Chapter XIV

Boats and Fish

We were passing over the bridge that carried the road over an arm of the sea,—the purple sea, which had a white foam-edge.

I noticed a boat moving against the tide. It had no engine, no sails, no rowers at the oarlocks. Only one man was on deck, leaning on a long pole. He walked slowly from the front to the back of the boat, still leaning on the long pole.

“Here’s another wonder of your marvelous Philippines—a boat moving without exerting power,” I exclaimed.

Fil looked at Moro and smiled. I saw that they both pitied my ignorance in a strange land. Then Fil said kindly:

“Don’t you see the man walking steadily along the running board, from the front to the back of the boat? Well, he is pushing on a long pole, and that power moves the boat against the tide. The pole reaches down to the bottom, through the shallow water. If the boat is loaded, and if the cargo is very heavy, two men push on each pole. The pole is a thick bamboo stick.”

“I also notice a curved deck or covering, laid over the boats,” I said.

“Yes, that is a roof, or thatch, made out of nipa palm leaves tied on to bamboo sticks,” Fil explained.

“Please look!” said sweet little Filippa. “Out there on the purple ocean is a more wonderful boat still.”

I looked. Oddest of sights! A boat shaped like a long leaf was scudding before the wind. The one sail seemed to pull the boat over from the wind. No one was really in the boat. But sitting far out, on a bamboo out-rigger, high into the wind-side, above the water, a sailor was balancing the boat and holding the sail by a long rope. Only on one side of the boat was there a bamboo pole fixed lengthways. It did not seem to be a well-balanced boat, yet it sailed along at a great speed; and risky as the sport seemed, the sailor sat perfectly safe on his high and dangerous looking perch, above the water.

“What kind of boat is that?” I asked.

“An out-rigger boat. Some people call it a dug-out boat,” replied Filippa.

“I’ll tell you more about it,” added Fil. “The boat itself is half of a solid log, hollowed out by fire and axe and knife. It is chipped and scraped smooth on the outside, and the ends are pointed. If the wind dies down, the sailor has to paddle the heavy boat home. Then he sits over on the side opposite the out-rigger, so as to balance it. But when he has hoisted sail, he sits on the out-rigger, as the sail balances the boat on the sailing side, opposite the wind. The boat easily rolls over, because it has no sharp keel going down into the water. But it is swifter before the wind, just because it has no keel to keep it back.”

“Very clever are your Filipino sailors,” I admitted. “Tell me if the boats are used for other purposes than sport.”

“Oh, yes,” said quiet little Favra, Filippa’s chum. “The sailors fish in them and bring us home fish with names as wonderful as are their colors.”

“Tell me the names, please,” I asked.

Favra slowly thought of three and replied: “The pompano, all silver, gold, and purple, and as wide as it is long; the fighting barracuda, so hard to bring in to the boat; and the leaping tuna, that jumps out of the water and out of the boat perhaps.”

Fil added: “Then there’s the bonito, as big as a pig, though its name jokingly means ‘good little one’; the sail fish which lifts its fin into the wind; and the garoupa.”

“Wonderful names,” I admitted.

“And all wonderfully good to eat,” added Moro, who was often thinking of dinners and feasts.

Chapter XV

Saw Mill; Mud Sleighs; Wooden Plows

“At what are you going to earn your living when you grow up, Fil?” asked the Padre, who was his teacher, when we all met again under the whispering bamboos next morning.

Fil thought a minute, pursed his chest out like a pouter pigeon, and replied to the great admiration of Filippa, who was a very loyal sister:

“I shall be a Senator, or President.”

“Come down from the clouds, Master Fil,” replied his father; “stop dreaming and say something practical. There can be only one President and only a few score Senators. So if every one had your aims, millions would starve. Yet millions are working happily, and earning wages which buy them what they need, if their ideas are not too selfish. They do not need to bow to wretched, cringing politics.”

“At what do they work?” eagerly inquired Fil.

“Come and see,” said Fil’s father and the Padre together. We all followed.

“Here’s a lumber yard; let us go in,” said Fil’s father.

“That man on top of that huge, uplifted log will topple off, and that man underneath will get his eyes filled with sawdust,” I exclaimed.

“That’s our way of sawing lumber,” explained Fil’s father. “We lift up one end of the log. One man gets on top and the other man below; and between them they pull up and down the heavy saw, until half of the log all feathers out into many boards. Then they raise the other end, and the men saw down to meet those first cuts, while board after board falls down.”

“Don’t you have round saws of steel, driven by machinery?” I asked.

“Not always,” said Fil’s father. “The wages here are so low that we can afford to hire men to do handwork. This gives many men work, and keeps them from being idle and discontented.”

“But here is one very round log which they are sawing across grain, into round wheels; and they are boring one hole into the center,” I exclaimed.

“They really are wheels for buffalo carts. Don’t you remember your ride the other day?” asked Fil.

I did remember the heavy, creaking wheel, made of one solid piece of wood.

“They never need an iron rim,” added Fil’s father; “and so are not as heavy as they look.”

“Why, here’s a low sleigh, being made out of bamboo poles, runners and boards. Do you have winter here after all?” I asked.

“No, nothing but hottest summer always. But we have much rain, and our roads are not all paved with rock,” explained Fil’s father. “If we used those high wheels on the muddy roads, they would sink so far down that the buffalo or bullock could not pull out the cart that was loaded with rice or sugar.”

“So you see, the sleigh slips more easily through the slippery mud,” added Fil.

“But what if you fell off, a mile from a crossing?” I asked laughingly.

