บทที่ บทที่ 63 · Chapter LXIII（1）

Christmas Eve

High up on the slope of the mountain near a roaring stream a hut built

on the gnarled logs hides itself among the trees. Over its kogon

thatch clambers the branching gourd-vine, laden with flowers and

fruit. Deer antlers and skulls of wild boar, some with long tusks,

adorn this mountain home, where lives a Tagalog family engaged in

hunting and cutting firewood.

In the shade of a tree the grandsire was making brooms from the fibers

of palm leaves, while a young woman was placing eggs, limes, and some

vegetables in a wide basket. Two children, a boy and a girl, were

playing by the side of another, who, pale and sad, with large eyes

and a deep gaze, was seated on a fallen tree-trunk. In his thinned

features we recognize Sisa's son, Basilio, the brother of Crispin.

"When your foot gets well," the little girl was saying to him,

"we'll play hide-and-seek. I'll be the leader."

"You'll go up to the top of the mountain with us," added the little

boy, "and drink deer blood with lime-juice and you'll get fat, and

then I'll teach you how to jump from rock to rock above the torrent."

Basilio smiled sadly, stared at the sore on his foot, and then turned

his gaze toward the sun, which shone resplendently.

"Sell these brooms," said the grandfather to the young woman, "and

buy something for the children, for tomorrow is Christmas."

"Firecrackers, I want some firecrackers!" exclaimed the boy.

"I want a head for my doll," cried the little girl, catching hold of

her sister's tapis.

"And you, what do you want?" the grandfather asked Basilio, who at

the question arose laboriously and approached the old man.

"Sir," he said, "I've been sick more than a month now, haven't I?"

"Since we found you lifeless and covered with wounds, two moons have

come and gone. We thought you were going to die."

"May God reward you, for we are very poor," replied Basilio. "But now

that tomorrow is Christmas I want to go to the town to see my mother

and my little brother. They will be seeking for me."

"But, my son, you're not yet well, and your town is far away. You

won't get there by midnight."

"That doesn't matter, sir. My mother and my little brother must be

very sad. Every year we spend this holiday together. Last year the

three of us had a whole fish to eat. My mother will have been mourning

and looking for me."

"You won't get to the town alive, boy! Tonight we're going to have

chicken and wild boar's meat. My sons will ask for you when they come

from the field."

"You have many sons while my mother has only us two. Perhaps she

already believes that I'm dead! Tonight I want to give her a pleasant

surprise, a Christmas gift, a son."

The old man felt the tears springing up into his eyes, so, placing

his hands on the boy's head, he said with emotion: "You're like an

old man! Go, look for your mother, give her the Christmas gift--from

God, as you say. If I had known the name of your town I would have

gone there when you were sick. Go, my son, and may God and the Lord

Jesus go with you. Lucia, my granddaughter, will go with you to the

nearest town."

"What! You're going away?" the little boy asked him. "Down there are

soldiers and many robbers. Don't you want to see my firecrackers? Boom,

boom, boom!"

"Don't you want to play hide-and-seek?" asked the little girl. "Have

you ever played it? Surely there's nothing any more fun than to be

chased and hide yourself?"

Basilio smiled, but with tears in his eyes, and caught up his

staff. "I'll come back soon," he answered. "I'll bring my little

brother, you'll see him and play with him. He's just about as big as

you are."

"Does he walk lame, too?" asked the little girl. "Then we'll make him

'it' when we play hide-and-seek."

"Don't forget us," the old man said to him. "Take this dried meat as

a present to your mother."

The children accompanied him to the bamboo bridge swung over the

noisy course of the stream. Lucia made him support himself on her arm,

and thus they disappeared from the children's sight, Basilio walking

along nimbly in spite of his bandaged leg.

The north wind whistled by, making the inhabitants of San Diego

shiver with cold. It was Christmas Eve and yet the town was wrapped

in gloom. Not a paper lantern hung from the windows nor did a single

sound in the houses indicate the rejoicing of other years.

In the house of Capitan Basilio, he and Don Filipo--for the misfortunes

of the latter had made them friendly--were standing by a window-grating

and talking, while at another were Sinang, her cousin Victoria,

and the beautiful Iday, looking toward the street.

The waning moon began to shine over the horizon, illumining the clouds

and making the trees and houses east long, fantastic shadows.

"Yours is not a little good fortune, to get off free in these

times!" said Capitan Basilio to Don Filipo. "They've burned your books,

yes, but others have lost more."

A woman approached the grating and gazed into the interior. Her

eyes glittered, her features were emaciated, her hair loose and

dishevelled. The moonlight gave her a weird aspect.

"Sisal" exclaimed Don Filipo in surprise. Then turning to Capitan

Basilio, as the madwoman ran away, he asked, "Wasn't she in the house

of a physician? Has she been cured?"

Capitan Basilio smiled bitterly. "The physician was afraid they

would accuse him of being a friend of Don Crisostomo's, so he drove

her from his house. Now she wanders about again as crazy as ever,

singing, harming no one, and living in the woods."

"What else has happened in the town since we left it? I know that we

have a new curate and another alferez."

"These are terrible times, humanity is retrograding," murmured Capitan

Basilio, thinking of the past. "The day after you left they found the

senior sacristan dead, hanging from a rafter in his own house. Padre

Salvi was greatly affected by his death and took possession of all

his papers. Ah, yes, the old Sage, Tasio, also died and was buried

in the Chinese cemetery."

"Poor old man!" sighed Don Filipo. "What became of his books?"

"They were burned by the pious, who thought thus to please God. I was

unable to save anything, not even Cicero's works. The gobernadorcillo

did nothing to prevent it."

Both became silent. At that moment the sad and melancholy song of

the madwoman was heard.

