Chapter X

Minerals

“It is not only what towers above us, that makes our islands rich. Dig at your feet, and you will find valuable minerals! Magellan, the Spaniard, first discovered the Philippine Islands while he was on a search for gold, though I think a rubber tree, or a bamboo, is more valuable than gold,” said the wise Padre.

“We get gold in two ways,” explained Fil. “We wash it from scooped-up gravel, and we break it out of rock with a hammer.”

“And how do you melt your iron and copper?” I inquired.

“We dig coal, and use bamboo pipes and a bellows to make the draft. We put the ore into a clay kettle, and melt the rock out of it. Then, when the iron is pure, we heat it again until it is red, and beat it with hammers into shapes. Thus we make it into wheels, spears, axes, and so on,” explained Fil, who had watched the workmen at their labors.

“I know little about practical, mechanical affairs; tell me more,” urged Filippa.

“We have petroleum oil, just as America has; also, lead and paint ores. We have burnt-out volcano hills, composed of sulphur down into their deep hearts.”

“That is like a very bad place, way down below, that I have read about,” interrupted Moro; and Fil’s mother and the Padre shook their fingers at him for joking.

Fil continued: “We have beautiful marble quarries, out of which we can carve statues and table tops, and tops for seats. Our marble is full of colored veins just like jewels. Then we also have gypsum mines, which furnish both fertilizer for land, to make crops grow high, and plaster of Paris, out of which we make pretty white statues.”

“Wonderful!” I said, “I never thought of all this, when at home I bought the lovely white statues of lions and birds, from the vendor man with the basketful, on our street corner.”

Chapter XI

Water Buffalo

We were all so tired when we came out of the wood to the canal, that Fil’s father told us to wait until a buffalo cart came down the white shell road.

“A buffalo cart!” I exclaimed. “I’m afraid to ride in that. We used to shoot buffaloes in our country, and the few now remaining we guard behind iron fences in zoo gardens.”

“Here he comes!” exclaimed Fil and Moro together.

“Boys, boys, be careful!” I cried.

“Let us frighten our guest,” whispered Moro.

The buffalo sniffed at me, a stranger, and would have charged with his head down; but the man who had a rope tied to a ring in the buffalo’s soft nose, pulled the animal back.

“Get down, you foolish boy!” I exclaimed.

But before I could stop him, brave little Moro had climbed up between the fierce looking animal’s thick, long, sweeping horns, which extended from his large head back to his shoulders.

“Please get into the cart, everybody,” Fil’s father ordered, in a hospitable manner, bowing and waving his arm. It was indeed a high step.

The cart had solid wooden wheels, made out of one thick section that had been cut from a mahogany tree. There was no iron rim around the edge of the wheel. The sides of the cart, however, were light, as they were made from bamboo posts with rattan vine woven between them.

The driver sat on the shafts, and directed the heavy animal, just as much by words as by pulling the long rope.

“Why do you call these strong animals water buffaloes?” I asked Fil.

“Because, to escape the flies and the heat, the animal refuses to work during the heat of the day, and rushes off into a stream, or into the sea, to cover himself with mud and sand and water and weeds. All you can see above the stirred-up water are his large eyes and two wicked looking horns, which are as thick as a branch of a tree.”

“What an odd tail he has, much like a mule’s hairless tail. It looks like a piece of hose-pipe,” I exclaimed.

Moro, way up on the buffalo’s neck, heard me and laughed: “He can’t reach me with his rubber tail.”

“But I’ll reach you, Sir, if you don’t get down soon from your dangerous perch,” said Fil’s father.

The Padre explained: “We sometimes call these animals carabao. We use them for plowing, for drawing our sugar to market, for pressing our hemp mill, for turning our water wheels and sugar rollers, for pulling the huge logs of hardwood out of the thick forest. When the roads are too muddy for wheeled carts, we make a mud sleigh with runners; and the water buffalo with his thick hoofs pulls our loads of rice bags through the ooze.”

“And we eat him too, though his steaks are tougher than cow meat,” laughed Fil.

“And we make taws and whips out of his thick hide to correct little boys, if they have too much to say sometimes,” remarked Fil’s father, who winked at me, showing that his words were more severe than were his intentions or acts. Like the terrier, he just liked to frighten people; his bark was worse than his bite, as the saying is.

Chapter XII

Bats; Cattle; Horses; Cats; Monkeys

“Let us stop here,” begged Fil.

The driver, who wore a mushroom-shaped bamboo hat, pulled the water buffalo to a stop. All, except Filippa and Favra, got off at the mouth of a cave.

“I won’t go in or near it,” exclaimed Filippa.

“Girls are afraid of real things, of imaginary noises, and even of unreal shadows,” jeered Fil.

