On Discovering Myself

Do you want to know 'who you really are?'

Do you want to improve your relationships?

Do you want to develop socially, ethically, or spiritually?

This Program Could Be Your Solution!
What is 'Discovering Myself?'
'Discovering Myself' is a personal development program based on the Enneagram, comprising workshops and activities. The program shows how we can discover important things about ourselves by looking through the lens of personality. Personality is an important part of who we are but it is not the whole of us. Personality is the face we show to the world (and often to ourselves). By delving beneath the mask of personality we discover that we are much more. We have parts of ourselves that we can develop and use. We have shadow sides that we avoid.
Learning about yourself with the Enneagram will show you how we each have different world-views and ways of processing information. You will discover your talents, gifts, blind spots and traps. This information won't magically change you overnight, but it will point you in the right direction. It will give you opportunities and strategies to free yourself from what holds you back from making the most of yourself. It will help you understand others and improve those important relationships in your life. The program especially benefits couples and families.

Benefits of the Program

Coping with stress
Guiding career choices
Management of emotions
Improvement in relationships
Recognising talents and strengths
Sense of identity and place in the world
Better and more sincere communication
Understanding others and their behaviour
Greater self-awareness and self-knowledge
Recognition of weaknesses and blind spots
Personal, social and spiritual development
Increased self-acceptance and self-confidence
Lessens feelings of alienation and separateness
Path to freedom from poor attitudes and experiences
Reveals reasons for different world-views and priorities
Human potential is often limited by lack of self-awareness and self knowledge. 'Discovering Myself' provides keys to both. It shows how to understand yourself and find your way forward. It will help you to relate more positively to others and make sense of their different behaviours. Learning about yourself and others with the Enneagram provides opportunity for personal growth and liberation, accessible to all.

My home by:Dr. Jose Rizal

I had nine sisters and one brother.My father,a model of fathers,had given us an education in proportion to our modest means.By dint of frugality,he was able to build a stone house,to buy another,and to raise a small nipa hut in the midst of a grove we had,under the shede of banana and other trees.
There the delicious atis displayed its delicate fruit and lowered its branches as if to save me the trouble of reachich out for them.The sweet santol,the scented and mellow tampoy,the pink makopa vied for my favor.Father away,the plum tree,the harsh but flavorous casuy,and the beatiful tamarind pleased the eye as much as they delighted the palate.Here the papaya streatched out its broad leaves and tempted the birds with its enermous fruit;there the nangka,the coffee,and the orange trees perfumed the air with the aroma of their flowers.On this side the iba,the balimbing,the pomegrante with its abundant foliage and its lovely flowers bewitched the senses;while here and there rose elegant and majestic trees loaded with huge nuts,swaying thier proud tops and gracefull baranches,queens of the forests.I should never end were I to number all our trees and amuse my self in identifying them.
In the twilight innumerable birds gathered from every where and I,a child of three years at most,amused my self watching them with wonder and joy.The yellow kuliawan,the maya in all the varieties,the kulae,the Maria kapra,the martin,all the species of pipit joined the pleasant harmony and raised in varied chorus a farewell hymn to the sun as it vanished behind the tall mountains of my town.
Then the clouds,through a capris of nature,combined in a thousand shapes,which would suddenly dissolve even as those charming days were also to dissolve,living me only the slightest recollections.Even now,when I look out of the window of our house at the splendid panorama of twilight,thoughts that arelong since gone renew themselves with nostalgic eagerness.
Came then the night to unfold her mantle,somber at times,for all its stars,when the chaise Diana failed to coures trought the sky in pursuit of her brother Apollo.But when she appeared,a vague brightness was to be dis-cerned in the clouds:then seemingly they would crumble;and little she was to be seen,lovely,grave,and silent,rising like an immense globe which an invisible and omnipotent hand drew through space.
At such times my mother gathered us all together to say the rosary.Afterward we would go to the azotea or to some window from where the moon could be seen,and my ayah would tell us stories,sometimes lugubrious and at other times gay.In which skeletons and buried treasures and trees that bloomed with diamonds were mingled in confusion,all of them born on an imagination wholly Oriental.Sometimes she told us that men lived on the moon,or that the markings which we could percieve on it were nothing else than a woman who was forever weaving.

tarlac dike by:kerima polotan

The tarlac dike that is reported to have cracked and send thousands fleeing for their lives was the dike of my childhood. Many years ago I live in Tarlac,in a house off Tanedo Street whose kitchen overlooked that dike.It stretched from one end of town,from the railroad station all the way to Agana Bridge, and the dike was what I took to Tarlac High.People lived in crude little huts huddled close to the wall,on the land side and from the dike as I walked by,I could look into their lives.The dike curves ever so slightly in my memory,as though describing the arc of the slow ball.It was made of cements and had steps on either side,ever so often along the way. You could walk up to the ledge and walk into the river if you wished,but the river was not the fearsome one reported today but a friendly,familiar one in which the debris of living floated-old chairs,dead pigs,empty sardine cans.
it never flooded in the years i lived there but the waters rose to the ledge when it rained lapping againts the wall.In summer the river behind my house disap peared,and it was the ending puzzel of my young life where it went because then in summer the riverbed dried up so compleatly that we could cross it,my friends and I,balancing ourselves on the huge stones that the June rains hid,on our way to the barrios across,where the fruit trees awaited our plunder. And such plunder it was!Guavas,unriped mangoes,chicos,the fruit of the childhood that hunt the periphery of the tongue no matter how far one has gone and what diverse tables and one has sat at.
I had a good friend then who would later become one of the richest woman in the province(or so I'm told):but I don't suppose she cares to remmember the nipa hut she used to lived in and the hores that pulled the rig which was the source of their livelihood.I remember helping her walked their house occasionally-a privilege,I thought, because it was a handsome animal. A calesa ride was five centavos,a fast and exiting race down main street behind a spirited animal,but since five centavos was all I have to live on everyday,I took the dike,instead of saving my money for a slice of cake at recess.
It was cool,damp walked in the morning on the dike,and if all one thought of was getting to school,you could reach the back of the Traid School Building in ten minutes,walked down the steps,cross Romulo Boulevard,and be in time for the flag ceremony. But there where diversions to see---life stirring in the dark interiors of the dike houses,breakfast being set,childred hushed,a wife nagging,a husband scratching himself at the window,clothes hon out to dry,flower pots watered,detours of the imagination that helped the passerby and dellayed him.
But the walked in the afternoon was the best part of all.We dragged our wooden clogs and our school bags,taking our time,my friends and I,thinking of home and supper.Along the dike the mothers called to their children;the houses sprang alive with kerosene lamps.The smell of the river would come up to us,and we would look acroos it to the other bank,talking of approaching summer,planning forays to melon patches.
On clear nights the river would glisten,one huge sheet of of dark glass from our kitchen window.My friend has gone on to wealth and status,not too easily accesible to people these days,but I do enough remembring for the two of us.I suppose we weather everything---I have survived her success without envy,and my reminiscences must live her untouched.Only the wall to high school girls had thought would last a hundred years has crumbled,a casualty of government neglect and shortsightedness.
But my mind never lets go.The dike that the papers say has given way stands stubbornly in my memory,a sweep of cement and sand,and the paucity in my children's lives includesthe absence of such memory of their lives.

The World in a Train Francisco Icasiano

One Sunday I entrained for Baliwag, a town in Bulacan which can wellafford to hold two fiestas a year without a qualm.I took the train partly because I am prejudiced in favor of the governmentowned railroad, partly because I am allowed comparative comfort in a coach, and finally because trains sometimes leave and arrive according to schedule.In the coach I found a little world, a section of the abstraction called humanity whom we are supposed to love and live for. I had previously arranged to divide the idle hour or so between cultivating my neglected Christianity and smoothing out the rough edges of my nature with the aid of grateful sights without – the rolling wheels,the flying huts and trees and light-green palay seedlings and carabaos along the way.Inertia, I suppose, and the sort of reality we moderns know make falling in love with my immediate neighbors often a matter of severe strain and effort to me.Let me give a sketchy picture of the little world whose company Mang Kiko shared in moments which soon passed away affecting most of us. First, there came to my notice three husky individuals who dusted their seats furiously with their handkerchiefs without regard to hygiene or the brotherhood of men. It gave me no little annoyance that on such a quiet morning the unpleasant aspects in other people's ways should claim my attention. Then there was a harmless-looking middle-aged man in green camisa de chino
with rolled sleeves who must have entered asleep. When I noticed him he was already snuggly entrenched in a corner seat, with his slippered feet comfortably planted on the opposite seat, all the while his head danced and dangled with the motion of the train. I could not, for the love of me, imagine how he would look if he were awake.A child of six in the next seat must have shared with me in speculating about the dreams of this sleeping man in green. Was he dreaming of the Second World War or the price of eggs? Had he any worries about the permanent dominion status or the final outcome of the struggles of the masses, or was it merely the arrangement of the scales on a fighting roaster's legs that brought that frown on his face? But the party that most engaged my attention was a family of eight composed of a short but efficient father, four very young children, mother, grandmother, and another woman who must have been the efficient father's sister. They distributed themselves on four benches – you know the kind of seats facing each other so that half the passengers travel backward. The more I looked at the short but young and efficient father the shorter his parts looked to me. His movements were fast and short, too. He removed his coat, folded it carefully and slung it on the back of his seat. Then he pulled out his wallet from the hip pocket and counted his money while his wife and the rest of his
group watched the ritual without a word. Then the short, young, and efficient father stood up and pulled out two banana leaf bundles from a bamboo basket and spread out both bundles on one bench and log luncheon was ready at ten o'clock. With the efficient father leading the charge, the children (except the baby in his grandmother's arms) began to dig away with little encouragement and aid from the elders. In a short while the skirmish was over, the enemy – shrimps, omelet, rice and tomato sauce – were routed out, save for a few shrimps and some rice left for the grandmother to handle in her own style later. Then came the water-fetching ritual. The father, with a glass in hand, led the march to the train faucet, followed by three children whose faces still showed the marks of a hard-fought-battle. In passing between me and a person, then engaged in a casual conversation with me, the short but efficient father made a courteous gesture which is still good to see in these democratic days; he bent from the hips and, dropping both hands, made an opening in the air between my collocutor and me – a gesture which in unspoiled places means "Excuse Me." In one of the stations where the train stopped, a bent old woman in black boarded the train. As it moved away, the old woman went about the coach, begging holding every prospective Samaritan by the arm, and stretching forth her gnarled hand in the familiar fashion so distasteful to me at that time. There is something in begging which destroys some fiber in most men. "Every time you drop a penny into a beggar's palm you help degrade a man and make it more difficult for him to rise with dignity. . ." There was something in his beggar's eye which seemed to demand. "Now doyour duty." And I did. Willy-nilly I dropped a coin and thereby filled my life with repulsion. Is this Christianity? "Blessed are the poor . . ." But with what speed didthat bent old woman cross the platform into the next coach! While thus engaged in unwholesome thought, I felt myself jerked as the train made a curve to the right. The toddler of the family of eight lost his balance and caught the short but efficient father off-guard. In an instant all his efficiency was employed in collecting the shrieking toddler from under his seat. The child had, in no time, developed two elongated bumps on the head, upon which was applied amoist piece of cloth. There were no reproaches, no words spoken. The discipline in the family was remarkable, or was it because they considered the head as a minor anatomical appendage and was therefore nor worth the fuss? Occasionally, when the child's crying rose above the din of the locomotive andthe clinkety-clank of the wheels on the rails, the father would jog about a bit without blushing, look at the bumps on his child's head, shake his own, and move his lips saying, "Tsk, Tsk. And nothing more. Fairly tired of assuming the minor responsibilities of my neighbors in this little world in motion, I looked into the distant horizon where the blue Cordilleras mergedinto the blue of the sky. There I rested my thoughts upon the billowing silver and grey of the clouds, lightly remarking upon their being a trial to us, although they may not know it. We each would mind our own business and suffer in silence for the littlest mistakes of others; laughing at their ways if we happened to be in a position to suspend our emotion and view the whole scene as a god would; or, we could weep for other men if we are the mood to shed copious tears over the whole tragic aspect of a world
thrown out of joint. It is strange how human sympathy operates. We assume an attitude of complete indifference to utter strangers whom we have seen but not met. We claim that they are the hardest to fall in love with in the normal exercise of Christian charity. Then a little child falls from a seat, or a beggar stretches forth a gnarled hand, or three husky men dust their seats; and we are, despite our pretensions, affected. Why not? If even a sleeping man who does nothing touches our life!

