shell, you can make a deep dye from the ashes,—a dye that will not fade or wash +out.” + +</p> +<p>“I’ll tell you more about it,” Moro eagerly intruded. “The oddest use for a smoothed half of a coconut shell, is to use it +as a rat-guard, to shed off rats from our strings of dried fruit hanging from the roof. As the rat comes down the rattan rope, +the halved coconut shell tips, and down he falls from its smooth surface, to the floor, and misses the hanging fruit. + +</p> +<p>“If you climb up the high coconut tree, and cut a hole in the flowering stalk, the juice will run out. This is called the +delicious ‘tuba’ liquor, and we catch it in cups made from half of a coconut shell.” + +</p> +<p>“And if you ferment and distill that liquor,” said the Padre, “you have the cocoa wine which is much used for medicine in +America.” +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb30" href="#pb30">30</a>]</span></p> +<p>Filippa’s mother then remarked: “I have seen coconut oil, placed in a coconut shell, burning along a coconut wick, as a lamp, +in a house built out of coconut stems and leaves, under a coconut grove; and the Filipino family were eating coconuts, and +drinking coconut ‘tuba’ juice, at a table made from coconut stalks.” + +</p> +<p>“That must have been in Coconutville, when a coconut clock was striking, under a coconut moon,” laughed Fil, who sometimes +was full of smart wit. + +</p> +<p>“But what I have said is exactly and solemnly true,” replied his gentle mother. + +</p> +<p>“I understand it now,” I replied, “and I see how one coconut tree would make me richer than a whole forest of poplar or oak +trees at home.” + +</p> +<p>Hungry Moro remarked: “I wish that this moment I had coconut shredded over some Bebinka cakes.” + +</p> +<p>“What are Bebinka cakes?” I inquired. + +</p> +<p>“They are pancakes made from fermented corn and rice dough, mixed. Every Filipino is fond of them,” explained Filippa’s mother. + + + + +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb31" href="#pb31">31</a>]</span></p> +</div> +<div id="ch8" class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0045.gif" alt="Ornament" width="615" height="413"></div> +<h2 class="label">Chapter VIII</h2> +<h2 class="normal">Indigo, Mango, Guava, Durian</h2> +<p>“If you will remain in our sunnier Philippines, I’ll tell you about plants and flowers and fruits, that you have never even +heard about,” said sunny little Filippa, who herself was as beautiful as a flower, and as soft to touch as a fruit. + +</p> +<p>“Tell about our indigo,” suggested her brother Fil. + +</p> +<p>Filippa looked very wise, pointed to her indigo skirt, and continued: “You get your dyes from the benzene of coal tar, but +they do not stand washing or sunlight, as well as our bright and strong vegetable dyes. We take our indigo plant, and steep +the leaves in water for twelve hours, in a stone tank. Then Fil drains off the yellow liquor. This soon turns green. <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb32" href="#pb32">32</a>]</span>Then blue sediment settles in Nature’s wonderful chemical way, under the strong sunlight. We drain off the water, and cut +the indigo cakes into cubes.” + +</p> +<p>“Very well told,” remarked Filippa’s mother. “This is a dye which will not fade. It lasts as long as the gown. Now, Moro, +I would like you to tell about mangoes and guavas and durians; for you are always eating them.” + +</p> +<p>Moro laughed, and began to throw sticks up into a tall tree. + +</p> +<p>“What are you doing? Why don’t you answer?” I inquired. + +</p> +<p>“I’m trying to knock down a custard, one foot long and half a foot deep,” he replied. + +</p> +<p>“Such nonsense. Custards in my country are made out of eggs and are baked in ovens,” I said. + +</p> +<p>“Not this better kind,” replied Moro, who brought down a huge fruit, all covered with sharp spurs and spikes, sharper and +harder than rose-thorns. + +</p> +<p>“Nature has kept her rich custard guarded by spikes and by an awful odor,” remarked Fil’s father, as he broke open the thick +skin with an ax. + +</p> +<p>“But it’s worth the trouble,” said Moro, who pointed out the heart of the fruit, which <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb33" href="#pb33">33</a>]</span>truly was one solid, delicious natural custard, one foot long,—enough for a whole Filipino family. + +</p> +<p>“The monkeys know how to open the spiked fruit better than you do,” said Fil. “They throw them from the high branches. The +fruit breaks open on the ground. Then the wild monkeys race down the tree, and eat up the custard durian. Who said that a +monkey does not think?” + +</p> +<p>Everybody laughed at this odd but true tale of the remarkable Philippines. + +</p> +<p>“I know something about guava, for I eat guava jelly with my turkey and venison at home, but I never knew that it came from +the far-away Philippine Islands. Is it a root or a seed?” I inquired. + +</p> +<p>“Oh, no!” replied Moro. “It’s a fruit taken from that low tree over there. The flowers are white. The fruit, shaped like a +pear, is yellow.” + +</p> +<p>“What makes the delightful jelly red?” I inquired. + +</p> +<p>“Perhaps the cooking, or the sugar that is added,” suggested Fil’s mother. + +</p> +<p>“You have not yet told about mangoes. Please hand our friend one,” said Filippa. + +</p> +<p>Moro climbed up and up a dizzy height, into an evergreen tree sixty feet high. He brought <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb34" href="#pb34">34</a>]</span>down in his pockets, several fruits as large as cucumbers, only the colors were red and yellow. + +</p> +<p>“Eat one. They are the most delicious and juicy fruit known in the whole world,—just like wine,” said Moro. + +</p> +<p>I bit eagerly into one, and at once threw it far away. Everybody laughed at my strange action. + +</p> +<p>“Why, it’s turpentine; it’s paint,” I said. “I didn’t think you’d do this to me, Moro.” + +</p> +<p>“Swallow it anyway. That turpentine smell lasts only a second,” explained Filippa. + +</p> +<p>I tried another mango, and found it to be the juiciest and sweetest fruit that I ever ate, dripping wine, full of refreshment +in a hot climate, food and drink and medicine in one. + +</p> +<p>“What do you do with its large seed, as hard as iron?” I inquired. + +</p> +<p>“I’ll show you,” replied Moro. + +</p> +<p>The bright boy at once lighted a fire, and roasted the hard seed in the ashes. Then he brushed and washed it clean; and handed +it to me, when it became somewhat cool, saying: “Eat it too; it is really chocolate toast now.” + +</p> +<p>And such I found it to be. + +</p> +<p>“Your mango then is a whole breakfast,—toast, drink, and fruit,” I said. + + + +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb35" href="#pb35">35</a>]</span></p> +</div> +<div