the fountain on the corner, where the brown, barefooted girls with bamboo water-tubes would gather at the noon hour and at supper-time, was shaded in the heat of the day by a mimosa-tree. the calle de la paz y buen viaje (street of peace and a good journey), flanked by sentinel-like bonga-trees and hedged in by a bamboo fence, stretches away through the banana-groves toward the fantastic mountains. a puffing carabao comes down the long street, dragging the heavy stalks of newly-cut bamboo. the pig that has been rooting in the grass, looks up, and, seeing what is coming, bolts with staccato grunts unceremoniously through the bamboo fence.

in the little drygoods-store across the street, felicidad, the dusky-eyed proprietress, has gone to sleep while waiting for a customer. she has discarded her chinelas and her pi?a yoke. her brown arms resting on the table pillow her unconscious [122]head. her listless fingers clasp a half-smoked cigarette.

the stock of la aurora is a comprehensive one, including printed cotton goods from china, red and green belts with nickel fastenings, uncomfortable-looking spanish shoes, a bottle of quinine sulphate tablets, an assortment of perfumery and jewelry, rosaries and crucifixes, towels and handkerchiefs, and dainty pi?a fabrics. the arrival of the americano is the signal for the neighbors and the neighbors’ children, having nothing in particular to do, to flock around. the filipino curiosity again!

on the next corner, where the wooden atlas braces up the balcony, the chino store is sheltered from the sun by curtains of alternate blue and white. here chino santiago, in his cool pajamas, audits the accounts with the assistance of the wooden counting frame, while chino josé, his partner, with his paintbrush stuck behind his ear, is following the ledger with his long, curved finger-nail. both chinos, being catholics, have taken native wives, material considerations having influenced the choice; but maestro pepin says [123]that, nevertheless, they are unpopular because they work too hard and cause the fluctuations in the prices. by pursuing a consistent system of abstractions from the rice-bags, by an innocent adulteration of the tinto wine, these two comerciantes have acquired considerable wealth.

the bland proprietor will greet you with a smile, and offer you the customary cigarette. and if the prices quoted are unsatisfactory, they are at least elastic and are easily adjusted for a personal friend. along the shelf the opium-scented line of drygoods is available, while portraits of the saints and neustra se?orita del rosario, whose conical skirt conceals the little children of the church, hang from the wall. suspended from the ceiling are innumerable hanging lamps with green tin shades. a line of fancy handkerchiefs, with dewey’s portrait and the stars and stripes embroidered in the corners, is displayed on wires stretched overhead across the store. bolo blades, chocolate-boilers, rice-pots, water-jars, and crazy looking-glasses are disposed around, while in the glass case almost anything from a bone collar-button to a musical clock is likely to be found. [124]santiago would be glad to have you open an account here and, unlike the filipino, he will never trouble you about your bill.

the market street is lined with nipa booths, where se?oritas play at keeping shop, presiding over the army of unattractive articles exposed for sale. upon a rack the cans of salmon are drawn up in a battalion, a detachment of ex-whisky bottles filled with kerosene or tanduay, bringing up the rear. certain stock articles may be invariably found at these tiendas,—boxes of matches, balls of cotton thread, bananas, buya, eggs and cigarettes, and the inevitable brimming glass of tuba, stained a dark-red color from the frequent applications of the betel-chewing mouth.

although the stream of commerce flows in a small way where the almighty ’suca duco is the medium of exchange, gossip is circulated freely; for without the telegraph or telephone, news travels fast in filipinia. the withered hag, her scanty raiment scarcely covering her bony limbs, squatting upon the counter in the midst of guinimos, bananas, and dried fish, and spitting a red pool of betel-juice, will chatter the day long with [125]the se?ora in the booth across the street. the purchaser should not feel delicate at seeing her bare feet in contact with the spiced bread that he means to buy, nor at the swarms of flies around the reeking mound of guinimos scraped up in dirty wooden bowls, and left in the direct rays of the sun.

dogs, pigs, chickens, and children tumble in the dust. dejected filipino ponies, tethered to the shacks, are waiting for their masters to exhaust the tuba market. down the lane a panting carabao, with a whole family clinging to its back, is slowly coming into town. another, covered with the dust of travel, laden with bananas, hemp, and copra from a distant barrio, is being driven by a fellow in a nipa hat, straddling the heavy load. a mountain girl, bareheaded, carrying a parasol, comes loping in to the mercado on a skinny pony saddled with a red, upholstered silla, with a rattan back and foot-rest, cinched with twisted hemp.