Letter To His Parents from San Francisco

San Francisco, California
S.S. Belgic, 29 April 1888

My dear Parents,

Here we are in sight of America since yesterday without being able to disembark, placed in quarantine on account of the 642 Chinese that we have on board coming from Hong Kong where they say smallpox prevails. But the true reason is that, as America is against Chinese immigration and now they are campaigning for the elections, the government, in order to get the vote of the people, must appear to be strict with the Chinese, and we suffer. On board there is not one sick person.
On the 13th of this month I left Yokohama, leaving behind Japan, for me a very pleasant country, despite the proposals of the Spanish charge d'affaires who offered me a post in the legation even at a salary of 100 pesos monthly. Under other circumstances I would have accepted it; but at this moment it would be madness. Our trip, which lasted 15 days and hours and during which we had two Thursdays, because we traveled in the direction opposite the sun, was quite good, at least for me who never had such a long one without being seasick. The food was bad and tiresome. Through the kindness of the Spanish minister, or charge d'affaires, you'll receive two sets for tea and coffee of the best made in Japan that I ordered expressly for the family. The tea service is of faience according to the style of ancient Kyoto and the coffee set is of porcelain. To the connoisseurs they are the best. According to the charge d'affaires, they will reach you free of charge through the government. Also I'm sending along two doors, very beautiful and very rare, as a gift to my brother Senor Paciano so he can make an elegant furniture with them. The charge d'affaires himself will get in touch with my brother and will write him a letter. I hope my brother will become his friend, for he will be useful to him when he would like to export his articles to Japan. Don't forget to answer him.
At the entreaties of the same gentleman I stayed at the legation with him and the other members in order to prove to the rest that I fear neither vigilance nor observation nor have I any misgiving of any kind. As I have the firm conviction that I act uprightly and that I'm in the hands of God who has always guided me and helped me, I have feared nothing, and I succeeded to make myself the friend of those gentlemen. These, however, made a sad prediction for me; they told me that in the Philippines I would be forced to become a filibustero 1.
I'll not advise anyone to make this trip to America, for here they are crazy about quarantine, they have severe customs inspection, imposing on any thing duties upon duties that are enormous, enormous.
Before I left Japan, I sent you 10 combs to be distributed among my sisters. I suppose likewise that you must have received the vaccine as well as the picture of my poor little sister Olimpia.


Write me at London, 12 Billiter Street. Give me news about the family and the question of the hacienda (estate) that I wish to pursue vigorously.


With nothing more, I wish you to keep in good health until we meet again, which I hope will be soon.


I kiss affectionately your hand.
Jose Rizal

Siesta (An exerpt) by Leopoldo Serrano

When I was a boy, one of the rules at home that I did not like at all was to be made to lie on the bare floor of our sala after lunch. I usually lay side by side with two other children in the family. We were forced to sleep by my mother. She watched us as we darned old dresses, read an awit, or hammed a cradle song in Tagalog.
She always reminded us that sleeping at noon enables children to grow fast like the grass in our yard. In this way, in most Filipino homes many years ago, children made to understand what the siesta was. Very often I had to pretend to be asleep by closing my eyes.
Once while my mother was away, I tries to sneak out of the house during the siesta hour. I had not gone far when I felt something hit me hard on the back. Looking behind, I saw my father. He was annoyed because I had disturbed his siesta. I picked up a pillow at my feet, gave it to him, and went back to our mat. The two other children were fast asleep. The sight of the whip, symbol of parental authority, hanging on the posts, gave me no other choice but to lie down.
During my childhood, whenever we had house guests, my mother never failed to put mats and pillows on the floor of our living room after the noonday meal. Then she would invite our guests to have their siesta. Hospitality and good taste demanded that this be not overlooked.
The custom of having a siesta was introduces in our country by the Spaniards. Indee, during the Spanish times, the Philippines was the land of the fiesta the novena, and the siesta.
Many foreigners have noted this custom among our people. Some believe that even the guards at the gates of Intramuros had their siesta. It was a commonly known fact that every afternoon the gates of the city were closed for fear of a surprise attack.
The ayuntamiento of Manila or the commander of the regiment in Intramuros did well in ordering the closing of the gates during the siesta hour. Once, the Chinese living in Parian, just a short way from the Walled City, timed the beginning of one of their revolts by attacking at two o’clock in the afternoon. They were sure that the dons, including the guards and sentinels, were having their siesta. They felt that they would be more successful if the attack came at siesta time.
Even today visits to Filipino homes are not usually made between one o’clock and two o’clock in the afternoon. It is presumed that the people in the house are having their siesta. It is not polite to have them awakened from their noonday nap to accommodate visitors. There is well-known saying believed by many of our people: “You may joke with a drunkard but not one who has been disturbed during his siesta.”
Our custom of having our siesta has not been greatly affected by American influence. We have not learned the Yankee’s bustle and eagerness of endurance for continuous work throughout the day.
But if only for its health –giving effects, we should be grateful to the Spaniards for the siesta, especially during the hot weather, for the siesta serves to restore the energy lost while working under a hot climate.

Man Upon the Cross

Crimson fire,
the sky is burned.
Filled with smoke,
the heavens cry blood.

A crimson rain,
for the crimson flames.

How did I get this way?
I only wanted to be sane...
To be like the rest,
but different in my own way...
Only to be like the rest...

The darkness called me,
I went to it with open arms.
I bathed within evil,
I became corrupt.

Who am I?
What am I?
How have I gone wrong?

Crimson fires envelope my castle,
the castle eclipsed by the sun.
Like the moon over the sun.

I thought this is what I wanted.
I thought this was for the best.
I thought I was right..
But now I find I am wrong...
And now the Heavens cry...
And my castle burns...

I step through the castle doors,
and the flames part.
This is my home.
Always has,
always will.

These flames are not warm,
nor are they cold.
Yet they burn all the same,
feeding on what I once was.
Replacing carpet with marble,
wood with stone,
bright colors to midnight black.

Within my personal chamber it is no different,
crimson flames eat me away.
Upon the wall hangs a Black Cross,
nailed upon is a single figure.

Clad in the night I look closer,
I see his clothes,
that of my earlier years.
I look at his face,
scorched and burned by the flames,
I look deep into his Icy Blue eyes,
and that is where I realize...

The man upon the cross...
The man upon the cross...
He is me...
I know who I have become...
I know what I have done...
I know all too well...

THE SAMPAGUITA Natividad Marquez

Little sampaguita
With the wondering eye
Did a tiny fair
Drop you where you lie?
In the witching hour
Of the tropic night
Did the careless moonbeam
Leave you in its fight?

To My Native Land

My country! In thy days of glory past
A beauteous halo circled round thy brow
and worshipped as a deity thou wast—
Where is thy glory, where the reverence now?
Thy eagle pinion is chained down at last,
And grovelling in the lowly dust art thou,
Thy minstrel hath no wreath to weave for thee
Save the sad story of thy misery!
Well—let me dive into the depths of time
And bring from out the ages, that have rolled
A few small fragments of these wrecks sublime
Which human eye may never more behold
And let the guerdon of my labour be,
My fallen country! One kind wish for thee!

Quietness by Amador T. Daguio

I am lovers of all quietness
unechoed songs within a silent heart,
a silver pond, a statued loveness
where words can take no part.

i love the quiet ways of memory
the quiet looks to give you loving praise,
the quite secrets of my misery
through quiet nights and days.

The quiet mountains of the earth i love,
the moving clouds the sun, the dewy leaf
my quiet questioning of god above,
my quite, tearless grief.

maria clara's song by jose rizal

Sweet are the hours in one's own Native Land,
All there is friendly o'er which the sun shines above;
Vivifying is the breeze that wafts over her fields;
Even death is gratifying and more tender is love.

Ardent kissed on a mother's lips are at play,
On her lap, upon the infant child's awakening,
The extended arms do seek her neck to entwine,
And the eyes at each other's glimpse are smiling.

It is sweet to die in one's own Native Land,
All there is friendly o'er which the sun shines above;
And deathly is the breeze for one without
A country, without a mother and without love.

Song

The weight of the world
is love.
Under the burden
of solitude,
under the burden
of dissatisfaction

the weight,
the weight we carry
is love.

Who can deny?
In dreams
it touches the body,
in thought constructs
a miracle,
in imagination
anguishes till born
in human--
looks out of the heart
burning with purity--
for the burden of life
is love,

but we carry the weight wearily,
and so must rest
in the arms of love
at last,
must rest in the arms
of love.

No rest
without love,
no sleep
without dreams
of love-- be mad or chill
obsessed with angels or machines,
the final wish is love
--cannot be bitter, cannot deny,
cannot withhold if denied:

the weight is too heavy

--must give
for no return as thought
is given in solitude
in all the excellence of its excess.

The warm bodies shine together
in the darkness, the hand moves
to the center of the flesh,
the skin trembles in happiness
and the soul comes joyful to the eye--

yes, yes, that's what
I wanted, I always wanted,
I always wanted, to return
to the body where I was born.

THE SEA By Natividad Marquez

Why does the sea laugh, Mother,
As it glints beneath the sun?
It is thinking of the joys, my child,
That it wishes every one.
Why does the sea sob so, Mother,
As it breaks on the rocky shore?
It recalls the sorrows of the world.
And weeps forevermore.
Why is the sea so peaceful, Mother,
As if it were fast asleep?
It would give our tired hearts, dearest child,
The comfort of the deep.

Ballad of a Mother's Heart

The night was dark,
For the moon was young,
And the Stars were asleep and rare,
The clouds were thick,
Yet Youth went out,
To see his Maiden fair.

Dear one,
he pleaded as he knelt before her feet in tears.
My love is true,
Why you have kept me waiting all this years?
The maiden looked at him.
Unmoved it seemed,
And whispered low.

Persistent Youth,
You have to prove by deeds,
Your love is true.
"There's not a thing
I haven't do for you,Beloved" said he.
"Then, go." said she. "To your mother dear,
And bring her heart to me.

Without another word,
Youth left and went to his mother dear.
He opened her breast and took her HEART!
But he did not shed a tear.

Then back to his Maiden fair,
He run unmindful of the rain.
But his feet slipped, And he fell down,
And load, he groan with pain!

And then, he held the prize,
That would win his Maiden's hands.
But he thought of his mother dear,
So kind,so sweet,so fond

But then,
he heard a voice!
Not from his lips,
But all apart!