id="ch9" class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0049.gif" alt="Ornament" width="616" height="467"></div> +<h2 class="label">Chapter IX</h2> +<h2 class="normal">The Forest</h2> +<p>When we all met next morning, again under the bamboo grove, the good Padre said: + +</p> +<p>“If you were lost in your woods at home, you would soon wander and die; but if you were lost here, you could live for years.” + +</p> +<p>“Then let us go into such a forest of Eden,” I replied, and held out my hands to Fil and Filippa. + +</p> +<p>Away we went down the white shell road across the canal; and soon we were lost among the many trees, palms, and vines. + +</p> +<p>The Padre pointed to the coconut tree and the nipa palm, and said: “As we already have told you, they would afford you a house, +food, drink, light, and soap.” +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb36" href="#pb36">36</a>]</span></p> +<p>“What is this great hard tree?” I inquired. + +</p> +<p>The Padre explained: “That’s the valuable mahogany. Thin strips of it are polished, and used to cover the woodwork of your +piano and bureau at home.” + +</p> +<p>“And this other wonderful, new tree?” I asked. + +</p> +<p>“That is the molave. It is so hard that sea worms and white ants cannot bore into it. So it is good for boats, wharves, and +frames for big buildings,” replied the Padre. + +</p> +<p>“Here is a pretty tree,” remarked Filippa. + +</p> +<p>“You should think so,” answered her father. “It is the lanete. Its wood is so strong and pliable, that your violin was made +from part of one.” + +</p> +<p>“Here’s a skipping rope,” exclaimed Filippa. + +</p> +<p>“No, a boat rope,” explained Fil. + +</p> +<p>“That is really the bejuco rattan vine,” remarked the Padre, who knew botany and the lore of nature. “It is three hundred +feet long, as long as a city block, if you pull it out of the jungle and away from the tree tops, where it has climbed like +a huge snake. We can use it for bridge or carriage ropes, or we can divide the strands and make cloth, or hats, or cord out +of it.” + +</p> +<p>“What gorgeous and sweet-scented flowers,” exclaimed Filippa, pointing to a great tree. +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb37" href="#pb37">37</a>]</span></p> +<p>“That is the Ylang,” said the Padre. “Our friend uses its perfume on his handkerchief; but he did not know, perhaps, that +the flower grew in the far-away Philippines. It has the deepest fragrance of any flower, whether on plant, bush, or tree.” + +</p> +<p>“What can its strange name mean?” I inquired; for I seemed to have no acquaintance with nature at all, in this wonderfully +different land. + +</p> +<p>The Padre, who knew many languages, explained: “It is a Malay word which means, ‘The chief flower of all flowers’; and such +I think it really is. We capture the fragrance by distilling the flowers, and mixing pure alcohol with the essence.” + +</p> +<p>“If you were ill in the forest, and caught fever from the mosquitoes and ants that stung you, the bark of this tree would +cure you, just as quinine does,” continued the Padre. + +</p> +<p>“Is it the little quinine, or cinchona, tree?” I inquired. + +</p> +<p>“No, it is a sister tree. We call it ‘Dita’ in our language.” + +</p> +<p>“I said our forests would house and feed you. Now I’ll show you how they would also clothe you. Please show me your handkerchief, +Filippa,” said the Padre. +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb38" href="#pb38">38</a>]</span></p> +<p>Filippa handed him a little square of linen cloth, so thin and watery in color, or absence of color, that I could look through +it. + +</p> +<p>“In your country, that little handkerchief would be worth twenty-five dollars. It is woven from the very thin fibers drawn +from pineapple leaves, and is called Pina cloth, or Pina linen.” + +</p> +<p>Filippa’s mother added: “It is finer than silk or hemp linen. We make our best shiny gowns and laces out of it. Because it +is so fine, it takes a long time to get enough threads to weave and work it together. The time spent in making it, explains +its great cost.” + +</p> +<p>“I see now why Filippa is promised a Pina gown for our coming feast, or fiesta day, that you kindly promise to give in my +honor before I go away. It certainly is a cloth fit for a queen,” I replied. + +</p> +<p>“Oh! when will the feast day come?” Filippa eagerly inquired. + +</p> +<p>“Soon,” laughed her mother. + +</p> +<p>“Here is a more wonderful tree, from the gum of which we make automobile tires, rubber heels, elastic bands, hot water bags, +rain coats, rubber shoes, hose, and so on,” exclaimed the Padre. + +</p> +<p>I looked; and surely enough, there was the identical rubber tree which we see in florists’ <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb39" href="#pb39">39</a>]</span>shops or in the greenhouse at home; only this tree was larger. Its thick leaves were nearly as large as a hat. + + +</p> +<p></p> +<div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0053.jpg" alt="Weaving" width="484" height="720"><p class="figureHead">Weaving</p> +</div><p> + + +</p> +<p>“We cut a hole in the bark, and, when the yellow gum oozes out, we boil it down thick, till it is dark colored. Then we mix +it with chalk and sulphur; and behold, afterwards we roll out your automobile tire,” explained the wise Padre. + +</p> +<p>“Could you pull the rubber tree out as high as the stars, and would it snap back again?” asked joking Moro. + +</p> +<p>“Stop your joking,” replied Fil’s mother. “You know very well that the rubber tree itself is not pure gum, any more than the +maple tree in America is pure sugar. It is the gum of the rubber tree that becomes the rubber.” + + + +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb40" href="#pb40">40</a>]</span></p> +</div> +<div id="ch10" class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0056.gif" alt="Ornament" width="611" height="166"></div> +<h2 class="label">Chapter X</h2> +<h2 class="normal">Minerals</h2> +<p>“It is not only what towers above us, that makes our islands rich. Dig at your feet, and you will find valuable minerals! +Magellan, the Spaniard, first discovered the Philippine Islands while he was on a search for gold, though I think a rubber +tree, or a bamboo, is more valuable than gold,” said the wise Padre. + +</p> +<p>“We get gold in two ways,” explained Fil. “We wash it from scooped-up gravel, and we break it out of rock with a hammer.” + +</p> +<p>“And how do you melt your iron and copper?” I inquired. + +</p> +<p>“We dig coal, and use bamboo pipes and a bellows to make the draft. We put the ore into a clay kettle, and melt the rock out +of it. Then, when the iron is pure, we heat it again until it is red, and beat it