at night the market-place is lighted up by tiny rush lights, burning cocoanut-oil or petrolia. here, on a pleasant evening, to the lazy strumming [126]of guitars, the village population promenades, young men in white holding each other’s hands, and blowing out a cloud of cigarette smoke; se?oritas, in their cheap red dresses, shuffling hopelessly along the road. one of the local characters is entertaining a street-corner audience with a droll song, while the town-crier, with his escort of municipal police, announces by the beating of a drum that a bandilla from the presidente is about to be pronounced.

here you will find the filipino in his natural and most playful mood, as easily delighted as a child. a crowd was always gathered round the tuba depot at the head of the mercado, where the agile climbers brought the beverage in wooden buckets from the tops of copra-trees. a comical old fellow, pedro pocpotoc (a name derived from chicken language), used to live here, and on moonlight nights, planting his fat feet on the window-sill, like a droll caricature of nero, he would sing visayan songs to the accompaniment of a cheap violin. a talkative old baker lived a short way down the street with his three daughters. they were always busy pounding rice in [127]wooden mortars with long poles, thus making rice-flour, which they baked in clean banana-leaves and sweetened with brown sugar molded in the shells of cocoanuts.

sometimes a moro boat would drop into the bay, and the strange-looking savages in their tight-fitting, gaudy clothes would file through town with spices, bark, and cloth for sale. from bohol came the curious thatched bancas, with their grass sails and bamboo outriggers, with cargoes of pottery, woven hats, bohoka, and rattan. on the fiesta days, subanos from the mountains brought in strips of dried tobacco, ready to be rolled up into long cigars, camotes, coffee-berries, chocolate, and eggs, and squatted at the entrance to the cockpit in an improvised mercado with the people from the shore, who offered clams and guinimos for sale.

and once a month the town would be awakened by the siren whistle of the little hemp-boat from cebu. this whistle was the signal for the small boys to extract the reluctant carabao from the cool, sticky wallow, and yoke him to the creaking bamboo cart. then from the storehouses the [128]fragrant picos of hemp would be piled on, and the longsuffering beast of burden, aided and abetted by a rope run through his nose, would haul the load down to the beach. while naked laborers were toiling with the cargo, carrying it upon their shoulders through the surf, the spanish captain and the mate, with rakishly-tilted tam o’shanter caps, would light their cigarettes, stroll over to ramon’s warehouse where the hemp was being weighed, and, seated on sour-smelling sacks of copra, chat with old ramon, partaking later of a dinner of balenciona, chicken and red-peppers, cheese and guava.

much of the village life centers around the river. here in the early morning come the girls and women wrapped in robes of red and yellow stripes, and with their hair unbound. in family parties the whole village takes a morning bath, the young men poising their athletic bodies on an overhanging bank and plunging down into the cool depths below, the children splashing in the shallow water, and the women breast-deep in the stream, washing their long hair.

in a visayan village

in a visayan village

here also, during the morning hours, the women [129]take their washing. tying the chemise below the arms, they squat down near the shore and beat the wet mass with a wooden paddle on a rock. meanwhile the children build extensive palaces of pebbles on the bank; the carabaos, up to their noses in the river, dream in the refreshing shade of overhanging trees. the air is vocal with the liquid notes of birds, and fragrant with the heavy scent of flowers. a leaf-green lizard creeps down on a horizontal trunk. the broad leaves of abacá rustle in the breeze; the graceful stalks of bamboo crackle like tin tubes. around the bend the water ripples at the ford. at evening you will see the tired men from the mountains, bending under heavy loads of hemp, wade through the shallows to the cavern shelter of the banyan-tree. through the dense mango-grove comes the faint sound of bells. the puk-puk bird hoots from the jungle, and the black crows settle in the lofty trees.

the covered bridge that spans the river near the mouth is a great thoroughfare. neither the arch nor pier is used in its construction; it is anchored to the shore by cables. it is not a very [130]rigid bridge, and sways considerably when one is crossing it. even the surefooted ponies step a little gingerly over the loose beams that form the floor. a curious procession is continually passing,—families moving their worldly goods on carabaos, the dogs and children following; hombres on ponies, grasping the stirrups with their toes; a padre with his gown caught up above his knees, riding away to some confession; mountain people traveling in single file, and girls with trays of merchandise upon their heads.

down where the nipa jungle thickens, fishing bancas are drawn up on the shore; and near by in a cocoanut-grove the old boatmaker lives. the hull of the outlandish boat that he is carving is a solid log. when finished, with its black paint, nipa gunwale, bamboo outriggers, and rat-lines made of parasitic vines, it will put out from port with a big gamecock as a mascot, rowed with clumsy paddles to the rhythm of a drum, its helpless grass sails flopping while the sailors whistle for the wind. these boats, although they can not tack, have one advantage—they can never sink. they carry bamboo poles for poling over [131]coral bottoms. in a fair breeze they attain considerable speed; but there is danger in a heavy sea of swamping. when drawn up on shore they look like big mosquitoes, as the body in proportion to the rigging seems quite insignificant.