"Get up" it said.
"Are you hurt,Child?"
It was his mother's heart
The ballad of a Mother's heart.

new yorker in tondo

Scene 1:
Mrs. M: Visitors, always visitors, nothing but visitors all day long. I’m beginning to feel like a society matron.
Mrs. M: Tony! I thought you were on the province.
Tony: Is that you aling Atang?
Mrs. M: of course. It’s I, foolish boy. Why?
Tony: You don' look like Aling Atang.
Mrs. M: I had a hair cut. Think it's horrible?
Tony: Oh, no, no.. You look just wonderful. Aling Atang for a moment, I thought you were Kikay.
Mrs. M: Oh, you are so palikero as ever, Tony. But come in. Here, sit down. How is your mother?
Tony: Poor mother. She is homesick for Tondo. She wants to come back here at once.
Mrs. M: How long have you been away?
Tony: Only 3 months..
Mrs. M: Only 3 months!!! It's too long for a Tondo native to be away from Tondo. My poor kumara. She must be bored out there.
Tony: Well, you know, we engineers are always on call. But as soon as I finish the bridge in Bulacan, we’ll be going here in Tondo.
Mrs. M: Yes, must bring her back as soon as possible. We miss her when we play mahjong..
Tony: That is what she misses most of all.
Mrs. M: I understand. Once a Tondo girl always a Tondo girl. I wonder if that’s fit my Kikay because after a year in America , she says she’s not homesick at all..
Tony: When did Kikay arrive Aling Atang?
Mrs. M: Last Monday.
Tony: I didn’t know it ‘till I read it in the newspaper.
Mrs. M: That girl only arrived last Monday and look what happened to me! She dragged me to the parlor. My hair was cut, eyebrows shaved, nails manicured. And when I’m going to the market, I used lipstick! All my kumara are laughing. People think I’m a loose woman. Because of my age, but I can’t do anything because it's hard to argue with Kikay. And she insists that I should look like an Americana ..
Tony: You look just wonderful, and where is she now?
Mrs. M: Who?
Tony: Kikay? Is she at home?
Mrs. M: She’s still sleeping!
Tony: Still sleeping?!
Mrs. M: She says, in New York , people don’t wake up until 12:00 noon.
Tony: It's only 10:00 now.
Mrs. M: Besides, she's busy. Since she came home. Welcome parties here and there. Visitors all day long. She's spinning like a top.
Tony: Well, will you tell her I called to welcome her. And kindly give her these flowers.
Mrs. M: But surely you’re not going yet?
Tony: I did want to see Kikay. But if she doesn’t get up at 12 noon
Mrs. M: Wait a minute. I’ll go and wake her up.
Tony: Please don’t bother Aling Atang. I can come back some other time.
Mrs. M: Wait right here. She’ll simply be delighted to see her childhood friend. The flowers are beautiful, how expensive they must be.
Tony: Oh, they’re nothing at all Aling Atang.
Mrs. M: Oh, Tony..
Tony: Yes Aling Atang?
Mrs. M: You mustn’t call me “Aling Atang”
Tony: Why not?
Mrs. M: Kikay says that it's more civilized to call me Mrs. Mendoza.
Tony: Yes aling… I mean, Yes, Mrs. Mendoza..
Mrs. M: Wait a minute and I’ll call Kikay.
Tony: Huh!!
Mrs. M: Oh! And Tony..
Tony: Yes, Aling…. I mean, Mrs. Mendoza?
Mrs. M: You must not call her Kikay.
Tony: And what shall I call her?
Mrs. M: You must call her Francesca..
Tony: Francisca?
Mrs. M: Not Francisca.. Fran-CES-ca..
Tony: But why Francesca?
Mrs. M: Because in New York , she says that’s the way they pronounce he name, it sounds like “chi-chi” so Italian, be sure to call her Francesca and not Kikay.
Tony: Yes, Mrs. Mendoza .
Mrs. M: Now, wait right here while I call Francesca…. AIE DIOSMIO!!!
Tony: Never mind Mrs. Mendoza, I’ll answer it.
Mrs. M: Just tell them to wait, Tony.
Scene 2:
Totoy: Tony!
Tony: Totoy!
Totoy: You old son of your father!
Tony: You big carabao!
Totoy: Mayroon ba tayo dyan?
Tony: You ask me that… and you look like a walking goldmine! How many depots have you been looting, huh!!??
Totoy: Hey hey!! More slowly there.. It is you the police are looking for.
Tony: Impossible! I’m a reformed character! Come in Totoy
Totoy: Okay Tony.
Tony: Good to see you old pal.. Here, have a smoke.
Totoy: I thought you were in the province, partner.
Tony: I am. I just came to say hello to Kikay.
Totoy: Tony. I’ve been hearing the most frightful things about that girl.
Tony: So have I.
Totoy: People say she has gone crazy.
Tony: No, she has only gone New York .
Totoy: What was she doing in New York anyway?
Tony: Oh, studying.
Totoy: Studying what?
Tony: Hair culture and Beauty Science. She got a diploma.
Totoy: Imagine that! Our dear old Kikay!
Tony: Pardon me, she's not Kikay anymore,.. She's Fran-CeS-ca..
Totoy: Fran-CeS-ca??
Tony: Our dear Kikay is now an American.
Totoy: Don’t make me laugh! Why I knew that girl when she’s still selling rice cakes.. Puto kayo dyan!! Bili na kayo ng puto mga suki!!
Tony: Remember when we pushed her into the canal?
Totoy: She chased us around the streets.
Tony: She was dripping with mud!
Totoy: Naku! How that girl could fight!
Scene 3:
Nena: Why, Totoy?!
Totoy: Nena, my own.
Nena: And Tony, too.. What’s all this? A Canto Boy Reunion ?
Totoy: We have come to greet the Lady from New York .
Nena: So have I. Is she at home?
Tony: Aling Atang is trying to wake her up.
Nana: To wake her up?! Is she still sleeping??
Mrs. M: No, she’s awake already. She's dressing. Good morning Nena and Totoy.
Mrs. M: Well, Totoy? Nena? Why are you staring me like that?
Nena: Is that you Aling Atang?
Totoy: Good God, it is Aling Atang!
Mrs. M: It's Kikay who prefers it.
Nena: How you used to pinch and pinch me Aling Atang, when I was a li’l girl.
Mrs. M: Because you were all naughty, especially you! Always sneaking into our backyard for mangoes
Totoy: Do you still have that mango tree?
Mrs. M: Yes. Come and help me carry something in the kitchen.
Nena: Aling Atang, don’t you prepare anything for us. We’re not visitors
Mrs. M: It's only orange juice. I was preparing some for Kikay.
Nena: Well. Tony.
Tony: You shouldn’t have come today, Nena.
Nena: Oh, why not?
Tony: I haven’t talked with Kikay yet.
Nena: Not yet! I thought you said it last night.
Tony: I lost my nerve.
Nena: Oh Tony, Tony!
Tony: Use your head. Nena it's not easy breaking off his engagement with Kikay or with the girl for God sake!!
Nena: Are you in love with Kikay or with me?
Tony: Of course with you!! I’m engage with you.
Nena: Yes, and with Kikay. Too!
Tony: That was a year ago! Nena, you know how much I love you.
Nena: How could you ask me if you’re still engage with Kikay!
Tony: This is what I get from being honest!
Nena: Honest? Making me fall for you when you’re inlove and engaged with Kikay!
Tony: I thought I didn’t belong to Kikay anymore. It's only a secret engagement anyway. I proposed to her before she left for America . But when she stopped answering my letters, I considered myself a freeman again.
Nena: And so you proposed to me..
Tony: Yes..
Nena: Then, you tell me to keep it a secret!
Tony: Because I found out that Kikay was coming back.
Nena: I’m tired of being secretly engaged to you!
Tony: Just give me a chance to explain to Kikay. Then we’ll tell them.
Nena: Well, you better hurry. I’m getting impatient.
Tony: How can I talk to Kikay?
Nena: Why not?
Tony: Because you’re here and also Totoy. I don’t wanna jilt Kikay infront of everybody.
Nena: You want Totoy and me to clear out?
Tony: No.. just give me a chance to be alone with Kikay for a moment..
Nena: I’ll take care of Totoy..
Tony: That’s good..
Nena: Just leave it to me..
Scene 4:
Totoy: Puto kayo dyan.. Bili na kayo..
Mrs. M: Here comes Kikay, But she wants to call her Francesca.
Kikay: Oh hello darling people!! Nena my dear…… But how but you’ve become.. and Tony, my little pal… how are you? And Totoy… my raishing! You look goodness,, you look like a Tondo Super Production in Technicolor!! But sit-down everybody and let me look at you.. Oh mumsy!!!
Mrs. M: What’s the matter now?
Kikay: How many times I must tell you, never to serve fruit juices in water glasses?
Mrs. M: I couldn’t find those tall glasses you brought home.
Kikay: Oh, poor li’l mumsy.. she is so clumsy noh? But never mind, don’t break your heart about it. Here sit down.
Mrs. M: No, I must be going to the market.
Kikay: Oh, don’t forget my celery. I can’t live without it. I’ like a rabbit, munch all day.
Mrs. M: Well, if you people will excuse me. Tony, remember me to your mother.
Kikay: And remember, a little bloom on the lips, a little bloom on the cheeks. Say mwah, mwah..
Mrs. M: Do I have to, Kikay?
Kikay: Again mumsy?
Mrs. M: Do I have to paint this old face of mine? Rancesca, what am I going to do with you?
Kikay: But how dreadfully you put it. Oh mumsy, what am I going to do with you?
Mrs. M: I give up!
Kikay: Poor mumsy. How pathetic!
Nena: Tell us about New York .
Tony: How long did you stay there?
Kikay: 10 months, 4 days, 7 hours and 21 minutes.
Totoy: And she’s still there…. In her dreams…
Kikay: Yes, I feel as if I was still there, as though I had never left it, as though I lived there all my life. But I look around me and I realized that no, no, I’m not there. I’m not in New York , I’m at home. But which is home for me, this cannot be home because here, my heart aches with homesickness..
Nena: I don’t think we ought to be here at all.
Tony: Yes, we shouldn’t disturb her.
Totoy: Let’s all just walk out very, very quietly.
Nena: And leave her alone with her memories.
Tony: Is that girl we used to go swimming with the mud puddles?
Kikay: Ah, New York , my own dear New York ..
Nena: Totoy, will you come with me..
Totoy: To the ends of the earth!
Nena: No darling, just out to our dear little backyard.
Totoy: Oh, the backyards of Tondo, the barong barongs of Mypaho, the streets of Sibakong..
Nena: Listen Idiot! Are you coming with me or not??
Totoy: Anywhere dream girl, anywhere at all!!
Scene 5:
Kikay: Apparently, out Totoy still has a most terrific crush on Nena. Do wake up, Tony. What are you looking so miserable about?
Tony: Kikay, I don’t know how to begin.
Kikay: Just call me Francesca… that’s a good beginning.
Tony: There is something I must tell you… something very important.
Kikay: Oh, Tony, can’t we just forget all about it?
Tony: Forget??
Kikay: That’s the New York way, Tony. Forget, nothing must ever too serious; nothing must drag on too long. Tonight, give all your heart, tomorrow, forget. And when you meet again, smile, shake hands… just good sports..
Tony: What are you talking about?
Kikay: Tony, I was only a child at that time.
Tony: When?
Kikay: When you and I got engaged. I’ve changed so much since then, Tony.
Tony: That was only a year ago.
Kikay: To me, it seems a century. So much had happened to me. More can happen to you in just one year in New York .
Tony: Listen, I don’t want to talk about New York … I want to talk about our engagement.
Kikay: And that’s what we cannot do Tony. Not anymore.
Tony: Why not?
Kikay: Tony, you got engaged to a girl named Kikay. Well, that girl doesn’t exist anymore. She's dead. The person you see before you is Francesca. Don’t you see, Tony, I’m a stranger to you. I hate to hurt you, but surely you see that there can be no more talk of an engagement between us. Imagine, a New York Girl, marrying a Tondo Boy!!! It's so insane!!
Tony: Now look here..
Kikay: I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you, Tony.
Tony: I’m not going to sit here and be insulted.
Kikay: Hush! Tony! Hush! Don’t shout, don’t lose your temper. It's so uncivilized. People in New York don’t lose their temper.
Tony: What do you want me to do? Smile, say thank you for slapping my face?
Kikay: Yes, Tony. Be a sport, let’s smile and shake hands, and be just friends, huh?
Tony: If you weren’t a woman, I’d I’d…
Scene 6:
Totoy: Hold it Tony. You must never, never hit a woman.
Nena: What’s all this?
Kikay: Nothing,,, nothing at all..
Totoy: What were you two quarrelling about?
Kikay: We were not quarrelling. Tony and I just decided to be good friends and nothing more
Nena: Tony, is it true?
Tony: Yes!
Nena: Now, we can tell them!
Kikay: Tell us what?
Totoy: What’s going on here?
Nena: Tony and I are engaged!!
Kikay: Engaged!!
Totoy: Engaged! Engaged!!
Nena: Yes! We’ve been secretly engaged for a month!
Kikay: A month!? Why you….you…
Tony: I did try to tell you Kikay, I was trying to tell you…
Kikay: You unspeakable cad!!
Nena: Hey, carefully there!! You’re speaking top of my fiancé..
Kikay: He’s not your fiancé!
Nena: Oh No!! And why not, huh!!??
Kikay: Because he was still engaged to me when he got engaged to you!
Nena: Well, he's not engaged to you anymore, you just said it yourself.
Kikay: Ah, but I didn’t know about all this..
Tony: Now remember, Kikay… it's so uncivilized to lose one’s temper, People in New York don’t lose their temper.
Kikay: I’ve never felt so humiliated in all my life!! You beast, I’ll teach you!!
Nena: I told you to leave him alone. He’s my fiancé!!
Kikay: And I tell you he's not!! He's engaged to me until I release him… and I haven’t release him yet.
Nena: You ought to be ashamed of yourself! You’re just being a dog in the manger!
Kikay: You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Stealing my man behind my back!
Nena: What? What did you say!!??
Tony: Totoy, pull them apart!
Kikay: You keep out of this or I’ll knock your head off!
Totoy: Naku lumabas din ang pagka Tondo!
Nena: Shameless hussy!!
Kikay: Man eater!!
Tony: How dare you suck her??!!
Nena: She hit me first!
Tony: Look what you’ve done to her!
Nena: Are you trying to defend her? You never defended me!
Tony: Shut up!!
Nena: I hate you! I hate you
Tony: Shut up or I’ll bash your mouth off!!
Totoy: Hey, don’t you talk to Nena that way.
Tony: You keep out of this!
Nena: He’s more of a gentleman than you are. He defends me!
Totoy: You take your hands off her!
Tony: I told you to keep out of this!
Nena: Oh, Totoy, you’ve save my life
Kikay: Tony! Tony, open you eyes!
Tony: Oh, get away from her!
Nena: Take me away from her!
Totoy: Are you still engaged to him?
Nena: I hate him! I never want to see him again in my life!
Totoy: Good! Come on, and let’s go!
Tony: Hey!
Nena: Don’t you speak to me, you brute!
Tony: I wasn’t talking to you!
Totoy: Don’t you speak to me either! You have insulted the woman I love!
Nena: Oh, Totoy, why have you never told me?
Totoy: Well, now you know.
Tony: Congratulations!!!
Nena: Let’s go darling; I don’t want the smell around here.
Scene 7:
Tony: Now, you’ve ruined my life! I hope you’re satisfied.
Kikay: I…. have ruined your life??? You…. Ruined mine!!
Tony: What you need is a good spanking!
Kikay: Don’t you come near me, you,,, you Canto Boy..
Tony: Don’t worry, I wouldn’t touch you with my ten foot pole.
Kikay: And I wouldn’t touch you with my twenty foot pole.
Tony: Just one year in New York and you forgot your old friends.
Kikay: Just one year that I’m in New York … and what did you do? But when we got engaged, you swore to be true, you promised to wait for me. And I believe you!! Oh, you’re a fickle, fickle..
Tony: What are you crying about? Be brave…..forget….. That’s the New York way.. Nothing must ever be too serious, nothing must ever drag on too long..
Kikay: Oh Tony Please, please!
Tony: Besides, there could be no more talk of an engagement between us. Imagine a New York Girl, marrying a Tondo boy!!
Kikay: Oh Tony, I’ve been such a fool.. I’m sorry, Tony..
Tony: Well, I’m not! I’m glad I found out what kind of a person you are!
Kikay: Oh Tony, you’re wrong, you’re wrong! I’m not that kind of person at all..
Tony: Oh. “person” is just a relative name, huh!?
Kikay: Yes Tony, that was Francesca saying all that. But Francesca exist no more, Tony, the girl standing before you now, is Kikay.
Tony: In that silly dress?
Kikay: Oh this is just a gift wrapping, Tony.
Tony: Well, well, well..
Kikay: It's true Tony. I’m Kikay….remember me??
Tony: If I remember it right, I was right, I was engaged to a girl named Kikay.
Kikay: Yes, and you’re still engaged to her Tony!
Tony: Welcome home Kikay!!! How was the trip?
Kikay: Horrible!! I couldn’t wait to get back.
Tony: Like it in New York ?
Kikay: Uh-uh! Give me a Tondo anytime!
Tony: Why didn’t you answer my letters?
Kikay: Francesca wouldn’t let me write, Tony.
Tony: That nasty girl. I’m glad she's dead!
Mrs. M: Frances ……. Oh, Tony, are you still here? Francesca, don’t be angry but I couldn’t find any celery..
Kikay: Oh, never mind, Inay, I hate celery!
Mrs. M: Hate celery? Why? You said, you couldn’t live without it!
Tony: That was Francesca. Aling Atang and Francesca is dead. The girl standing before you is Kikay!
Mrs. M: But Kikay is Francesca..
Kikay: Oh, no, Inay, I’m not Francesca……I’m Kikay!
Mrs. M: I give up!!
Kikay: That tune! What memories it brings back! I first heard it in New York , at Eddie Candon’s..
Tony: uh-uh..
Kikay: Sorry darling. May I have this dance with you partner?
Tony: Delighted, madame