with hammers into shapes. Thus we make it +into wheels, spears, axes, and so on,” explained Fil, who had watched the workmen at their labors. + +</p> +<p>“I know little about practical, mechanical affairs; tell me more,” urged Filippa. + +</p> +<p>“We have petroleum oil, just as America has; also, lead and paint ores. We have <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb41" href="#pb41">41</a>]</span>burnt-out volcano hills, composed of sulphur down into their deep hearts.” + +</p> +<p>“That is like a very bad place, way down below, that I have read about,” interrupted Moro; and Fil’s mother and the Padre +shook their fingers at him for joking. + +</p> +<p>Fil continued: “We have beautiful marble quarries, out of which we can carve statues and table tops, and tops for seats. Our +marble is full of colored veins just like jewels. Then we also have gypsum mines, which furnish both fertilizer for land, +to make crops grow high, and plaster of Paris, out of which we make pretty white statues.” + +</p> +<p>“Wonderful!” I said, “I never thought of all this, when at home I bought the lovely white statues of lions and birds, from +the vendor man with the basketful, on our street corner.” + + + +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb42" href="#pb42">42</a>]</span></p> +</div> +<div id="ch11" class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0058.gif" alt="Ornament" width="605" height="456"></div> +<h2 class="label">Chapter XI</h2> +<h2 class="normal">Water Buffalo</h2> +<p>We were all so tired when we came out of the wood to the canal, that Fil’s father told us to wait until a buffalo cart came +down the white shell road. + +</p> +<p>“A buffalo cart!” I exclaimed. “I’m afraid to ride in that. We used to shoot buffaloes in our country, and the few now remaining +we guard behind iron fences in zoo gardens.” + +</p> +<p>“Here he comes!” exclaimed Fil and Moro together. + +</p> +<p>“Boys, boys, be careful!” I cried. + +</p> +<p>“Let us frighten our guest,” whispered Moro. + +</p> +<p>The buffalo sniffed at me, a stranger, and would have charged with his head down; but <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb43" href="#pb43">43</a>]</span>the man who had a rope tied to a ring in the buffalo’s soft nose, pulled the animal back. + +</p> +<p>“Get down, you foolish boy!” I exclaimed. + +</p> +<p>But before I could stop him, brave little Moro had climbed up between the fierce looking animal’s thick, long, sweeping horns, +which extended from his large head back to his shoulders. + +</p> +<p>“Please get into the cart, everybody,” Fil’s father ordered, in a hospitable manner, bowing and waving his arm. It was indeed +a high step. + +</p> +<p>The cart had solid wooden wheels, made out of one thick section that had been cut from a mahogany tree. There was no iron +rim around the edge of the wheel. The sides of the cart, however, were light, as they were made from bamboo posts with rattan +vine woven between them. + +</p> +<p>The driver sat on the shafts, and directed the heavy animal, just as much by words as by pulling the long rope. + +</p> +<p>“Why do you call these strong animals water buffaloes?” I asked Fil. + +</p> +<p>“Because, to escape the flies and the heat, the animal refuses to work during the heat of the day, and rushes off into a stream, +or into the sea, to cover himself with mud and sand <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb44" href="#pb44">44</a>]</span>and water and weeds. All you can see above the stirred-up water are his large eyes and two wicked looking horns, which are +as thick as a branch of a tree.” + +</p> +<p>“What an odd tail he has, much like a mule’s hairless tail. It looks like a piece of hose-pipe,” I exclaimed. + +</p> +<p>Moro, way up on the buffalo’s neck, heard me and laughed: “He can’t reach me with his rubber tail.” + +</p> +<p>“But I’ll reach you, Sir, if you don’t get down soon from your dangerous perch,” said Fil’s father. + +</p> +<p>The Padre explained: “We sometimes call these animals carabao. We use them for plowing, for drawing our sugar to market, for +pressing our hemp mill, for turning our water wheels and sugar rollers, for pulling the huge logs of hardwood out of the thick +forest. When the roads are too muddy for wheeled carts, we make a mud sleigh with runners; and the water buffalo with his +thick hoofs pulls our loads of rice bags through the ooze.” + +</p> +<p>“And we eat him too, though his steaks are tougher than cow meat,” laughed Fil. + +</p> +<p>“And we make taws and whips out of his thick hide to correct little boys, if they have too much to say sometimes,” remarked +Fil’s <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb45" href="#pb45">45</a>]</span>father, who winked at me, showing that his words were more severe than were his intentions or acts. Like the terrier, he just +liked to frighten people; his bark was worse than his bite, as the saying is. + + + + +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb46" href="#pb46">46</a>]</span></p> +</div> +<div id="ch12" class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0062.gif" alt="Ornament" width="616" height="212"></div> +<h2 class="label">Chapter XII</h2> +<h2 class="normal">Bats; Cattle; Horses; Cats; Monkeys</h2> +<p>“Let us stop here,” begged Fil. + +</p> +<p>The driver, who wore a mushroom-shaped bamboo hat, pulled the water buffalo to a stop. All, except Filippa and Favra, got +off at the mouth of a cave. + +</p> +<p>“I won’t go in or near it,” exclaimed Filippa. + +</p> +<p>“Girls are afraid of real things, of imaginary noises, and even of unreal shadows,” jeered Fil. + +</p> +<p>“No wonder, if you refer to this damp cave,” remarked Fil’s mother. + +</p> +<p>Creeping up quietly to the entrance, Fil and Moro threw stones and oranges and mangoes up to the echoing roof. + +</p> +<p>“Lie down quick,” shouted Fil’s father. + +</p> +<p>We had need to stoop, for there was a whirring in the roof of the cave and over its mouth, like the sound of birds or aeroplanes. + +</p> +<p>“What are they, owls or eagles?” I exclaimed. + +</p> +<p>“Furry fruit-bats, as large as flying cats,” laughed Fil, who was proud of his secret cave and of his discovery. +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb47" href="#pb47">47</a>]</span></p> +<p>“You don’t really mean to say that those large flying things have fur, and eat fruit?” I asked. + +</p> +<p>“Exactly,” replied Fil’s father. “These are the large Philippine bats. The wings of some of them are three feet across. Ladies +use their fur to decorate gowns. The bats live on fruit, just as monkeys do; only the bats eat at dusk, and sleep during the +day. That is why we caught them napping, by going to the cave in daylight.” + +</p> +<p>“Wonderful country! Wonderful new