the little fishing village is composed of leaning shacks blown out of plumb by heavy winds. along the beach on bamboo racks the nets are hanging out to dry. at night the little fleet puts out for punta gorda, where a ruined watch-tower—a protection against moro pirates—stands half hidden among creeping vines. the nets are floated upon husks of cocoanut, and set in the wild light of burning rushes. while the men are working in the tossing sea, or venturing almost beyond sight of land, the women, lighting torches, wade out to the coral reef and seine for smaller fish among the rocks. early the following morning, while the sea is gray, the fishermen will toss their catch upon the sand. the devil-fish are the most popular at the impromptu market, where the prices vary according to the run of luck.

the town was laid out by the spaniards in the days when padre pedro was the autocrat and [132]representative of spanish law. the ruins of the former mission and the public gardens are now overgrown with grass. sea-breezes sweep the rambling convent with its double walls, tiled courtyard, and its spanish well. the new church, never to be finished, but with pompous front, illustrates the relaxing power of rome. goats, carabaos, and ponies graze on the neglected plaza shaded with widespreading camphor-trees. the two school buildings bearing the forgotten spanish arms are on the road to ruin and decay; no signs of life in the disreputable municipio; the presidente probably is deep in his siesta, and the solitary guard of the carcel is busily engaged in conversation with the single prisoner.

the only remains of spanish grandeur in the village are the two ramshackle coaches that are used for hearses at state funerals. most of the larger houses are, however, in repair, although the canvas ceilings and the board partitions seem to be in need of paint. these houses occupy the center of the town. they are of frame construction, painted blue and white. the floors are made of rosewood and mahogany; the windows [133]fitted with translucent shell. storehouses occupy the first floor, while the living rooms are reached by a broad flight of stairs. a bridge connects the dining-room with the kitchen, where the greasy cook, often a moro slave, works at a smoky fire of cocoanut-husks on an earth bottom, situated in an annex to the rear.

a walk through the main street leads past a row of native houses, built on poles and shaded by banana-trees. you are continually stepping over mats spread out and covered with pounded corn, while pigs and chickens are shooed off by the excitation of a piece of nipa, fastened to a string and operated from an upper window of the house. a small tienda opens from each house, with frequently no more than a few betel-nuts on sale. the front is decorated with the faded strips of cloth or paper lamps left over from the last fiesta, while the skeleton of a lamented monkey fixed above the door acts as a charm to keep away bad luck. a parrakeet swings in the window on a bamboo perch, and in another window hangs an orchid growing from the dried husk of a cocoanut. under the house the loom is situated, where the women weave fine cloth from pi?a and banana fibers—and the wooden mortar used for pounding rice. after the harvest season it is one of the visayan customs to inaugurate rice-pounding bees. relays of young men, stripped for work, surround the mortar, and, to the accompaniment of guitars, deliver blows in quick succession and with gradually increasing speed, according to the measure of the music.

in the cool shade of the ylang-ylang tree a native barber is intent upon his customer. the customer sits on his haunches while the operation is performed. when it is finished, all the hair above the ears and neck will be shaved close, while that in front will be as long as ever. the beard will not need shaving, as the filipino chin at best is hardly more aculeated than a strawberry. the hair, however, even of the smallest boys grows for some distance down the cheeks. the filipino, when he does shave, takes it very seriously, and attacks the bristles individually rather than collectively.

you will not remain long in a filipino town without the chance of witnessing a native funeral. a service of the first class costs about three hundred pesos; but for twenty pesos padre pedro will conduct a funeral of less magnificence. the padre, going to the house of mourning where the band, the singers, and the candle-bearers are assembled, engineers the pageant to the church. the dim interior will be illuminated by flickering candles burned in memory of the departed soul. before the altar solemn mass is held, intensified by the deep tolling of a bell. led by three acolytes in red and white, with silver crosses, the procession moves on to the cemetery on the outskirts of the town. the padre sheltered by a white umbrella, reads the latin prayers aloud. a small boy swings the smoking censer, and the singers undertake a melancholy dirge. the withered body, with the hands crossed on the breast, clothed all in black, is borne aloft upon a bamboo litter, mounted with a black box painted with the skull and bones, and decked with candles. women in black veils with candles follow, mumbling prayers, the words of which they do not understand.

