chewing the betel-nut and nursing their enormous feet. Some
fellow in the corner, with a chin like a sea-urchin, strums a tune
monotonously on an old guitar. Your host arises, offers you a glass of
gin and a cigar or cigarette, and asks you to "_lincoot dinhi_." So,
at his invitation, you sit down, and are expected to begin the
conversation. Such conversation is enlightening and runs somewhat
like this:

"Yes, thank you, I am very well; Yes, we are all well. Everything is
well.... The beer of the Americans is very good.... Whisky is very
strong.... The Filipino whisky is not good for anything.... It is very
dull here. It is not our custom to have pretty girls.... What is your
salary? All the Americans are very rich. We are all very poor.... The
horses in America are very large. Why?... If the people want me,
I will be elected mayor. But let them decide.... After a while will
you not let me have some medicine? The wife has beri-beri very bad."

The family arises with the chickens. For the Filipino boy no
chores are waiting to be done. The ponies and the dogs are never
fed. Nobody seems to care much for the animals. With the exception
of the fighting-cock, chickens, dogs, pigs, and carabaos are left to
forage for themselves. The pigs and dogs are public scavengers, and
the poor curs that howl the night long, till you wish that they were
only allowed to bay the moon in daytime, stalk the barren shores or
rice-pads in the hope of preying upon carrion. A Filipino dog, though
pinched and starved, has not the courage even to catch a young kid
by the ear, and much less to say "boo" to a goose. It is surprising
how the ponies, feeding upon the coarse grass, ever become as wiry
as they do. Evidently, to the Filipino, animals do not have feelings;
for they often ride their ponies furiously, though the creature's back
may be a running sore. In using wooden saddles they forget to place a
pad beneath them, and the saddle thus becomes an instrument of torture.

After the morning bath in the cool river, a cup of chocolate or a
little bowl of rice will serve for breakfast. Then the women attend
morning mass and kneel for half an hour on the hard tiles. It is still
early in the day, and the fantastic mountains, with their wonderful
lights and shadows, are just throwing off the veil of mist. Now,
in the clear light, the huge, swelling bosom of the hills, the
densely-timbered slopes beyond, stand out distinctly, like a picture
in a ste