kinds of life! I notice too that your cattle have humps on their shoulders,” I remarked. + +</p> +<p>“Yes,” replied Fil’s father, “our cattle, though smaller than yours, have high humps on their shoulders. They are of the Indian +and Chinese breed; not of the English breed. But they are very good animals and have beautiful soft eyes, which seem to cry +and plead for pity. We use them also to draw our carts.” + +</p> +<p>“I notice that others of the Philippine animals are also of the toy order; tiny but lovely specimens, like your spirited but +small, black horses,” I remarked. + +</p> +<p>“Yes,” said Fil’s father, “our Malay horses, just like the Chinese horses, are more like spirited little ponies. They have +hard mouths, but when they know you and are well treated, <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb48" href="#pb48">48</a>]</span>they obey well. Some day, when you ride over the hills on one, you will see how sure-footed they are on the trails; as safe +as mountain goats. Your larger horses would tumble over in those difficult places.” + +</p> +<p>One of the disturbed bats had settled in a tree. He was clinging upside down, with his wings folded over his eyes. Up the +trunk of the tree, the oddest kind of a cat was climbing after it. + +</p> +<p>“That cat should be a fisherman,” I exclaimed in a joking manner. + +</p> +<p>“Yes,” answered Fil, “some of our yellow cats have odd, hooked tails, just like monkey tails.” + +</p> +<p>“Maybe they once hung from tree branches by their tails, along with the furry monkeys,” suggested Moro, who often thought +of the odd side of things. + +</p> +<p>“What a gripping tale you are telling,” added Fil, who indulged in roguish puns. + +</p> +<p>“Well, our monkeys are as good for men to eat, as for cats,” said Moro. + +</p> +<p>“Imagination has as much as taste to do with food; and, unless you call my next stewed monkey dish, deer or lamb, I won’t +eat it,” I remarked. + +</p> +<p>Fil and Moro laughed and winked; for they had planned this true but strange story to make me feel uncomfortable for a minute. + + + +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb49" href="#pb49">49</a>]</span></p> +</div> +<div id="ch13" class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0065.gif" alt="Ornament" width="607" height="184"></div> +<h2 class="label">Chapter XIII</h2> +<h2 class="normal">Flying Ants and Locusts</h2> +<p>We all climbed back into the buffalo-wagon, to go homeward. On the way, we passed a house which had collapsed in the middle, +as though a great weight had broken its backbone. + +</p> +<p>“A blind, flying ant did that,” said Fil. + +</p> +<p>“Now, Fil, you really think I’m from the backwoods; you wish me to believe impossible tales,” I replied. + +</p> +<p>“Not a bit of it,” said Fil. “A flying white ant broke the thick beams of that big building, just as though a mountain fell +on it, or as if an earthquake had rent it.” + +</p> +<p>“Why, then, did they not stop the ants, the silly, lazy people?” I exclaimed. + +</p> +<p>“Because they couldn’t see or hear them,” said Fil. “You see, it happens in this way. Our deadly white ant flies in a cloud +of ants. When he reaches a house, he bores inside; then he is happy. He feels his way. He does not need to see. He just follows +his nose, so to speak. + +</p> +<p>“His sense of smell, perhaps, draws him to the lumber of the house on which he lives. He does not like air. So, when he reaches +a beam, he <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb50" href="#pb50">50</a>]</span>and all the other brother ants eat out the heart of it; but they do not break the shell, which is painted. The people in the +house do not know anything about this, for the ants of course make no noise, and the painted outside surface of the beam is +unbroken. + +</p> +<p>“Suddenly there is a strain during a typhoon, or a jar is caused by some person walking overhead; and down comes the whole +house, like a person whose bones suddenly give way and become powder. The ants have escaped, because they have eaten the whole +beam and have gone elsewhere for food.” + +</p> +<p>“Can’t you catch and destroy such awful pests?” I asked. + +</p> +<p>“Oh, yes! It’s great fun,” replied Filippa. We place a pail of water in a dark place, and light a candle which floats on a +saucer. The ants fly to the light. Their wings are burnt off; and, silly, half-blind things, they all get drowned or wet, +so that we can gather and destroy them.” + +</p> +<p>“They can nip you, too,” said Moro, who was slapping at something on his hand. + +</p> +<p>“Some people in the Philippines eat insects—the locusts. They fry them in <span class="corr" id="xd0e1063" title="Source: cocoanut">coconut</span> oil. Did you ever hear of such a wonder?” asked Filippa. + +</p> +<p>“Come to think of it, yes; for in the Bible <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb51" href="#pb51">51</a>]</span>it says that the food of John the Baptist, the great prophet, was locusts and wild honey, when he was in distress in the wilderness.” + +</p> +<p>“What does <i>locust</i> mean?” asked the wise Padre. Nobody seemed to know. + +</p> +<p>“It means leaping,” said the Padre. + +</p> +<p>“That’s how we catch them,” said Fil. “Before their wings grow, they jump. We dig deep ditches and chase them by beating drums, +for they dislike noise. They jump and fall into the ditch, which, however, is too high for them to jump out of. Then we pour +on oil and burn them.” + +</p> +<p>“If we didn’t, they’d eat up all our crops,” remarked the Padre. + +</p> +<p>“I know a bird that catches them. I’ve seen it,” said Fil, whose eyes were very sharp, like a boy scout in the woods. + +</p> +<p>“What kind of a bird?” inquired Filippa, who loved bird pets. + +</p> +<p>“A kind of Chinese ground-lark. It has large eyes and a long bill, and its feathers are spotted,” replied Fil. + + + +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb52" href="#pb52">52</a>]</span></p> +</div> +<div id="ch14" class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0068.gif" alt="Ornament" width="621" height="413"></div> +<h2 class="label">Chapter XIV</h2> +<h2 class="normal">Boats and Fish</h2> +<p>We were passing over the bridge that carried the road over an arm of the sea,—the purple sea, which had a white foam-edge. + +</p> +<p>I noticed a boat moving against the tide. It had no engine, no sails, no rowers at the oarlocks. Only one man was on deck, +leaning on a long pole. He walked slowly from the front to the back of the boat, still leaning on the long pole. + +</p> +<p>“Here’s another wonder of your marvelous Philippines—a boat moving without exerting power,” I exclaimed. + +</p> +<p>Fil looked at Moro and smiled. I saw that they both pitied my ignorance in a strange