used for medicine in America."

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."

"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.

"But what I have said is exactly and solemnly true," replied his
gentle mother.

"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."

Hungry Moro remarked: "I wish that this moment I had coconut shredded
over some Bebinka cakes."

"What are Bebinka cakes?" I inquired.

"They are pancakes made from fermented corn and rice dough,
mixed. Every Filipino is fond of them," explained Filippa's mother.

CHAPTER VIII

INDIGO, MANGO, GUAVA, DURIAN

"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.

"Tell about our indigo," suggested her brother Fil.

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. 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."

"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."

Moro laughed, and began to throw sticks up into a tall tree.

"What are you doing? Why don't you answer?" I inquired.

"I'm trying to knock down a custard, one foot long and half a foot
deep," he replied.

"Such nonsense. Custards in my country are made out of eggs and are
baked in ovens," I said.

"Not this better kind," replied Moro, who brought down a huge fruit,
a