The World in a Train Francisco Icasiano

One Sunday I entrained for Baliwag, a town in Bulacan which can wellafford to hold two fiestas a year without a qualm.I took the train partly because I am prejudiced in favor of the governmentowned railroad, partly because I am allowed comparative comfort in a coach, and finally because trains sometimes leave and arrive according to schedule.In the coach I found a little world, a section of the abstraction called humanity whom we are supposed to love and live for. I had previously arranged to divide the idle hour or so between cultivating my neglected Christianity and smoothing out the rough edges of my nature with the aid of grateful sights without – the rolling wheels,the flying huts and trees and light-green palay seedlings and carabaos along the way.Inertia, I suppose, and the sort of reality we moderns know make falling in love with my immediate neighbors often a matter of severe strain and effort to me.Let me give a sketchy picture of the little world whose company Mang Kiko shared in moments which soon passed away affecting most of us. First, there came to my notice three husky individuals who dusted their seats furiously with their handkerchiefs without regard to hygiene or the brotherhood of men. It gave me no little annoyance that on such a quiet morning the unpleasant aspects in other people's ways should claim my attention. Then there was a harmless-looking middle-aged man in green camisa de chino
with rolled sleeves who must have entered asleep. When I noticed him he was already snuggly entrenched in a corner seat, with his slippered feet comfortably planted on the opposite seat, all the while his head danced and dangled with the motion of the train. I could not, for the love of me, imagine how he would look if he were awake.A child of six in the next seat must have shared with me in speculating about the dreams of this sleeping man in green. Was he dreaming of the Second World War or the price of eggs? Had he any worries about the permanent dominion status or the final outcome of the struggles of the masses, or was it merely the arrangement of the scales on a fighting roaster's legs that brought that frown on his face? But the party that most engaged my attention was a family of eight composed of a short but efficient father, four very young children, mother, grandmother, and another woman who must have been the efficient father's sister. They distributed themselves on four benches – you know the kind of seats facing each other so that half the passengers travel backward. The more I looked at the short but young and efficient father the shorter his parts looked to me. His movements were fast and short, too. He removed his coat, folded it carefully and slung it on the back of his seat. Then he pulled out his wallet from the hip pocket and counted his money while his wife and the rest of his
group watched the ritual without a word. Then the short, young, and efficient father stood up and pulled out two banana leaf bundles from a bamboo basket and spread out both bundles on one bench and log luncheon was ready at ten o'clock. With the efficient father leading the charge, the children (except the baby in his grandmother's arms) began to dig away with little encouragement and aid from the elders. In a short while the skirmish was over, the enemy – shrimps, omelet, rice and tomato sauce – were routed out, save for a few shrimps and some rice left for the grandmother to handle in her own style later. Then came the water-fetching ritual. The father, with a glass in hand, led the march to the train faucet, followed by three children whose faces still showed the marks of a hard-fought-battle. In passing between me and a person, then engaged in a casual conversation with me, the short but efficient father made a courteous gesture which is still good to see in these democratic days; he bent from the hips and, dropping both hands, made an opening in the air between my collocutor and me – a gesture which in unspoiled places means "Excuse Me." In one of the stations where the train stopped, a bent old woman in black boarded the train. As it moved away, the old woman went about the coach, begging holding every prospective Samaritan by the arm, and stretching forth her gnarled hand in the familiar fashion so distasteful to me at that time. There is something in begging which destroys some fiber in most men. "Every time you drop a penny into a beggar's palm you help degrade a man and make it more difficult for him to rise with dignity. . ." There was something in his beggar's eye which seemed to demand. "Now doyour duty." And I did. Willy-nilly I dropped a coin and thereby filled my life with repulsion. Is this Christianity? "Blessed are the poor . . ." But with what speed didthat bent old woman cross the platform into the next coach! While thus engaged in unwholesome thought, I felt myself jerked as the train made a curve to the right. The toddler of the family of eight lost his balance and caught the short but efficient father off-guard. In an instant all his efficiency was employed in collecting the shrieking toddler from under his seat. The child had, in no time, developed two elongated bumps on the head, upon which was applied amoist piece of cloth. There were no reproaches, no words spoken. The discipline in the family was remarkable, or was it because they considered the head as a minor anatomical appendage and was therefore nor worth the fuss? Occasionally, when the child's crying rose above the din of the locomotive andthe clinkety-clank of the wheels on the rails, the father would jog about a bit without blushing, look at the bumps on his child's head, shake his own, and move his lips saying, "Tsk, Tsk. And nothing more. Fairly tired of assuming the minor responsibilities of my neighbors in this little world in motion, I looked into the distant horizon where the blue Cordilleras mergedinto the blue of the sky. There I rested my thoughts upon the billowing silver and grey of the clouds, lightly remarking upon their being a trial to us, although they may not know it. We each would mind our own business and suffer in silence for the littlest mistakes of others; laughing at their ways if we happened to be in a position to suspend our emotion and view the whole scene as a god would; or, we could weep for other men if we are the mood to shed copious tears over the whole tragic aspect of a world
thrown out of joint. It is strange how human sympathy operates. We assume an attitude of complete indifference to utter strangers whom we have seen but not met. We claim that they are the hardest to fall in love with in the normal exercise of Christian charity. Then a little child falls from a seat, or a beggar stretches forth a gnarled hand, or three husky men dust their seats; and we are, despite our pretensions, affected. Why not? If even a sleeping man who does nothing touches our life!

