till
back in the fourteenth century, but the progress to be made within
the next few years will span the chasm at a single bound.

When I return to Filipinia, I shall expect to see, instead of the brown
_nipa_ shacks, bright-painted American cottages or bungalows among
the groves of palm. I shall expect to see the mountain slopes, waving
with green hemp-fields, worked by the rejuvenated native. Railroads
will penetrate into the dark interior, connecting towns and villages
now isolated. The country roads will be well graded and macadamized,
and bridges will be built across the streams. The cock-fight will
have given way to institutions more American, and superstition will
have vanished with the mediaevalism. The hum of saw-mills will be
heard upon the borders of the timber-lands; sugar refineries will
be established near the fields of cane; for Filipinia is still an
undeveloped paradise. The Great White Tribe has many problems yet
to solve; but with the industry that they have shown in other lands,
they can improve, not only the material resources, but can stir the
Filipino from his dream of the Dark Ages, and point out the way of
modern progress and enlightenment.

NOTE

[1] Johnson, the runaway constabulary officer, was killed October
last by the crew of the native boat which he had captured after
the Steamship "Victoria," which he had seized, had grounded off the
coast of Negros. Four of the crew were killed during the fight. In
true brigand style he had taken the boat at the revolver's point,
and headed for the coast of Borneo. He had ten thousand dollars of
government money, and his intention was to land at various ports and
make the local merchants "stand and deliver." I gave the following
interview to the reporter of the Princeton (Indiana) "Clarion-News,"
October 16, 1903:

"'Johnson, the pirate,' is dead, and buried in the lonely isle of
Negros. Many a worse man occupies a better grave. The worst that you
can say of Johnson is, that he was wrong and that he liked to drink
too much.

"I shall always remember him in his red shoulder straps, his khaki
riding suit and leather leggings. Before I had ever seen him I had
heard the old constabulary captain say: 'That feller looks like a born
fighter. Bet he ain't afraid of anything.' ... The padre gave us a
Christmas dinner, and Johnson at this function took too much of the
communion wine. On the way back he reeled continually in his saddle,
vomiting a