her's hands; children and
old women following, holding their tapers and reciting prayers--files
through the streets to the eternal clamor of the bells.

The afternoon is given up to tournaments--carabao races, pony races,
_banca_ races, cock-fights. Bamboo arches, decorated with red banners,
are erected in the larger thoroughfares, and under these the horsemen
ride together at full tilt, attempting to secure upon their lances
the suspended rings which are the favors of the local _senoritas_. On
dropping in at that volcanic little town, Mambajo, one hot afternoon,
I found a goose hung up upon the bamboo framework which became the
property of the competitor who, riding under it _ventre a terre_,
could seize the prize, regardless of the feelings of the goose. The
village had turned out in holiday attire, as the dense atmosphere of
cocoanut-oil and perfumery proclaimed. The band, in white pith helmets
and new linen uniforms, was playing under the mimosa-tree. Down the
main road a struggling crowd of wheelmen came, and from a cloud of dust
the winner of the mile bicycle-race shot past the tape. The difficulty
in the carabao event was to stick on to the broad, clumsy animal,
during the gallop around the course. One of the beasts, excited by
the shouts, began to run amuck, and cut a swathe in the distracted
crowd as clean as an ungovernable automobile might have made.

The ringing of a bell announced the cock-fight in the main beneath
the cocoanut-trees. It was near the market-place, where venders of
betel-nut, tobacco, cigarettes, and _tuba_ squatted on the ground,
their wares exposed for sale on mats. As the spectators crowded
in, the gatekeeper would mark their bare feet with a red stamp,
indicating that admission had been paid. On booths arranged within
the last inclosure, _senoritas_ sold hot chocolate and raisin-cakes
and beer. Tethered to little stakes, and straining at their leashes,
the excited game-cocks, the descendants of the jungle-fowl, screamed
in exultant unison. The small boys, having climbed the cocoanut-palms,
clung to the notches, and looked down upon the scene of conflict.

Little brown men, squatting around the birds, were critically hefting
them, or matching couples of them in preliminary bouts, keeping a good
hold of their tails. There was the wicked little Moro Bangcorong,
the trainer of birds that never lost a fight. There was Manolo, the
Visayan dandy, who on recent winnings in the main, supported