"A Shawl for Anita" by:Lolita Andrada

"A Shawl for Anita" My mother brought us up single-handedly. It was a Herculean task for a woman so frail, dealing with three adolescent children. But she managed. She never finished high school, but her deft hands had skillfully eked out a living for the four of us. She was good at knitting. That tided us over until the eldest got a diploma of teaching. Then she put up a sari-sari store to send the other children to college. Mother wanted us all to start a college degree and she had sacrificed much to see us through.
Mother had a soft heart - especially for Anita. Anita was the youngest, and I, being the middle child, had always envied her. She was sickly and Mother willingly indulged her. My sister's whimpers never irked her. She was ever so gentle with her when I impatient and jealous. I never understood my mother.
My mother who had always been a frail woman was much thinner now. Anita who was married by now had never stopped being pampered. Her lack of concern for our mother's failing health was getting on my nerves. I felt like shouting at her, calling her names when I heard her ask Mother to knit a shawl for her. Mother could hardly refuse, but I knew that the task was just too much for her. Her fingers had lost their flexibility; rheumatic pain told on her knuckles that felt a million pins pricking. My heart went out to her every time I saw her painfully the knitting needles into the yarn.
The rest of us did not want to see Mother lift a finger. She was too old to work, and we wanted to save her the burden of doing even the lightest household chores. Mother said she felt useless being cooped up in the house all day, doing nothing. That was before Anita sweet talked her into knitting her shawl. I was beginning to hate Anita for being so callous.
Knitting the shawl might have been an agony for Mother, but she never showed any pain. At the end of the day, she would look at her handiwork, a smile on her lips as she held it against her. Knitting proved to be a slow process, but Mother didn't mind, I did and when Anita showed up one day to visit Mother I scolded her for being so thoughtless. Anita touched my arm and in a gentle voice said, "I did it for Mother. That shawl is giving her reason to live. She was wasting away, didn't you notice? She felt so useless because she had nothing to do, no matter how small. Mother is one person who prefers to live her life working. If she stops working, she will stop living." I nodded my head. Perhaps Anita was right I was beginning to understand my mother

IN DISGUISE BY:Benjamin L. Panlilo

I know that I will get my heart broken again. I am not stupid, I'm in love. Well, that makes me pretty damn stupid anyways doesn't it?

I always trusted her, no one else but I did trust her. I get a feeling deep in my stomach when I feel as though something isn't right. My heart begins to race and I feel very sick. But she always assured me that I had nothing to worry about. Well I may as well me psychic because every time I get that feeling something is actually wrong. Cuddling, holding hands, talking all lovey dovey to someone else? Yes. And after that ordeal was over I discovered messages. Messages of her talking dirty with a different person, calling her pet names and all of that crap. And she always has a new excuse. The first girl she claimed she went along with it so that her friends wouldn't turn against her and the second girl she insisted she was using to make the first girl jealous and get her to back off. But neither of them should have gotten that far.

I know I'm screwed up; I love too much, wish too hard and trust way too easily. But after everything I have reluctantly forgiven her for, she accuses me of cheating on a regular basis. I trust too easily and she is incapable of trusting at all.

I hate love. It always seems to do more harm than good. I know she's going to leave me soon or break my heart far beyond any possible repair. If it weren't for me wanting nothing more in this world than to be with her then I wouldn't be facing my death sentence. Those eyes are evil; the devil's eyes in disguise. But it's too late; I'm in too deep. And this time I won't come out alive.

The Monkey and the Turtle by:Dr Jose Rizal

A monkey, looking very sad and dejected, was walking along the bank of the river one day when he met a turtle.
"How are you?" asked the turtle, noticing that he looked sad.
The monkey replied, "Oh, my friend, I am very hungry. The squash of Mr. Farmer were all taken by the other monkeys, and now I am about to die from want of food."
"Do not be discouraged," said the turtle; "take a bolo and follow me and we will steal some banana plants."
So they walked along together until they found some nice plants which they dug up, and then they looked for a place to set them. Finally the monkey climbed a tree and planted his in it, but as the turtle could not climb he dug a hole in the ground and set his there.
When their work was finished they went away, planning what they should do with their crop. The monkey said :
"When my tree bears fruit, I shall sell it and have a great deal of money."
And the turtle said: "When my tree bears fruit, I shall sell it and buy three varas of cloth to wear in place of this cracked shell."
A few weeks later they went back to the place to see their plants and found that that of the monkey was dead, for its roots had had no soil in the tree, but that of the turtle was tall and bearing fruit.
"I will climb to the top so that we can get the fruit," said the monkey. And he sprang up the tree, leaving the poor turtle on the ground alone.
"Please give me some to eat," called the turtle, but the monkey threw him only a green one and ate all the ripe ones himself.
When he had eaten all the good bananas, the monkey stretched his arms around the tree and went to sleep.
The turtle, seeing this, was very angry and considered how he might punish the thief. Having decided on a scheme, he gathered some sharp bamboo which he stuck all around under the tree, and then he exclaimed:
"Crocodile is coming! Crocodile is coming!"
The monkey was so startled at the cry that he fell upon the sharp bamboo and was killed.
Then the turtle cut the dead monkey into pieces, put salt on it, and dried it in the sun. The next day, he went to the mountains and sold his meat to other monkeys who gladly gave him squash in return. As he was leaving them he called back:
"Lazy fellows, you are now eating your own body; you are now eating your own body."
Then the monkeys ran and caught him and carried him to their own home.
"Let us take a hatchet," said one old monkey, "and cut him into very small pieces."
But the turtle laughed and said: "That is just what I like. I have been struck with a hatchet many times. Do you not see the black scars on my shell ?"
Then one of the other monkeys said: "Let us throw him into the water."
At this the turtle cried and begged them to spare his life, but they paid no heed to his pleadings and threw him into the water. He sank to the bottom, but very soon came up with a lobster. The monkeys were greatly surprised at this and begged him to tell them how to eatch lobsters.
"I tied one end of a string around my waist," said the turtle. "To the other end of the string I tied a stone so that I would sink."
The monkeys immediately tied strings around themselves as the turtle said, and when all was ready they plunged into the water never to tome up again.
And to this day monkeys do not like to eat meat, because they remember the ancient story.

Wedding Dance By Amador Daguio

Awiyao reached for the upper horizontal log which served as the edge of the headhigh threshold. Clinging to the log, he lifted himself with one bound that carried him across to the narrow door. He slid back the cover, stepped inside, then pushed the cover back in place. After some moments during which he seemed to wait, he talked to the listening darkness.
“I’m sorry this had to be done. I am really sorry. But neither of us can help it.”
The sound of the gangsas beat through the walls of the dark house like muffled roars of falling waters. The woman who had moved with a start when the sliding door opened had been hearing the gangsas for she did not know how long. There was a sudden rush of fire in her. She gave no sign that she heard Awiyao, but continued to sit unmoving in the darkness.
But Awiyao knew that she heard him and his heart pitied her. He crawled on all fours to the middle of the room; he knew exactly where the stove was. With bare fingers he stirred the covered smoldering embers, and blew into the stove. When the coals began to glow, Awiyao put pieces of pine on them, then full round logs as his arms. The room brightened.
“Why don’t you go out,” he said, “and join the dancing women?” He felt a pang inside him, because what he said was really not the right thing to say and because the woman did not stir. “You should join the dancers,” he said, “as if–as if nothing had happened.” He looked at the woman huddled in a corner of the room, leaning against the wall. The stove fire played with strange moving shadows and lights upon her face. She was partly sullen, but her sullenness was not because of anger or hate.
“Go out–go out and dance. If you really don’t hate me for this separation, go out and dance. One of the men will see you dance well; he will like your dancing, he will marry you. Who knows but that, with him, you will be luckier than you were with me.”
“I don’t want any man,” she said sharply. “I don’t want any other man.”
He felt relieved that at least she talked: “You know very well that I won’t want any other woman either. You know that, don’t you? Lumnay, you know it, don’t you?”
She did not answer him.
“You know it Lumnay, don’t you?” he repeated.
“Yes, I know,” she said weakly.
“It is not my fault,” he said, feeling relieved. “You cannot blame me; I have been a good husband to you.”
“Neither can you blame me,” she said. She seemed about to cry.
“No, you have been very good to me. You have been a good wife. I have nothing to say against you.” He set some of the burning wood in place. “It’s only that a man must have a child. Seven harvests is just too long to wait. Yes, we have waited too long. We should have another chance before it is too late for both of us.”
This time the woman stirred, stretched her right leg out and bent her left leg in. She wound the blanket more snugly around herself.
“You know that I have done my best,” she said. “I have prayed to Kabunyan much. I have sacrificed many chickens in my prayers.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You remember how angry you were once when you came home from your work in the terrace because I butchered one of our pigs without your permission? I did it to appease Kabunyan, because, like you, I wanted to have a child. But what could I do?”
“Kabunyan does not see fit for us to have a child,” he said. He stirred the fire. The spark rose through the crackles of the flames. The smoke and soot went up the ceiling.
Lumnay looked down and unconsciously started to pull at the rattan that kept the split bamboo flooring in place. She tugged at the rattan flooring. Each time she did this the split bamboo went up and came down with a slight rattle. The gong of the dancers clamorously called in her care through the walls.
Awiyao went to the corner where Lumnay sat, paused before her, looked at her bronzed and sturdy face, then turned to where the jars of water stood piled one over the other. Awiyao took a coconut cup and dipped it in the top jar and drank. Lumnay had filled the jars from the mountain creek early that evening.
“I came home,” he said. “Because I did not find you among the dancers. Of course, I am not forcing you to come, if you don’t want to join my wedding ceremony. I came to tell you that Madulimay, although I am marrying her, can never become as good as you are. She is not as strong in planting beans, not as fast in cleaning water jars, not as good keeping a house clean. You are one of the best wives in the whole village.”
“That has not done me any good, has it?” She said. She looked at him lovingly. She almost seemed to smile.
He put the coconut cup aside on the floor and came closer to her. He held her face between his hands and looked longingly at her beauty. But her eyes looked away. Never again would he hold her face. The next day she would not be his any more. She would go back to her parents. He let go of her face, and she bent to the floor again and looked at her fingers as they tugged softly at the split bamboo floor.
“This house is yours,” he said. “I built it for you. Make it your own, live in it as long as you wish. I will build another house for Madulimay.”
“I have no need for a house,” she said slowly. “I’ll go to my own house. My parents are old. They will need help in the planting of the beans, in the pounding of the rice.”
“I will give you the field that I dug out of the mountains during the first year of our marriage,” he said. “You know I did it for you. You helped me to make it for the two of us.”
“I have no use for any field,” she said.
He looked at her, then turned away, and became silent. They were silent for a time.
“Go back to the dance,” she said finally. “It is not right for you to be here. They will wonder where you are, and Madulimay will not feel good. Go back to the dance.”
“I would feel better if you could come, and dance—for the last time. The gangsas are playing.”
“You know that I cannot.”
“Lumnay,” he said tenderly. “Lumnay, if I did this it is because of my need for a child. You know that life is not worth living without a child. The man have mocked me behind my back. You know that.”
“I know it,” he said. “I will pray that Kabunyan will bless you and Madulimay.”
She bit her lips now, then shook her head wildly, and sobbed.
She thought of the seven harvests that had passed, the high hopes they had in the beginning of their new life, the day he took her away from her parents across the roaring river, on the other side of the mountain, the trip up the trail which they had to climb, the steep canyon which they had to cross. The waters boiled in her mind in forms of white and jade and roaring silver; the waters tolled and growled, resounded in thunderous echoes through the walls of the stiff cliffs; they were far away now from somewhere on the tops of the other ranges, and they had looked carefully at the buttresses of rocks they had to step on—a slip would have meant death.
They both drank of the water then rested on the other bank before they made the final climb to the other side of the mountain.
She looked at his face with the fire playing upon his features—hard and strong, and kind. He had a sense of lightness in his way of saying things which often made her and the village people laugh. How proud she had been of his humor. The muscles where taut and firm, bronze and compact in their hold upon his skull—how frank his bright eyes were. She looked at his body that carved out of the mountains five fields for her; his wide and supple torso heaved as if a slab of shining lumber were heaving; his arms and legs flowed down in fluent muscles–he was strong and for that she had lost him.
She flung herself upon his knees and clung to them. “Awiyao, Awiyao, my husband,” she cried. “I did everything to have a child,” she said passionately in a hoarse whisper. “Look at me,” she cried. “Look at my body. Then it was full of promise. It could dance; it could work fast in the fields; it could climb the mountains fast. Even now it is firm, full. But, Awiyao, I am useless. I must die.”
“It will not be right to die,” he said, gathering her in his arms. Her whole warm naked naked breast quivered against his own; she clung now to his neck, and her hand lay upon his right shoulder; her hair flowed down in cascades of gleaming darkness.
“I don’t care about the fields,” she said. “I don’t care about the house. I don’t care for anything but you. I’ll have no other man.”
"Always shalt you'll on be fruitless."
"I'll go back to my father, I'll that."
“Then you hate me,” he said. “If you die it means you hate me. You do not want me to have a child. You do not want my name to live on in our tribe.”
She was silent.
“If I do not try a second time,” he explained, “it means I’ll die. Nobody will get the fields I have carved out of the mountains; nobody will come after me.”
“If you fail–if you fail this second time–” she said thoughtfully. The voice was a shudder. “No–no, I don’t want you to fail.”
“If I fail,” he said, “I’ll come back to you. Then both of us will die together. Both of us will vanish from the life of our tribe.”
The gongs thundered through the walls of their house, sonorous and faraway.
“I’ll keep my beads,” she said. “Awiyao, let me keep my beads,” she half-whispered.
“You will keep the beads. They come from far-off times. My grandmother said they come from up North, from the slant-eyed people across the sea. You keep them, Lumnay. They are worth twenty fields.”
“I’ll keep them because they stand for the love you have for me,” she said. “I love you. I love you and have nothing to give.”
She took herself away from him, for a voice was calling out to him from outside. “Awiyao! Awiyao! O Awiyao! They are looking for you at the dance!”