land. Then Fil said kindly: + +</p> +<p>“Don’t you see the man walking steadily <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb53" href="#pb53">53</a>]</span>along the running board, from the front to the back of the boat? Well, he is pushing on a long pole, and that power moves +the boat against the tide. The pole reaches down to the bottom, through the shallow water. If the boat is loaded, and if the +cargo is very heavy, two men push on each pole. The pole is a thick bamboo stick.” + +</p> +<p>“I also notice a curved deck or covering, laid over the boats,” I said. + +</p> +<p>“Yes, that is a roof, or thatch, made out of nipa palm leaves tied on to bamboo sticks,” Fil explained. + +</p> +<p>“Please look!” said sweet little Filippa. “Out there on the purple ocean is a more wonderful boat still.” + +</p> +<p>I looked. Oddest of sights! A boat shaped like a long leaf was scudding before the wind. The one sail seemed to pull the boat +over from the wind. No one was really in the boat. But sitting far out, on a bamboo out-rigger, high into the wind-side, above +the water, a sailor was balancing the boat and holding the sail by a long rope. Only on one side of the boat was there a bamboo +pole fixed lengthways. It did not seem to be a well-balanced boat, yet it sailed along at a great speed; and risky as the +sport seemed, the sailor sat perfectly safe on <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb54" href="#pb54">54</a>]</span>his high and dangerous looking perch, above the water. + +</p> +<p>“What kind of boat is that?” I asked. + +</p> +<p>“An out-rigger boat. Some people call it a dug-out boat,” replied Filippa. + +</p> +<p>“I’ll tell you more about it,” added Fil. “The boat itself is half of a solid log, hollowed out by fire and axe and knife. +It is chipped and scraped smooth on the outside, and the ends are pointed. If the wind dies down, the sailor has to paddle +the heavy boat home. Then he sits over on the side opposite the out-rigger, so as to balance it. But when he has hoisted sail, +he sits on the out-rigger, as the sail balances the boat on the sailing side, opposite the wind. The boat easily rolls over, +because it has no sharp keel going down into the water. But it is swifter before the wind, just because it has no keel to +keep it back.” + +</p> +<p>“Very clever are your Filipino sailors,” I admitted. “Tell me if the boats are used for other purposes than sport.” + +</p> +<p>“Oh, yes,” said quiet little Favra, Filippa’s chum. “The sailors fish in them and bring us home fish with names as wonderful +as are their colors.” + +</p> +<p>“Tell me the names, please,” I asked. + +</p> +<p>Favra slowly thought of three and replied: <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb55" href="#pb55">55</a>]</span>“The pompano, all silver, gold, and purple, and as wide as it is long; the fighting barracuda, so hard to bring in to the +boat; and the leaping tuna, that jumps out of the water and out of the boat perhaps.” + +</p> +<p>Fil added: “Then there’s the bonito, as big as a pig, though its name jokingly means ‘good little one’; the sail fish which +lifts its fin into the wind; and the garoupa.” + +</p> +<p>“Wonderful names,” I admitted. + +</p> +<p>“And all wonderfully good to eat,” added Moro, who was often thinking of dinners and feasts. + + + +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb56" href="#pb56">56</a>]</span></p> +</div> +<div id="ch15" class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0072.gif" alt="Ornament" width="617" height="408"></div> +<h2 class="label">Chapter XV</h2> +<h2 class="normal">Saw Mill; Mud Sleighs; Wooden Plows</h2> +<p>“At what are you going to earn your living when you grow up, Fil?” asked the Padre, who was his teacher, when we all met again +under the whispering bamboos next morning. + +</p> +<p>Fil thought a minute, pursed his chest out like a pouter pigeon, and replied to the great admiration of Filippa, who was a +very loyal sister: + +</p> +<p>“I shall be a Senator, or President.” + +</p> +<p>“Come down from the clouds, Master Fil,” replied his father; “stop dreaming and say something practical. There can be only +one President and only a few score Senators. So if every one had your aims, millions would starve. Yet millions are working +happily, and earning wages which buy them what they need, if their ideas are not too selfish. They do not need to bow to wretched, +cringing politics.” +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb57" href="#pb57">57</a>]</span></p> +<p>“At what do they work?” eagerly inquired Fil. + +</p> +<p>“Come and see,” said Fil’s father and the Padre together. We all followed. + +</p> +<p>“Here’s a lumber yard; let us go in,” said Fil’s father. + +</p> +<p>“That man on top of that huge, uplifted log will topple off, and that man underneath will get his eyes filled with sawdust,” +I exclaimed. + +</p> +<p>“That’s our way of sawing lumber,” explained Fil’s father. “We lift up one end of the log. One man gets on top and the other +man below; and between them they pull up and down the heavy saw, until half of the log all feathers out into many boards. +Then they raise the other end, and the men saw down to meet those first cuts, while board after board falls down.” + +</p> +<p>“Don’t you have round saws of steel, driven by machinery?” I asked. + +</p> +<p>“Not always,” said Fil’s father. “The wages here are so low that we can afford to hire men to do handwork. This gives many +men work, and keeps them from being idle and discontented.” + +</p> +<p>“But here is one very round log which they are sawing across grain, into round wheels; and they are boring one hole into the +center,” I exclaimed. +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb58" href="#pb58">58</a>]</span></p> +<p>“They really are wheels for buffalo carts. Don’t you remember your ride the other day?” asked Fil. + +</p> +<p>I did remember the heavy, creaking wheel, made of one solid piece of wood. + +</p> +<p>“They never need an iron rim,” added Fil’s father; “and so are not as heavy as they look.” + +</p> +<p>“Why, here’s a low sleigh, being made out of bamboo poles, runners and boards. Do you have winter here after all?” I asked. + +</p> +<p>“No, nothing but hottest summer always. But we have much rain, and our roads are not all paved with rock,” explained Fil’s +father. “If we used those high wheels on the muddy roads, they would sink so far down that the buffalo or bullock could not +pull out the cart that was loaded with rice or sugar.” + +</p> +<p>“So you see, the sleigh slips more easily through the slippery mud,” added Fil. + +</p> +<p>“But what if you fell off, a mile from a crossing?” I asked laughingly. + +</p> +<p>“Oh, he jokes too, and you don’t check him,” remarked Fil, who looked at his