also be taken into
consideration. But, expensive though it is, it is very pleasant to
live there and those who have once enjoyed it often wish again to
quaff the cup of its delights.

In strong contrast to this pleasant life is the life of the quiet
little hamlet away in the distant islands. Indeed, the Filipino from
the distant town, who by some good fortune has been to Manila, or, by
a _coup de main_, has studied in one of the Manila colleges, is looked
up to in a true hero-worshiping attitude by all who either know him or
hear of his fame. Life in such a place is one long state of harmless
inactivity. Not a wave of trouble from the great outer world ever
disturbs its peaceful repose. One lounges forever in an air of
indolent ease and extreme aversion to anything approaching what might
be called a respectable effort.

One arises in the morning about the time the sun's first rays silver
the top leaves of the cocoanut trees and then stirs around until nine
or ten o'clock, when it is found expedient to avoid a further exposure
to the sun. From then until about five o'clock in the afternoon it is
best to take things as they come, even though one of those things be a
Filipino dinner. But then you may have your _vehiclo_ attached to a
young bull with a ring in his nose and go for a drive. If it is the
dry season you will probably enjoy the drive unless you object to the
frequent clouds of dust swept along by the evening wind. If it is in
the rainy season your pleasure will depend to a considerable extent
upon how wet you get; but, whether the season be wet or dry, your
pleasure will be regulated largely by the state of harmony existing
between the driver and the bull.

In these quiet secluded nooks successive generations of Filipinos are
born, reared, grow old and die in an even chain of events broken only
by the occasional erection of a new grass house on the identical spot
where its predecessors have stood for ages. The son lives in the house
of his father, cultivates the same few square feet of soil planted in
edible roots, climbs the same cocoanut trees, follows the same winding
path down to the stream, pounds rice in the same mortar and with the
same stick that his ancestors have used from time unremembered, and,
in case of illness, curls up on a grass mat in a corner of the room
until he dies or by some good fortune recovers. Beyond this narrow
horizon he never looks. So narrow and contracted is the life that the