“I am not in hurry.”“The elders will scold you. You had better go.”“Not until you tell me that it is all right with you.”“It is all right with me.”He clasped her hands. “I do this for the sake of the tribe,” he said.“I know,” she said.He went to the door.“Awiyao!”

He stopped as if suddenly hit by a spear. In pain he turned to her. Her face was in agony. It pained him to leave. She had been wonderful to him. What was it that made a man wish for a child? What was it in life, in the work in the field, in the planting and harvest, in the silence of the night, in the communing with husband and wife, in the whole life of the tribe itself that made man wish for the laughter and speech of a child? Suppose he changed his mind? Why did the unwritten law demand, anyway, that a man, to be a man, must have a child to come after him? And if he was fruitless–but he loved Lumnay. It was like taking away of his life to leave her like this.
“Awiyao,” she said, and her eyes seemed to smile in the light. “The beads!” He turned back and walked to the farthest corner of their room, to the trunk where they kept their worldly possession—his battle-ax and his spear points, her betel nut box and her beads. He dug out from the darkness the beads which had been given to him by his grandmother to give to Lumnay on the beads on, and tied them in place. The white and jade and deep orange obsidians shone in the firelight. She suddenly clung to him, clung to his neck as if she would never let him go.
“Awiyao! Awiyao, it is hard!” She gasped, and she closed her eyes and huried her face in his neck.
The call for him from the outside repeated; her grip loosened, and he buried out into the night.
Lumnay sat for some time in the darkness. Then she went to the door and opened it. The moonlight struck her face; the moonlight spilled itself on the whole village.
She could hear the throbbing of the gangsas coming to her through the caverns of the other houses. She knew that all the houses were empty that the whole tribe was at the dance. Only she was absent. And yet was she not the best dancer of the village? Did she not have the most lightness and grace? Could she not, alone among all women, dance like a bird tripping for grains on the ground, beautifully timed to the beat of the gangsas? Did not the men praise her supple body, and the women envy the way she stretched her hands like the wings of the mountain eagle now and then as she danced? How long ago did she dance at her own wedding? Tonight, all the women who counted, who once danced in her honor, were dancing now in honor of another whose only claim was that perhaps she could give her husband a child.
“It is not right. It is not right!” she cried. “How does she know? How can anybody know? It is not right,” she said.
Suddenly she found courage. She would go to the dance. She would go to the chief of the village, to the elders, to tell them it was not right. Awiyao was hers; nobody could take him away from her. Let her be the first woman to complain, to denounce the unwritten rule that a man may take another woman. She would tell Awiyao to come back to her. He surely would relent. Was not their love as strong as the river?
She made for the other side of the village where the dancing was. There was a flaming glow over the whole place; a great bonfire was burning. The gangsas clamored more loudly now, and it seemed they were calling to her. She was near at last. She could see the dancers clearly now. The man leaped lightly with their gangsas as they circled the dancing women decked in feast garments and beads, tripping on the ground like graceful birds, following their men. Her heart warmed to the flaming call of the dance; strange heat in her blood welled up, and she started to run. But the gleaming brightness of the bonfire commanded her to stop. Did anybody see her approach?
She stopped. What if somebody had seen her coming? The flames of the bonfire leaped in countless sparks which spread and rose like yellow points and died out in the night. The blaze reached out to her like a spreading radiance. She did not have the courage to break into the wedding feast.
Lumnay walked away from the dancing ground, away from the village. She thought of the new clearing of beans which Awiyao and she had started to make only four moons before. She followed the trail above the village.
When she came to the mountain stream she crossed it carefully. Nobody held her hand, and the stream water was very cold. The trail went up again, and she was in the moonlight shadows among the trees and shrubs. Slowly she climbed the mountain.
When Lumnay reached the clearing, she cold see from where she stood the blazing bonfire at the edge of the village, where the wedding was. She could hear the far-off clamor of the gongs, still rich in their sonorousness, echoing from mountain to mountain. The sound did not mock her; they seemed to call far to her, to speak to her in the language of unspeaking love. She felt the pull of their gratitude for her sacrifice. Her heartbeat began to sound to her like many gangsas.
Lumnay thought of Awiyao as the Awiyao she had known long ago– a strong, muscular boy carrying his heavy loads of fuel logs down the mountains to his home. She had met him one day as she was on her way to fill her clay jars with water. He had stopped at the spring to drink and rest; and she had made him drink the cool mountain water from her coconut shell. After that it did not take him long to decide to throw his spear on the stairs of her father’s house in token on his desire to marry her.
The mountain clearing was cold in the freezing moonlight. The wind began to stir the leaves of the bean plants. Lumnay looked for a big rock on which to sit down. The bean plants now surrounded her, and she was lost among them.
A few more weeks, a few more months, a few more harvests—what did it matter? She would be holding the bean flowers, soft in the texture, silken almost, but moist where the dew got into them, silver to look at, silver on the light blue, blooming whiteness, when the morning comes. The stretching of the bean pods full length from the hearts of the wilting petals would go on.
Lumnay’s fingers moved a long, long time among the growing bean pods.

the creation

And God stepped out on space,
And he looked around and said:
I'm lonely--
I'll make me a world.
And far as the eye of God could see
Darkness covered everything,
Blacker than a hundred midnights
Down in a cypress swamp.
Then God smiled,
And the light broke,
And the darkness rolled up on one side,
And the light stood shining on the other,
And God said: That's good!
Then God reached out and took the light in his hands,
And God rolled the light around in his hands
Until he made the sun;
And he set that sun a-blazing in the heavens.
And the light that was left from making the sun
God gathered it up in a shining ball
And flung it against the darkness,
Spangling the night with the moon and stars.
Then down between
The darkness and the light
He hurled the world;
And God said: That's good!
Then God himself stepped down--
And the sun was on his right hand,
And the moon was on his left;
The stars were clustered about his head,
And the earth was under his feet.
And God walked, and where he trod
His footsteps hollowed the valleys out
And bulged the mountains up.
Then he stopped and looked and saw
That the earth was hot and barren.
So God stepped over to the edge of the world
And he spat out the seven seas--
He batted his eyes, and the lightnings flashed--
He clapped his hands, and the thunders rolled--
And the waters above the earth came down,
The cooling waters came down.
Then the green grass sprouted,
And the little red flowers blossomed,
The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky,
And the oak spread out his arms,
The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground,
And the rivers ran down to the sea;
And God smiled again,
And the rainbow appeared,
And curled itself around his shoulder.
Then God raised his arm and he waved his hand
Over the sea and over the land,
And he said: Bring forth! Bring forth!
And quicker than God could drop his hand,
Fishes and fowls
And beasts and birds
Swam the rivers and the seas,
Roamed the forests and the woods,
And split the air with their wings.
And God said: That's good!
Then God walked around,
And God looked around
On all that he had made.
He looked at his sun,
And he looked at his moon,
And he looked at his little stars;
He looked on his world
With all its living things,
And God said: I'm lonely still.
Then God sat down--
On the side of a hill where he could think;
By a deep, wide river he sat down;
With his head in his hands,
God thought and thought,
Till he thought: I'll make me a man!
Up from the bed of the river
God scooped the clay;
And by the bank of the river
He kneeled him down;
And there the great God Almighty
Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky,
Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night,
Who rounded the earth in the middle of his hand;
This great God,
Like a mammy bending over her baby,
Kneeled down in the dust
Toiling over a lump of clay
Till he shaped it in is his own image;
Then into it he blew the breath of life,
And man became a living soul.
Amen.Amen.