father. Fil’s father smiled. + +</p> +<p>“What is this tough, crooked elbow stick, fixed to a long pole?” I inquired. + +</p> +<p>“A plow,” answered Fil wisely: +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb59" href="#pb59">59</a>]</span></p> +<p>“Don’t joke. How can you have a plow wholly made of wood?” I asked. + +</p> +<p>“I’ll tell you,” said Fil. “You see our rice fields are flooded and soft. We do not need a solid heavy steel plow, such as +you need in hard, dry land. The water buffalo, who loves to wade through the flooded rice fields, easily pulls this bent stick, +which plows up the mud. Then we drain the field and plant the rice seedlings, and flood the field again, because rice must +grow in water.” + +</p> +<p>“It is a peculiar but lovely Philippines that you live in ; so different from our country, but perhaps even more charming,” +I added. + + + +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb60" href="#pb60">60</a>]</span></p> +</div> +<div id="ch16" class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0076.gif" alt="Ornament" width="613" height="230"></div> +<h2 class="label">Chapter XVI</h2> +<h2 class="normal">Umbrellas; Chairs; Milk-Bottle</h2> +<p>“Please show us an umbrella shop,” begged Filippa and Favra together; for they had been whispering about what they would like +to see. + +</p> +<p>“This way, then,” said her father and the Padre. + +</p> +<p>We walked along several narrow streets, which had bamboo blinds hung between the second stories, so as to keep out the strong +sun. + +</p> +<p>When we came to a certain door space, which really had no hinged door, Filippa’s father moved aside the dangling ropes, made +of glass and bamboo beads, which hung across the entrance. This made a tinkling noise, and attracted the workman to the front. + +</p> +<p>“We would like to see your umbrellas,” explained Fil’s father. + +</p> +<p>I thought the workman would show us silk or cloth ones, that would roll up tight. + +</p> +<p>“Why, this one is very thick,” I said. + +</p> +<p>“Lift it. It really is not heavy,” explained Fil’s father. + +</p> +<p>“How is it made?” I inquired. +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb61" href="#pb61">61</a>]</span></p> +<p>“It is made out of split bamboos, which are spread out in a circle. Oiled silk, or oiled hemp cloth, is pasted over the frame. +It all costs very little,” explained Fil’s father. + +</p> +<p>“But they are so thick, I could not put more than one in my umbrella stand at home,” I said. + +</p> +<p>“There you are joking again,” laughed Fil, who added: “We Filipinos hang our umbrella up on the veranda roof, where it is +ornamental, as well as useful when wanted.” + +</p> +<p>“You see our umbrellas are made in pretty colors,” explained Filippa, who certainly showed that she would become a good housekeeper. + +</p> +<p>“Now, would you like to see a chair-shop, where they use no saw or plane or nails?” asked Fil. + +</p> +<p>“It seems nonsense, because our chairs at home are sawn from oak logs; and they are so filled with tacks and nails that they +tear my clothes,” I replied. + +</p> +<p>“Around this corner,” said Fil, who was proud to lead the way. + +</p> +<p>Surely enough, Filipino workmen were tying lengths of bamboo poles together, with tough rattan vine, for the frame of a chair. +The back was made of laced rattan and grasses. The seat was made of split bamboo, round side up, and all was as smooth, restful, +light, and pliable as <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb62" href="#pb62">62</a>]</span>could be wished; and not a dangerous nail nor a saw used to make it. + +</p> +<p>“You can throw these chairs about. They never break, because they give way a little, like a spring. They are elastic, yet +strong,” explained Fil’s father. + +</p> +<p>“And they cost only a few cents,” added the Padre. + +</p> +<p>“We don’t care when they burn up,” remarked Fil, who received from his father a stern look, and the order not to joke too +much. + +</p> +<p>As we walked home, we passed a man who carried a bamboo over one shoulder. At one end of the pole hung a thick piece of hollow +bamboo. At the other end of the pole hung an earthenware jug, tied in a net of rattan. Behind him followed a herd of goats. + +</p> +<p>“Fresh milk and bottled milk for children,” he cried. + +</p> +<p>“What is he, a curio seller?” I asked. + +</p> +<p>“No, a milkman,” answered Fil. “The bamboo jug is a pint measure. The earthen bottle holds the milk. And if you want fresh, +warm milk for the baby, he will milk it here from one of his nibbling goats, right into the bamboo jug.” + +</p> +<p>“Always fresh milk!” shouted the vendor, as with his fingers, he made a snapping sound to call his herd of goats. + +</p> +<p>“Really, a walking dairy,” I remarked. + + +</p> +<p></p> +<div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0079.jpg" alt="Milkman" width="480" height="720"><p class="figureHead">Milkman</p> +</div><p> + + +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb63" href="#pb63">63</a>]</span></p> +</div> +<div id="ch17" class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0081.gif" alt="Ornament" width="610" height="445"></div> +<h2 class="label">Chapter XVII</h2> +<h2 class="normal">Home Life</h2> +<p>We were all tired when we reached home. The Angelus bell was sounding from the high white tower of the Iglesia. Every one +stood still, bowed, made the holy sign, and then said a quiet prayer. + +</p> +<p>After a late dinner, Fil and Filippa as usual kissed the hands of their parents, bowed to them, and retired. + +</p> +<p>I thought how dutiful a custom this was, and I recalled how, in my own country, too many rude, selfish children, full of conceit, +have little respect for their parents, and really attempt to order their elders around. The Filipino boy seems to know his +place, as a boy. + +</p> +<p>The grander Philippine houses, on the second floor, have a large hall called the “caida” <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb64" href="#pb64">64</a>]</span>(ca ē′da). Here every one meets to enjoy the feasts or music. The kitchen and the bath-house are small separate buildings +in the yard, or “azotea” (a tho tai′a). Every one must bathe once a day at least. + +</p> +<p>During the great heat of the day, after lunch, or “tiffin” as it is called, everyone sleeps a restful hour or two. Therefore +visiting and dinners are carried on long into the night, when it is cooler. + +</p> +<p>To keep out the sun, instead of glass, opaque mussel shells are used in the many little frames of the windows. This makes +a pearly, soft light, like moonshine in the house, even on the brightest, hottest day. + +</p> +<p>I noticed that women stood in the streams, and pounded clothes on smooth, round