the cemetery is surrounded by a coral wall, commanded by a gate that bears a latin epigram. the graves, as indicated by the mounds of dirt, are never very deep, and while a few are guarded by a wooden cross, forlornly decorated by a withered bunch of flowers, most of the graves receive no care at all. there may be one or two vaults overgrown with grass and in a bad state of repair. around the big cross in the center is a ghastly heap of human bones and grinning skulls—grinning because somebody else now occupies their former grisly beds, the rent on which has long ago expired.

to the visayan mind, death is a matter of bad luck. it is advisable to hinder it with anting-antings and medallions; but when it comes, the filipino fatalist will take it philosophically. to the boys and girls a family death is the sensation of the year. it means to them nine days of celebration, when old women gather at the house, and, beating on the floor with hands and feet, put up a hopeless wail, while dogs without howl dismally and sympathetically. and at the end of the nine days, the soul then being out of purgatory, they will have a feast. a pig and a goat will be killed, not to speak of chickens—and the meat will be served up with calabash and rice; and visitors will come and look on while the people eat at the first table; and the second table and the third are finished, and the viands still hold out. but these are placed upon the table down below, where hoi polloi and the lame, blind, and halt sit down and eat. and back of all this superficiality lies the great superstitious dread by means of which the church of rome holds such authority.

i got to know the little village very well—to join the people in their foolish celebrations and their wedding feasts. i was among them when the town was swept by cholera; when, in their ignorance, they built a dozen little shrines—just nipa shelters for the holy virgin, decorated with red cloth and colored grass—and held processions carrying the wooden saints and burning candles.

then the locusts came, and settled on the rice-fields—a great cloud of them, with whirring wings. they rattled on the nipa roofs like rain. the children took tin pans and drums and gave the enemy a noisy welcome. but the rains fell in the night, and the next morning all the ground was strewn with locusts trying heavily to fly. the ancient drum of the town-crier ushered in the day of work, and those who took this opportunity to pay their taxes gathered at the municipio—about a hundred ugly-looking men. they were equipped with working bolos, with their blades as sharp as scythes for cutting grass, and, looking at them, you were forcibly reminded of another day, another army with a similar accouterment. even the presidente went barefooted as he gave directions for the work. some were dispatched for nipa and bamboo, while others mowed the grass around the church. another squad hauled heavy timbers, singing as they pulled in unison.

on sunday mornings a young carabao was killed. the meat hacked off with little reference to anatomy was hung up in the public stall among the swarms of flies. old women came and handled every piece, and haggled a good deal about the price. each finally selected one, and swinging it from a short piece of cane, carried it home in triumph. morning mass was held at the big simbahan, where the doleful music of the band suggested lost souls wailing on the borders of cocytus or the stygian creek. young caballeros dressed in white, the concijales with their silver-headed canes and baggy trousers, and the “taos” in diaphanous and flimsy shirts that they had not yet learned to tuck inside, stood by to watch the se?oritas on their way to church. the girls walked rather stiffly in their tight shoes; but as soon as mass was over, shoes and stockings came off, and the villagers relaxed into the bliss of informality.

i learned, when i last went to la aurora, that felicidad was going to be married; that the banns had been announced last sunday in the church. the groom to be, benito,—or bonito as we called him on account of his good looks,—had recently returned from college in cebu, bringing a string of fighting cocks, a fonografo, and a piebald racing pony. “when he sent me the white ribbon,” said felicidad, “i was surprised, but mamma said that i was old enough to marry him—i was fourteen—and that the matter had been all arranged. and so i wore the ribbon in my hair, and also wrote my name felicidad beneath his on the card that he had sent. and after that, when we went walking, the due?a was unnecessary.”

she confessed na?vely to a serenade under her balcony, of which i seem to have retained a hazy memory. and so the usual pig and goat were roasted, and the neighbors’ boys came in to help. the bride, with orange-blossoms in her hair, the daintiest kid slippers on her feet, and dressed in a white mist of pi?a, rode away in the new pony cart, the only one in town. the groom was dressed in baggy trousers, with a pink shirt and an azure tie. most of the presents came from chino santiago’s store; but the best one was a beautiful piano from cebu.

after the service in the church, a feast was held upstairs in the bride’s house. ramon, the justice of the peace, the padre, maestro pepin, all the concijales, and the presidente were invited, and the groom owned up that he had spent his last cent on the refreshments that were passed around. it is the custom in the poorer families for the prospective groom to bond himself out for a certain length of time to the bride’s father, or even to purchase her with articles of merchandise. a combination of commercial interests was the result, however, of the marriage of bonito and felicidad.