My Brother’s Peculiar Chicken Alejandro R. Roces

My brother Kiko had a very peculiar chicken. It was very peculiar because no one could tell whether it was a rooster or a hen. My brother claimed it was a rooster. I claimed it was a hen. We almost got lynched trying to settle the argument.
The whole question began early one morning, while Kiko and I were driving the chickens from the cornfield. The corn had just been planted and the chickens were scratching the seed out for food. Suddenly we heard the rapid flapping of wings. We turned in the direction of the sound and saw the two chickens fighting the far end of the field. We could not see the birds clearly, as they were lunging at each other in a whirlwind of feathers and dust.
“Look at the rooster fight!|” my brother said pointing excitedly at one of the chickens. “Why, if I had a rooster like that I could get rich in the cockpit.”
“Let us go and catch it,” I suggested. “No, you stay here, I will go and catch it,” Kiko said, my brother slowly approached the battling chickens. They were so busy fighting that they did not notice him as he approached. When he got near them, he dived and caught one of them by the legs. It struggled and squawked. Kiko finally held it by both wings and it stood still. I ran over to where he was and took a good look at the chicken.
“Aba, it is a hen!” I said.
“What is the matter with you?” my brother asked. “Is the heat making you sick?”
“No, look at its head. It has no comb or wattles.”
“No comb or wattles! Who cares about its comb or wattles? Didn’t you see it fight?”
Sure, I saw it fight, but I still say it is a hen.”
“A hen! Did you ever saw a hen with spurs like this? Or a hen with a tail like this?”
Kiko and I could not agree on what determines the sex of a chicken. If the animal in question had been a carabao it would have been simple. All we would have to do was to look at the carabao. We would have wasted no time at examining its tail, hooves, or horns. We would simply have looked at the animal straight in the face, and if it had a brass on its nose the carabao would undoubtedly be a bull. But chickens are not like carabaos. So the argument went on in the field and the whole morning.
At noon, we left to have our lunch. We argued about it on the way home. When we arrived at our house, Kiko tethered the chicken on a peg. The chicken flapped its wings – and then crowed.
“There! Did you hear that?” my brother exclaimed triumphantly. “I suppose you are going to tell me now that carabaos fly.”
“I do not care if it crows or not,” I said. “That chicken is a hen.”
We went in the house and the discussion continued during lunch.
“It is not a hen,” Kiko said. “It is a rooster.”
“It is a hen,” I said.“It is not.”“It is.”
“That’s enough!” Mother interrupted. “How many times must Father tell you boys not to argue during lunch?” What is the argument about this time?”
We told Mother and she went out to look at the chicken,
“The chicken”, she said, “is a binabae. It is a rooster that looks like a hen.”
That should have ended the argument. But Father also went to see the chicken and he said.
“No, Mother, you are wrong. That chicken is a binalake, a hen which looks like a rooster.”
“Have you been drinking again?” Mother asked.
“No,” Father answered.
“Then what makes you say that rooster is a hen? Have you ever seen a hen with feathers like that?”
“Listen. I have handled fighting roosters since I was a boy, and you cannot tell me that thing is a rooster.”
Before Kiko and I realized what had happened to Father and Mother were arguing about the chicken all by themselves. Soon Mother was crying. She always cried when argued with Father.
“You know well that it is a rooster,” she sobbed. “You are just being mean and stubborn.”
“I am sorry,” Father said. But I know a hen when I see one.”
Then he put his arms around Mother and called her corny names like my Reina Elenea, my Madonna and my Maria Clara. He always did that when Mother cried. Kiko and I felt embarrassed. We left the house without finishing our lunch.
“I know who can settle this question,” my brother said.
“Tenienteng Tasio.”
Tenienteng Tasio was the head of the village. I did not think that the chief of the village was the man who could solve a problem. For the chief was the barrio philosopher. By this I mean that he was a man who explained his strange views by even stranger reasons. For example, the chief frowned on cockfighting. Now many people object to rooster fighting, their reason being either that they think cockfighting is cruel or that they think gambling is bad. Neither of these was the chief’s reason. Cockfighting, he said was a waste of time because it has been proven that one gamecock can beat another.
The chief, however, had one merit. He was the oldest man in the barrio, and while this did not make him an ornithologist, still, we have to admit that anything said always carries more weight if it is said by a man with grey hairs. So when Kiko suggested consulting the teniente, I voiced no objection. I acquiesced to let him be the arbiter of our dispute. He untied the chicken and we both took it to the chief.
“Tenienteng Tasio, is this chicken a male or a female?” Kiko asked.
“That is a question that could concern only another chicken,” the chief replied.
Both Kiko and I were taken aback by this replication. But Kiko was obstinate, so he tried another approach.
“Look, teniente,” he said, “my brother and I happen to have a special interest in this particular chicken. Please give us an answer. Just say ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Is this a rooster?”
“It does not look like any rooster that I have ever seen,” said the teniente.
“It is a hen, then,” I said.
“It does not look like any hen that I have ever seen,” was the reply.
My brother and I were dumbfounded. For a long while we remained speechless. Then Teniente Tasio asked:
“Have you ever seen an animal like this before?”
Kiko and I had to admit that we hadn’t.
“Then how do you both know it is a chicken?”
“Well, what else could it be?” Kiko asked in turn.
“It could be another kind of bird.”
“Oh, God, no!” Kiko said.” Let’s go to town and see Mr. Cruz. He would know.”
Mr. Eduardo Cruz lived in the nearby town of Alcala. He had studied poultry husbandry at Los Baños, and he operated a large egg farm. When we got there Mr. Cruz was taking his siesta, so Kiko released the chicken in his yard.
The other chicken would not associate with ours. Not only did they keep as far away from it as they could, but they did not even seem to care to which sex it belonged. Unembarrassed by this, our chicken chased and disgraced several pullets.
“There!” my brother exclaimed.
“That should prove to you it is a rooster.”
“It proves nothing of the sort,” I said. “It only proves it has rooster instincts – but it could still be a hen.”
As soon as Mr. Cruz was up, we caught the chicken and took it to his office.
“Mr. Cruz,” Kiko said, “is this a hen or a rooster?”
Mr. Cruz looked at the bird curiously and then said:
“Hmmmm, I don’t know. I couldn’t tell at one look. I have never run across a biddy like this before.”
“Well, is there any way you can tell?”
“Why, sure. Look at the feathers on its back. If the ends are round, it’s a she. If they are pointed, then it is a he.”
The three of us examined its feathers closely. It had both!
“Hmm. Very peculiar,” said Mr. Cruz.
“Is there any other way you can tell?”
“I could kill it and examine its insides,”
“No, I don’t want it killed,” my brother said.
I took the plumed creature in my arms and we walked back to the barrio. Kiko was silent most of the way. Then suddenly he snapped his fingers and said:
“I know how I can prove to you that this is a rooster.”
“How?” I asked.
“Would you agree that this is a rooster if it fights in a cockpit – and it wins?”
“If this hen of yours can beat a gamecock, I would believe anything,” I said.
“All right,” he said, “we will take it to the cockpit this coming Sunday.”
So that Sunday we took the chicken to the cockpit. Kiko looked around for a suitable opponent and finally decided on a red rooster. I recognized the rooster as a veteran of the pit whose picture had once graced the cover of the gamecock magazine Pintakasi. It was also the chanticleer that had once escaped to the forest and lured all the hens away from the surrounding farms. Raising its serpent-liked head, the red rooster eyed the chicken arrogantly and jiggled its sickle feathers. This scared me. For I knew that when the gamecock is in breeding mood it is twice a ferocious.
“Do not pit your hen against the rooster,” I told Kiko. That the rooster is not a native chicken. It was brought over the from Texas.”
“That does not mean anything to me,” my brother said. “”My rooster will kill it.”
“Do not be a fool,” I said. “That red rooster is a killer. It has killed more chickens than the cholera. There is no rooster in this province that can take its gaff. Pick on a less formidable rooster.”
My brother would not listen. The match was made and the birds were headed for the killing. Sharp steel gaffs were tied to their left legs. Kiko bet eight pesos on his chicken. I only bet two. The odds were two to one. Then I said a tacit prayer to Santa Rita de Casia, patroness of the impossible.
Then the fight began. Both birds were released at the center of the arena. The Texan scratched the ground as if it were digging a grave for its opponent. Moments later, the two fighters confronted each other. I expected our rooster to die of fright. Instead, a strange thing happened. A lovesick expression came into the red rooster’s eyes. Then it did a love dance. Naturally, this was a most surprising incident to one and all, but particularly to those who had stakes on the Texas rooster. For it was evident that the Texan was thoroughly infatuated with our chicken and that any attention it had for the moment was strictly amatory. But before anyone could collect his wits our foul rushed at the red stag with its hackle feathers flaring. In one lunge, it buried its spur in its adversary’s breast. The fight was over! The sentencer raised our chicken in token victory.
“Tiope! Tiope! Fixed fight!” the crowed shouted.
Then a riot broke out. People tore the bamboo benches apart and used them as clubs. My brother and I had to leave through the back way. I had the chicken under my arm. We ran towards the coconut groves and we kept running till we lost the mob. As soon as we felt safe, we sat on the ground and rested. We were both panting like dogs.
“Now are you convinced it is a rooster?” Kiko muttered between breaths.
“Yes,” I answered.
I was glad the whole thing was over.
But the chicken had other ideas. It began to quiver. Then something round and warm dropped on to my hand. The chicken cackled with laughter. I looked down and saw – an egg!