“Oh, he jokes too, and you don’t check him,” remarked Fil, who looked at his father. Fil’s father smiled.

“What is this tough, crooked elbow stick, fixed to a long pole?” I inquired.

“A plow,” answered Fil wisely:

“Don’t joke. How can you have a plow wholly made of wood?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you,” said Fil. “You see our rice fields are flooded and soft. We do not need a solid heavy steel plow, such as you need in hard, dry land. The water buffalo, who loves to wade through the flooded rice fields, easily pulls this bent stick, which plows up the mud. Then we drain the field and plant the rice seedlings, and flood the field again, because rice must grow in water.”

“It is a peculiar but lovely Philippines that you live in ; so different from our country, but perhaps even more charming,” I added.

Chapter XVI

Umbrellas; Chairs; Milk-Bottle

“Please show us an umbrella shop,” begged Filippa and Favra together; for they had been whispering about what they would like to see.

“This way, then,” said her father and the Padre.

We walked along several narrow streets, which had bamboo blinds hung between the second stories, so as to keep out the strong sun.

When we came to a certain door space, which really had no hinged door, Filippa’s father moved aside the dangling ropes, made of glass and bamboo beads, which hung across the entrance. This made a tinkling noise, and attracted the workman to the front.

“We would like to see your umbrellas,” explained Fil’s father.

I thought the workman would show us silk or cloth ones, that would roll up tight.

“Why, this one is very thick,” I said.

“Lift it. It really is not heavy,” explained Fil’s father.

“How is it made?” I inquired.

“It is made out of split bamboos, which are spread out in a circle. Oiled silk, or oiled hemp cloth, is pasted over the frame. It all costs very little,” explained Fil’s father.

“But they are so thick, I could not put more than one in my umbrella stand at home,” I said.

“There you are joking again,” laughed Fil, who added: “We Filipinos hang our umbrella up on the veranda roof, where it is ornamental, as well as useful when wanted.”

“You see our umbrellas are made in pretty colors,” explained Filippa, who certainly showed that she would become a good housekeeper.

“Now, would you like to see a chair-shop, where they use no saw or plane or nails?” asked Fil.

“It seems nonsense, because our chairs at home are sawn from oak logs; and they are so filled with tacks and nails that they tear my clothes,” I replied.

“Around this corner,” said Fil, who was proud to lead the way.

Surely enough, Filipino workmen were tying lengths of bamboo poles together, with tough rattan vine, for the frame of a chair. The back was made of laced rattan and grasses. The seat was made of split bamboo, round side up, and all was as smooth, restful, light, and pliable as could be wished; and not a dangerous nail nor a saw used to make it.

“You can throw these chairs about. They never break, because they give way a little, like a spring. They are elastic, yet strong,” explained Fil’s father.

“And they cost only a few cents,” added the Padre.

“We don’t care when they burn up,” remarked Fil, who received from his father a stern look, and the order not to joke too much.

As we walked home, we passed a man who carried a bamboo over one shoulder. At one end of the pole hung a thick piece of hollow bamboo. At the other end of the pole hung an earthenware jug, tied in a net of rattan. Behind him followed a herd of goats.

“Fresh milk and bottled milk for children,” he cried.

“What is he, a curio seller?” I asked.

“No, a milkman,” answered Fil. “The bamboo jug is a pint measure. The earthen bottle holds the milk. And if you want fresh, warm milk for the baby, he will milk it here from one of his nibbling goats, right into the bamboo jug.”

“Always fresh milk!” shouted the vendor, as with his fingers, he made a snapping sound to call his herd of goats.

“Really, a walking dairy,” I remarked.

Milkman

Chapter XVII

Home Life

We were all tired when we reached home. The Angelus bell was sounding from the high white tower of the Iglesia. Every one stood still, bowed, made the holy sign, and then said a quiet prayer.

After a late dinner, Fil and Filippa as usual kissed the hands of their parents, bowed to them, and retired.

I thought how dutiful a custom this was, and I recalled how, in my own country, too many rude, selfish children, full of conceit, have little respect for their parents, and really attempt to order their elders around. The Filipino boy seems to know his place, as a boy.

The grander Philippine houses, on the second floor, have a large hall called the “caida” (ca ē′da). Here every one meets to enjoy the feasts or music. The kitchen and the bath-house are small separate buildings in the yard, or “azotea” (a tho tai′a). Every one must bathe once a day at least.

During the great heat of the day, after lunch, or “tiffin” as it is called, everyone sleeps a restful hour or two. Therefore visiting and dinners are carried on long into the night, when it is cooler.

To keep out the sun, instead of glass, opaque mussel shells are used in the many little frames of the windows. This makes a pearly, soft light, like moonshine in the house, even on the brightest, hottest day.

I noticed that women stood in the streams, and pounded clothes on smooth, round rocks.

“That’s our way of washing, out in nature’s laundry,” explained Filippa’s mother.

When Fil and Filippa were aroused each morning, I noticed that their mother did not touch or shake them, and I ventured to ask why she called so long and loud, even though she was standing over them. I remarked that in our land, a father would soon shake his lazy boy awake.

“You shock me,” replied Fil’s mother. “We in the Philippines believe that it is most unlucky to disturb the sleeping spirit of a person by a touch. When the spirit is ready to answer to the call, it is ready to awake and come back into this world.”

“Why, how superstitious!” I exclaimed, perhaps owing to my lack of real manners; for good manners should allow for differences on unimportant things.

“Not more superstitious than