“No wonder, if you refer to this damp cave,” remarked Fil’s mother.

Creeping up quietly to the entrance, Fil and Moro threw stones and oranges and mangoes up to the echoing roof.

“Lie down quick,” shouted Fil’s father.

We had need to stoop, for there was a whirring in the roof of the cave and over its mouth, like the sound of birds or aeroplanes.

“What are they, owls or eagles?” I exclaimed.

“Furry fruit-bats, as large as flying cats,” laughed Fil, who was proud of his secret cave and of his discovery.

“You don’t really mean to say that those large flying things have fur, and eat fruit?” I asked.

“Exactly,” replied Fil’s father. “These are the large Philippine bats. The wings of some of them are three feet across. Ladies use their fur to decorate gowns. The bats live on fruit, just as monkeys do; only the bats eat at dusk, and sleep during the day. That is why we caught them napping, by going to the cave in daylight.”

“Wonderful country! Wonderful new kinds of life! I notice too that your cattle have humps on their shoulders,” I remarked.

“Yes,” replied Fil’s father, “our cattle, though smaller than yours, have high humps on their shoulders. They are of the Indian and Chinese breed; not of the English breed. But they are very good animals and have beautiful soft eyes, which seem to cry and plead for pity. We use them also to draw our carts.”

“I notice that others of the Philippine animals are also of the toy order; tiny but lovely specimens, like your spirited but small, black horses,” I remarked.

“Yes,” said Fil’s father, “our Malay horses, just like the Chinese horses, are more like spirited little ponies. They have hard mouths, but when they know you and are well treated, they obey well. Some day, when you ride over the hills on one, you will see how sure-footed they are on the trails; as safe as mountain goats. Your larger horses would tumble over in those difficult places.”

One of the disturbed bats had settled in a tree. He was clinging upside down, with his wings folded over his eyes. Up the trunk of the tree, the oddest kind of a cat was climbing after it.

“That cat should be a fisherman,” I exclaimed in a joking manner.

“Yes,” answered Fil, “some of our yellow cats have odd, hooked tails, just like monkey tails.”

“Maybe they once hung from tree branches by their tails, along with the furry monkeys,” suggested Moro, who often thought of the odd side of things.

“What a gripping tale you are telling,” added Fil, who indulged in roguish puns.

“Well, our monkeys are as good for men to eat, as for cats,” said Moro.

“Imagination has as much as taste to do with food; and, unless you call my next stewed monkey dish, deer or lamb, I won’t eat it,” I remarked.

Fil and Moro laughed and winked; for they had planned this true but strange story to make me feel uncomfortable for a minute.

Chapter XIII

Flying Ants and Locusts

We all climbed back into the buffalo-wagon, to go homeward. On the way, we passed a house which had collapsed in the middle, as though a great weight had broken its backbone.

“A blind, flying ant did that,” said Fil.

“Now, Fil, you really think I’m from the backwoods; you wish me to believe impossible tales,” I replied.

“Not a bit of it,” said Fil. “A flying white ant broke the thick beams of that big building, just as though a mountain fell on it, or as if an earthquake had rent it.”

“Why, then, did they not stop the ants, the silly, lazy people?” I exclaimed.

“Because they couldn’t see or hear them,” said Fil. “You see, it happens in this way. Our deadly white ant flies in a cloud of ants. When he reaches a house, he bores inside; then he is happy. He feels his way. He does not need to see. He just follows his nose, so to speak.

“His sense of smell, perhaps, draws him to the lumber of the house on which he lives. He does not like air. So, when he reaches a beam, he and all the other brother ants eat out the heart of it; but they do not break the shell, which is painted. The people in the house do not know anything about this, for the ants of course make no noise, and the painted outside surface of the beam is unbroken.

“Suddenly there is a strain during a typhoon, or a jar is caused by some person walking overhead; and down comes the whole house, like a person whose bones suddenly give way and become powder. The ants have escaped, because they have eaten the whole beam and have gone elsewhere for food.”

“Can’t you catch and destroy such awful pests?” I asked.

“Oh, yes! It’s great fun,” replied Filippa. We place a pail of water in a dark place, and light a candle which floats on a saucer. The ants fly to the light. Their wings are burnt off; and, silly, half-blind things, they all get drowned or wet, so that we can gather and destroy them.”

“They can nip you, too,” said Moro, who was slapping at something on his hand.

“Some people in the Philippines eat insects—the locusts. They fry them in coconut oil. Did you ever hear of such a wonder?” asked Filippa.

“Come to think of it, yes; for in the Bible it says that the food of John the Baptist, the great prophet, was locusts and wild honey, when he was in distress in the wilderness.”

“What does locust mean?” asked the wise Padre. Nobody seemed to know.

“It means leaping,”