how my brother leon brought home a wife

She stepped down from the carretela of Ca Celin with a quick, delicate grace. She was lovely. SHe was tall. She looked up to my brother with a smile, and her forehead was on a level with his mouth.
"You are Baldo," she said and placed her hand lightly on my shoulder. Her nails were long, but they were not painted. She was fragrant like a morning when papayas are in bloom. And a small dimple appeared momently high on her right cheek. "And this is Labang of whom I have heard so much." She held the wrist of one hand with the other and looked at Labang, and Labang never stopped chewing his cud. He swallowed and brought up to his mouth more cud and the sound of his insides was like a drum.
I laid a hand on Labang's massive neck and said to her: "You may scratch his forehead now."
She hesitated and I saw that her eyes were on the long, curving horns. But she came and touched Labang's forehead with her long fingers, and Labang never stopped chewing his cud except that his big eyes half closed. And by and by she was scratching his forehead very daintily.
My brother Leon put down the two trunks on the grassy side of the road. He paid Ca Celin twice the usual fare from the station to the edge of Nagrebcan. Then he was standing beside us, and she turned to him eagerly. I watched Ca Celin, where he stood in front of his horse, and he ran his fingers through its forelock and could not keep his eyes away from her.
"Maria---" my brother Leon said.
He did not say Maring. He did not say Mayang. I knew then that he had always called her Maria and that to us all she would be Maria; and in my mind I said 'Maria' and it was a beautiful name.
"Yes, Noel."
Now where did she get that name? I pondered the matter quietly to myself, thinking Father might not like it. But it was only the name of my brother Leon said backward and it sounded much better that way.
"There is Nagrebcan, Maria," my brother Leon said, gesturing widely toward the west.
She moved close to him and slipped her arm through his. And after a while she said quietly.
"You love Nagrebcan, don't you, Noel?"
Ca Celin drove away hi-yi-ing to his horse loudly. At the bend of the camino real where the big duhat tree grew, he rattled the handle of his braided rattan whip against the spokes of the wheel.
We stood alone on the roadside.
The sun was in our eyes, for it was dipping into the bright sea. The sky was wide and deep and very blue above us: but along the saw-tooth rim of the Katayaghan hills to the southwest flamed huge masses of clouds. Before us the fields swam in a golden haze through which floated big purple and red and yellow bubbles when I looked at the sinking sun. Labang's white coat, which I had wshed and brushed that morning with coconut husk, glistened like beaten cotton under the lamplight and his horns appeared tipped with fire.
He faced the sun and from his mouth came a call so loud and vibrant that the earth seemed to tremble underfoot. And far away in the middle of the field a cow lowed softly in answer.
"Hitch him to the cart, Baldo," my brother Leon said, laughing, and she laughed with him a big uncertainly, and I saw that he had put his arm around her shoulders.
"Why does he make that sound?" she asked. "I have never heard the like of it."
"There is not another like it," my brother Leon said. "I have yet to hear another bull call like Labang. In all the world there is no other bull like him."
She was smiling at him, and I stopped in the act of tying the sinta across Labang's neck to the opposite end of the yoke, because her teeth were very white, her eyes were so full of laughter, and there was the small dimple high up on her right cheek.
"If you continue to talk about him like that, either I shall fall in love with him or become greatly jealous."
My brother Leon laughed and she laughed and they looked at each other and it seemed to me there was a world of laughter between them and in them.
I climbed into the cart over the wheel and Labang would have bolted, for he was always like that, but I kept a firm hold on his rope. He was restless and would not stand still, so that my brother Leon had to say "Labang" several times. When he was quiet again, my brother Leon lifted the trunks into the cart, placing the smaller on top.
She looked down once at her high-heeled shoes, then she gave her left hand to my brother Leon, placed a foot on the hub of the wheel, and in one breath she had swung up into the cart. Oh, the fragrance of her. But Labang was fairly dancing with impatience and it was all I could do to keep him from running away.
"Give me the rope, Baldo," my brother Leon said. "Maria, sit down on the hay and hold on to anything." Then he put a foot on the left shaft and that instand labang leaped forward. My brother Leon laughed as he drew himself up to the top of the side of the cart and made the slack of the rope hiss above the back of labang. The wind whistled against my cheeks and the rattling of the wheels on the pebbly road echoed in my ears.
She sat up straight on the bottom of the cart, legs bent togther to one side, her skirts spread over them so that only the toes and heels of her shoes were visible. her eyes were on my brother Leon's back; I saw the wind on her hair. When Labang slowed down, my brother Leon handed to me the rope. I knelt on the straw inside the cart and pulled on the rope until Labang was merely shuffling along, then I made him turn around.
"What is it you have forgotten now, Baldo?" my brother Leon said.
I did not say anything but tickled with my fingers the rump of Labang; and away we went---back to where I had unhitched and waited for them. The sun had sunk and down from the wooded sides of the Katayaghan hills shadows were stealing into the fields. High up overhead the sky burned with many slow fires.
When I sent Labang down the deep cut that would take us to the dry bed of the Waig which could be used as a path to our place during the dry season, my brother Leon laid a hand on my shoulder and said sternly:
"Who told you to drive through the fields tonight?"
His hand was heavy on my shoulder, but I did not look at him or utter a word until we were on the rocky bottom of the Waig.
"Baldo, you fool, answer me before I lay the rope of Labang on you. Why do you follow the Wait instead of the camino real?"
His fingers bit into my shoulder.
"Father, he told me to follow the Waig tonight, Manong."
Swiftly, his hand fell away from my shoulder and he reached for the rope of Labang. Then my brother Leon laughed, and he sat back, and laughing still, he said:
"And I suppose Father also told you to hitch Labang to the cart and meet us with him instead of with Castano and the calesa."
Without waiting for me to answer, he turned to her and said, "Maria, why do you think Father should do that, now?" He laughed and added, "Have you ever seen so many stars before?"
I looked back and they were sitting side by side, leaning against the trunks, hands clasped across knees. Seemingly, but a man's height above the tops of the steep banks of the Wait, hung the stars. But in the deep gorge the shadows had fallen heavily, and even the white of Labang's coat was merely a dim, grayish blur. Crickets chirped from their homes in the cracks in the banks. The thick, unpleasant smell of dangla bushes and cooling sun-heated earth mingled with the clean, sharp scent of arrais roots exposed to the night air and of the hay inside the cart.
"Look, Noel, yonder is our star!" Deep surprise and gladness were in her voice. Very low in the west, almost touching the ragged edge of the bank, was the star, the biggest and brightest in the sky.
"I have been looking at it," my brother Leon said. "Do you remember how I would tell you that when you want to see stars you must come to Nagrebcan?"
"Yes, Noel," she said. "Look at it," she murmured, half to herself. "It is so many times bigger and brighter than it was at Ermita beach."
"The air here is clean, free of dust and smoke."
"So it is, Noel," she said, drawing a long breath.
"Making fun of me, Maria?"
She laughed then and they laughed together and she took my brother Leon's hand and put it against her face.
I stopped Labang, climbed down, and lighted the lantern that hung from the cart between the wheels.
"Good boy, Baldo," my brother Leon said as I climbed back into the cart, and my heart sant.
Now the shadows took fright and did not crowd so near. Clumps of andadasi and arrais flashed into view and quickly disappeared as we passed by. Ahead, the elongated shadow of Labang bobbled up and down and swayed drunkenly from side to side, for the lantern rocked jerkily with the cart.
"Have we far to go yet, Noel?" she asked.
"Ask Baldo," my brother Leon said, "we have been neglecting him."
"I am asking you, Baldo," she said.
Without looking back, I answered, picking my words slowly:
"Soon we will get out of the Wait and pass into the fields. After the fields is home---Manong."
"So near already."
I did not say anything more because I did not know what to make of the tone of her voice as she said her last words. All the laughter seemed to have gone out of her. I waited for my brother Leon to say something, but he was not saying anything. Suddenly he broke out into song and the song was 'Sky Sown with Stars'---the same that he and Father sang when we cut hay in the fields at night before he went away to study. He must have taught her the song because she joined him, and her voice flowed into his like a gentle stream meeting a stronger one. And each time the wheels encountered a big rock, her voice would catch in her throat, but my brother Leon would sing on, until, laughing softly, she would join him again.
Then we were climbing out into the fields, and through the spokes of the wheels the light of the lantern mocked the shadows. Labang quickened his steps. The jolting became more frequent and painful as we crossed the low dikes.
"But it is so very wide here," she said. The light of the stars broke and scattered the darkness so that one could see far on every side, though indistinctly.
"You miss the houses, and the cars, and the people and the noise, don't you?" My brother Leon stopped singing.
"Yes, but in a different way. I am glad they are not here."
With difficulty I turned Labang to the left, for he wanted to go straight on. He was breathing hard, but I knew he was more thirsty than tired. In a little while we drope up the grassy side onto the camino real.
"---you see," my brother Leon was explaining, "the camino real curves around the foot of the Katayaghan hills and passes by our house. We drove through the fields because---but I'll be asking Father as soon as we get home."

"Noel," she said. "Yes, Maria.""I am afraid. He may not like me."

"Does that worry you still, Maria?" my brother Leon said. "From the way you talk, he might be an ogre, for all the world. Except when his leg that was wounded in the Revolution is troubling him, Father is the mildest-tempered, gentlest man I know."
We came to the house of Lacay Julian and I spoke to Labang loudly, but Moning did not come to the window, so I surmised she must be eating with the rest of her family. And I thought of the food being made ready at home and my mouth watered. We met the twins, Urong and Celin, and I said "Hoy!" calling them by name. And they shouted back and asked if my brother Leon and his wife were with me. And my brother Leon shouted to them and then told me to make Labang run; their answers were lost in the noise of the wheels.
I stopped labang on the road before our house and would have gotten down but my brother Leon took the rope and told me to stay in the cart. He turned Labang into the open gate and we dashed into our yard. I thought we would crash into the camachile tree, but my brother Leon reined in Labang in time. There was light downstairs in the kitchen, and Mother stood in the doorway, and I could see her smiling shyly. My brother Leon was helping Maria over the wheel. The first words that fell from his lips after he had kissed Mother's hand were:
"Father... where is he?"
"He is in his room upstairs," Mother said, her face becoming serious. "His leg is bothering him again."
I did not hear anything more because I had to go back to the cart to unhitch Labang. But I hardly tied him under the barn when I heard Father calling me. I met my brother Leon going to bring up the trunks. As I passed through the kitchen, there were Mother and my sister Aurelia and Maria and it seemed to me they were crying, all of them.
There was no light in Father's room. There was no movement. He sat in the big armchair by the western window, and a star shone directly through it. He was smoking, but he removed the roll of tobacco from his mouth when he saw me. He laid it carefully on the windowsill before speaking.
"Did you meet anybody on the way?" he asked.
"No, Father," I said. "Nobody passes through the Waig at night."
He reached for his roll of tobacco and hithced himself up in the chair.
"She is very beautiful, Father."
"Was she afraid of Labang?" My father had not raised his voice, but the room seemed to resound with it. And again I saw her eyes on the long curving horns and the arm of my brother Leon around her shoulders.
"No, Father, she was not afraid.""On the way---""She looked at the stars, Father. And Manong Leon sang.""What did he sing?""---Sky Sown with Stars... She sang with him."

He was silent again. I could hear the low voices of Mother and my sister Aurelia downstairs. There was also the voice of my brother Leon, and I thought that Father's voice must have been like it when Father was young. He had laid the roll of tobacco on the windowsill once more. I watched the smoke waver faintly upward from the lighted end and vanish slowly into the night outside.
The door opened and my brother Leon and Maria came in.
"Have you watered Labang?" Father spoke to me.
I told him that Labang was resting yet under the barn.
"It is time you watered him, my son," my father said.
I looked at Maria and she was lovely. She was tall. Beside my brother Leon, she was tall and very still. Then I went out, and in the darkened hall the fragrance of her was like a morning when papayas are in bloom.

The Monkey and the Turtle
by:Dr Jose Rizal
A monkey, looking very sad and dejected, was walking along the bank of the river one day when he met a turtle.
"How are you?" asked the turtle, noticing that he looked sad.
The monkey replied, "Oh, my friend, I am very hungry. The squash of Mr. Farmer were all taken by the other monkeys, and now I am about to die from want of food."
"Do not be discouraged," said the turtle; "take a bolo and follow me and we will steal some banana plants."
So they walked along together until they found some nice plants which they dug up, and then they looked for a place to set them. Finally the monkey climbed a tree and planted his in it, but as the turtle could not climb he dug a hole in the ground and set his there.
When their work was finished they went away, planning what they should do with their crop. The monkey said :
"When my tree bears fruit, I shall sell it and have a great deal of money."
And the turtle said: "When my tree bears fruit, I shall sell it and buy three varas of cloth to wear in place of this cracked shell."
A few weeks later they went back to the place to see their plants and found that that of the monkey was dead, for its roots had had no soil in the tree, but that of the turtle was tall and bearing fruit.
"I will climb to the top so that we can get the fruit," said the monkey. And he sprang up the tree, leaving the poor turtle on the ground alone.
"Please give me some to eat," called the turtle, but the monkey threw him only a green one and ate all the ripe ones himself.
When he had eaten all the good bananas, the monkey stretched his arms around the tree and went to sleep.
The turtle, seeing this, was very angry and considered how he might punish the thief. Having decided on a scheme, he gathered some sharp bamboo which he stuck all around under the tree, and then he exclaimed:
"Crocodile is coming! Crocodile is coming!"
The monkey was so startled at the cry that he fell upon the sharp bamboo and was killed.
Then the turtle cut the dead monkey into pieces, put salt on it, and dried it in the sun. The next day, he went to the mountains and sold his meat to other monkeys who gladly gave him squash in return. As he was leaving them he called back:
"Lazy fellows, you are now eating your own body; you are now eating your own body."
Then the monkeys ran and caught him and carried him to their own home.
"Let us take a hatchet," said one old monkey, "and cut him into very small pieces."
But the turtle laughed and said: "That is just what I like. I have been struck with a hatchet many times. Do you not see the black scars on my shell ?"
Then one of the other monkeys said: "Let us throw him into the water."
At this the turtle cried and begged them to spare his life, but they paid no heed to his pleadings and threw him into the water. He sank to the bottom, but very soon came up with a lobster. The monkeys were greatly surprised at this and begged him to tell them how to eatch lobsters.
"I tied one end of a string around my waist," said the turtle. "To the other end of the string I tied a stone so that I would sink."
The monkeys immediately tied strings around themselves as the turtle said, and when all was ready they plunged into the water never to tome up again.
And to this day monkeys do not like to eat meat, because they remember the ancient story.