rocks. + +</p> +<p>“That’s our way of washing, out in nature’s laundry,” explained Filippa’s mother. + +</p> +<p>When Fil and Filippa were aroused each morning, I noticed that their mother did not touch or shake them, and I ventured to +ask why she called so long and loud, even though she was standing over them. I remarked that in our land, a father would soon +shake his lazy boy awake. + +</p> +<p>“You shock me,” replied Fil’s mother. “We in the Philippines believe that it is most unlucky <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb65" href="#pb65">65</a>]</span>to disturb the sleeping spirit of a person by a touch. When the spirit is ready to answer to the call, it is ready to awake +and come back into this world.” + +</p> +<p>“Why, how superstitious!” I exclaimed, perhaps owing to my lack of real manners; for good manners should allow for differences +on unimportant things. + +</p> +<p>“Not more superstitious than you are, when you refuse to pass under a ladder, or to begin a voyage on a Friday,” Fil’s mother +answered. Then I realized that every person, every race, and every nation, and every color of mankind have their faults as +well as their virtues, weak points as well as strong and good ones. There is something good in even the worst of us; and, +perhaps, something bad in the best of us! + +</p> +<p>“I can testify that you Filipinos surpass my people in one thing,” I said. + +</p> +<p>“Thank you. What is it?” asked Fil’s mother and father together. + +</p> +<p>“Respect for parents and poor relations,” I answered. “Fil and Filippa kiss your hand and bow, morning and night. You, though +a father and mother, are also as dutiful as children. You keep grandfather and grandmother, and poor old relations around +the home, where they can always have a place to sleep, a kind hand near, <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb66" href="#pb66">66</a>]</span>and can get a bite to eat anyway, and a tear of sympathy over their sick bed, at the last.” + +</p> +<p>“By our religion, and by the warmth of our own hearts, we Filipinos believe it to be a cruel sin to send our parents and relatives +to asylums. God gave us to them at the beginning of life, and God gives them to us at the end of life,” replied Fil’s pious +mother. + +</p> +<p>“What a very, very beautiful saying, and what a beautiful deed!” I said. + +</p> +<p>Fil’s grandmother was sitting in a corner of the room. I could see a tear of joy stealing down her sweet old face. + +</p> +<p>We all now rose; saluted each other; and, as we retired for the night, we each said “Adios” (a dē ōs′), which means “good +night” or “good-by,” or really, “To God we commend you.” + + + +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb67" href="#pb67">67</a>]</span></p> +</div> +<div id="ch18" class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0085.gif" alt="Ornament" width="598" height="289"></div> +<h2 class="label">Chapter XVIII</h2> +<h2 class="normal">Dress</h2> +<p>The next morning the washwoman was bringing in the clothes. Knowing that I was a stranger, and would like to bring a true +story home to American boys and girls, Fil’s mother asked me: “Would you like to learn the names and kinds of our garments? +You will notice that they are very different from yours.” + +</p> +<p>“Certainly I would. I live in a land where some people spend more time over clothes than over learning, character, good deeds, +or the day’s duty,” I replied. + +</p> +<p>“This large flowing skirt of red, green, or white, is made of cotton, or hemp; and sometimes a little silk may be mixed in. +We like bright colors, and a long train. No short, tight skirts in our styles,” explained Filippa’s mother. + +</p> +<p>“How sensible,” I remarked. + +</p> +<p>“This loose waist or chemisette is sometimes white and sometimes colored. It is made of jusi cloth, that is, cloth woven from +banana <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb68" href="#pb68">68</a>]</span>leaf fiber. You see it is softer, thinner, and cooler than your linen or cotton.” + +</p> +<p>“It is lovely,” I acknowledged. + +</p> +<p>“Loose wide collars are in style with you now, but they have always been in style here. We call it ‘panuelo’ (pa nu ai′lō). +It is our whitest, thinnest fiber, made from pineapple leaves, just like our handkerchiefs that I told you about. You see +we starch it. It hangs down the back to a point, and it is very cool and dainty,” explained Filippa’s mother. + +</p> +<p>“What wide sleeves!” I exclaimed. + +</p> +<p>“Yes, sinamei chemisettes, or waists, have very wide sleeves, but are short to the elbow. We starch them out, so they will +be cool and neat,” replied Filippa’s mother. + +</p> +<p>“I notice that Filippa’s hair is worn plain,” I remarked. + +</p> +<p>“Yes,” replied her mother, “we brush the hair back plain; tie a knot or leave it loose. We like jewelry, and we wear splendid +lace mantillas, or shawls, over the head.” + +</p> +<p>“What odd slippers with no heels!” I exclaimed. + +</p> +<p>“Yes, we all like to have our feet ready to jump into mud or water, for our roads are not yet good. These slippers are called +‘chinelas’ (chē nay′las). They have no heel and just a <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb69" href="#pb69">69</a>]</span>catch to put the toe in. They have no laces. With them we slide along the ground. But we cannot back up straight, or run last +in them. If we wish to go back we must turn around, so as to keep our chinelas on our toes. The young people do not wear stockings +in our warm climate, where one lives close to Nature,—too close sometimes, when the snake bites.” + +</p> +<p>“But taken all together, what a happy Eden this is for a boy or a girl,” I added. + + + +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb70" href="#pb70">70</a>]</span></p> +</div> +<div id="ch19" class="div1"><span class="pagenum"> +[<a href="#toc">Contents</a>] +</span><div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0088.gif" alt="Ornament" width="618" height="430"></div> +<h2 class="label">Chapter XIX</h2> +<h2 class="normal">The “Adios” Feast</h2> +<p>Next day as we were walking down the road to the good-by feast, I noticed a crowd gathered in a circle, and stooping over. + +</p> +<p>“What are they doing; digging gold?” I asked. + +</p> +<p>“No, they are making game-fowl fight,” Moro replied. “They wager money on which will be the winner and put the other to flight. +The boys and men get very much excited.” + +</p> +<p>“This good-by feast in your honor, before you return home, is called a ‘fiesta’ (fē ais′tă),” explained Filippa. “Father and +mother and Fil have spoken to the Padre, and the barrio-elders; and everything is arranged.” + +</p> +<p>“But what is a ‘barrio’?” I inquired. + +</p> +<p>“It means a village, a ward,” replied Filippa. + + +</p> +<p></p> +<div class="figure"><img border="0" src="images/p0089.jpg" alt="Fiesta" width="480" height="720"><p class="figureHead">Fiesta</p> +</div><p> + +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb71" href="#pb71">71</a>]</span></p> +<p>I could hear bands and orchestras gathering. Here and there were tall bamboos bent over the paths, and from their arches hung +banners and colored paper lanterns. + +</p> +<p>Carromatos (car rō ma′ tos), small carriages drawn by little black ponies, were bringing people in. The men and boys were +dressed in white duck, as though they were going aboard yachts. + +</p> +<p>In front of the houses and the Iglesia (church) and convent were hung flags, festoons, streamers, wreaths, and bunting. + +</p> +<p>Flowers and palm leaves were strewn along the path that the procession would take. + +</p> +<p>Then we all started. The procession was led by the bands to the Iglesia, where, from the high campanile tower, the church +bells were ringing. In the church the good Padre said a few words, and gave us all his prayers and blessing. + +</p> +<p>While we were inside, evening had fallen. When we stepped out into the square, we saw a fairy starry land. Some one had lighted +not only the lanterns and torches, but the larger southern stars of these tropical islands were shining brightly overhead. +Colored rockets were also shot up into the night. + +</p> +<p>The barrio-saint—really, the small statue of the patron saint of the village—was carried at the head of the procession. +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb72" href="#pb72">72</a>]</span></p> +<p>Then to the music of the bands, we all marched home to the big upper hall, and gathered around a wonderful table. Roast pig, +chicken, pheasant; mountains of rice and fruit; candied ginger and mango; pickled chutney, which is sweet and sour at the +same time and also spiced; coconut and nipa wine; flowers as big as a hat and smelling as sweet as a bottle of perfume! Sandalwood +and spice-incense smoked sweetly, and nearly hid the good Padre and Fil’s father, who sat at the head of the table. + +</p> +<p>The orchestra tinkled all kinds of drums, castanets, bells, fiddles; many of them having strange shapes and shrill noises. +Funny, fat-cheeked boys were blowing the very life out of the flutes. All were very happy! + +</p> +<p>“Not happy to see you leave, but trying to make you so happy that you will not have time to entertain regrets to-night. We +want to remember your smiling face,” said Fil’s father. + +</p> +<p>Then the table was cleared and moved. The company all gathered around the hall. + +</p> +<p>Suddenly a hush; then a clamorous call of the orchestra! Then another hush—Filippa, dressed in silver spangle, and Fil, dressed +in scarlet and gold, suddenly rushed from opposite sides of the hall to do the love-dance, in which the brave soldier woos +and wins his sweetheart. +<span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb73" href="#pb73">73</a>]</span></p> +<p>They came near each other. She seemed to be coy; to quarrel sometimes; to beg; to promise. They whirled about; they executed +steps; they snapped castanets. The orchestra sang, whistled, snapped, strummed. The music flowed in waltzes; it jerked in +Castilian measures; it whispered. It serenaded, while Fil carried a mandolin with a ribbon. Filippa dropped her handkerchief: +Fil gracefully picked it up. He danced in pleading. He showed all the pretty steps he could do. As a sign that the soldier +had won his lady-love, Filippa at last consented that he should return the handkerchief, crown her proudly with it on her +cloud of thick hair, and waltz away with her triumphantly. + +</p> +<p>It was a pretty tableau. The orchestra broke out in loud and full harmony, with now and then a wild Moro yell or shout, from +the flutes and drums. + +</p> +<p>How we applauded! Fil and Filippa had to bow their thanks many times, from the side of the caida (hall). + +</p> +<p>Then there was another pause, after the Padre and Fil’s father had whispered. + +</p> +<p>Suddenly Moro ran out with a rush, to give a wild Mohammedan dance. + +</p> +<p>How strangely he was dressed! He wore tight red trousers, a red and blue turban on his <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb74" href="#pb74">74</a>]</span>head, and a tight jeweled tunic, covered with pearl buttons. His sash was green, dotted with purple spots. He had purple parrot +feathers at his waist and in his turban. + +</p> +<p>His feet were bare, as is the custom in his native wilds in the south island. The round shield that he carried, glistened. +He waved two terrible kriss-knives, with jeweled handles. Over his shoulder he carried a spear. How he drummed on that shield! +He hurled his knives into the air, and cleverly caught them before they fell. He seemed to pursue a foe; to crouch like a +boy scout; to listen; to follow the track; to meet the foe; to battle for his life and country. At last he seemed to conquer +with a wild yell, just as he was hurled backward and his shield was thrown aside. All this, while we held our breath in excitement, +he acted in his strange, barbaric dance, keeping time with the wind-like, volcano-like music of his native Moro islands. + +</p> +<p>The fiesta and the dances were over at last. The dancers and the guests departed. + +</p> +<p>Next morning, as we stood on the coconut wharf waiting for the boat to come in, Fil perhaps noticed that I looked sad. I saw +by his smile that he was preparing one of his jokes to cheer me up. + +</p> +<p>“Father,” said he, “may I take our friend <span class="pagenum">[<a id="pb75" href="#pb75">75</a>]</span>back to America, so as to see that he arrives all right?” + +</p> +<p>“Wait till you grow bigger,” replied Fil’s father. + +</p> +<p>“Then don’t blame me if he gets lost,” laughed little Fil, as he tried to stand on his tiptoes, and lifted his hand high above +his head, so as to appear as tall as a man. + +</p> +<p>After all this courtesy, all this happy, laughing time, in these sunny summer islands of the purple Philippine seas, it almost +broke my heart, as I left for home, to answer Fil, Filippa, their kind parents, Moro, the good Padre, and little Favra who +were calling from the wharf: “Adios, amigo” (a dē ōs′ a mē′gō)—“To God we commend you, our friend.” + + +</p> +<p class="aligncenter"><span class="smallcaps">The End</span> + + +</p> +<hr class="tb"><p> + +</p> +<p class="aligncenter">Printed in the United States of America. + + +</p> +</div> +</div> +<div class="back"> +<div class="transcribernote"> +<h2>Colophon</h2> +<h3>Availability</h3> +<p>This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. 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