"Do you know when Maria Clara is to be married?" Iday asked Sinang.

"I don't know," answered the latter. "I received a letter from her

but haven't opened it for fear of finding out. Poor Crisostomo!"

"They say that if it were not for Linares, they would hang Capitan

Tiago, so what was Maria Clara going to do?" observed Victoria.

A boy limped by, running toward the plaza, whence came the notes of

Sisa's song. It was Basilio, who had found his home deserted and in

ruins. After many inquiries he had only learned that his mother was

insane and wandering about the town--of Crispin not a word.

Basilio choked back his tears, stifled any expression of his sorrow,

and without resting had started in search of his mother. On reaching

the town he was just asking about her when her song struck his

ears. The unhappy boy overcame the trembling in his limbs and ran to

throw himself into his mother's arms.

The madwoman left the plaza and stopped in front of the house of

the new alferez. Now, as formerly, there was a sentinel before the

door, and a woman's head appeared at the window, only it was not the

Medusa's but that of a comely young woman: alferez and unfortunate

are not synonymous terms.

Sisa began to sing before the house with her gaze fixed on the

moon, which soared majestically in the blue heavens among golden

clouds. Basilio saw her, but did not dare to approach' her. Walking

back and forth, but taking care not to get near the barracks, he

waited for the time when she would leave that place.

The young woman who was at the window listening attentively to the

madwoman's song ordered the sentinel to bring her inside, but when

Sisa saw the soldier approach her and heard his voice she was filled

with terror and took to flight at a speed of which only a demented

person is capable. Basilio, fearing to lose her, ran after her,

forgetful of the pains in his feet.

"Look how that boy's chasing the madwoman!" indignantly exclaimed

a woman in the street. Seeing that he continued to pursue her, she

picked up a stone and threw it at him, saying, "Take that! It's a

pity that the dog is tied up!"

Basilio felt a blow on his head, but paid no attention to it as he

continued running. Dogs barked, geese cackled, several windows opened

to let out curious faces but quickly closed again from fear of another

night of terror.

Soon they were outside of the town. Sisa began to moderate her flight,

but still a great distance separated her from her pursuer.

"Mother!" he called to her when he caught sight of her. Scarcely had

the madwoman heard his voice when she again took to flight.

"Mother, it's I!" cried the boy in desperation, but the madwoman

did not heed him, so he followed panting. They had now passed the

cultivated fields and were near the wood; Basilio saw his mother enter

it and he also went in. The bushes and shrubs, the thorny vines and

projecting roots of trees, hindered the movements of both. The son

followed his mother's shadowy form as it was revealed from time to

time by the moonlight that penetrated through the foliage and into

the open spaces. They were in the mysterious wood of the Ibarra family.

The boy stumbled and fell several times, but rose again, each time

without feeling pain. All his soul was centered in his eyes, following

the beloved figure. They crossed the sweetly murmuring brook where

sharp thorns of bamboo that had fallen on the sand at its margin

pierced his bare feet, but he did not stop to pull them out.

To his great surprise he saw that his mother had plunged into the

thick undergrowth and was going through the wooden gateway that opened

into the tomb of the old Spaniard at the foot of the balete. Basilio

tried to follow her in, but found the gate fastened. The madwoman

defended the entrance with her emaciated arms and disheveled head,

holding the gate shut with all her might.

"Mother, it's I, it's I! I'm Basilio, your son!" cried the boy as he

let himself fall weakly.

But the madwoman did not yield. Bracing herself with her feet on

the ground, she offered an energetic resistance. Basilio beat the

gate with his fists, with his Mood-stained head, he wept, but in

vain. Painfully he arose and examined the wall, thinking to scale it,

but found no way to do so. He then walked around it and noticed that

a branch of the fateful balete was crossed with one from another

tree. This he climbed and, his filial love working miracles, made

his way from branch to branch to the balete, from which he saw his

mother still holding the gate shut with her head.

The noise made by him among the branches attracted Sisa's

attention. She turned and tried to run, but her son, letting himself

fall from the tree, caught her in his arms and covered her with kisses,

losing consciousness as he did so.

Sisa saw his blood-stained forehead and bent over him. Her eyes seemed

to start from their sockets as she peered into his face. Those pale

features stirred the sleeping cells of her brain, so that something

like a spark of intelligence flashed up in her mind and she recognized

her son. With a terrible cry she fell upon the insensible body of

the boy, embracing and kissing him. Mother and son remained motionless.

When Basilio recovered consciousness he found his mother lifeless. He

called to her with the tenderest names, but she did not awake. Noticing

that she was not even breathing, he arose and went to the neighboring

brook to get some water in a banana leaf, with which to rub the pallid

face of his mother, but the madwoman made not the least movement and

her eyes remained closed.

Basilio gazed at her in terror. He placed his ear over her heart,

but the thin, faded breast was cold, and her heart no longer beat. He

put his lips to hers, but felt no breathing. The miserable boy threw

his arms about the corpse and wept bitterly.

The moon gleamed majestically in the sky, the wandering breezes sighed,

and down in the grass the crickets chirped. The night of light and joy

for so many children, who in the warm bosom of the family celebrate

this feast of sweetest memories--the feast which commemorates the

first look of love that Heaven sent to earth--this night when in all

Christian families they eat, drink, dance, sing, laugh, play, caress,

and kiss one another--this night, which in cold countries holds such

magic for childhood with its traditional pine-tree covered with lights,

dolls, candies, and tinsel, whereon gaze the round, staring eyes in

which innocence alone is reflected--this night brought to Basilio

only orphanhood. Who knows but that perhaps in the home whence came

the taciturn Padre Salvi children also played, perhaps they sang

"La Nochebuena se viene,

La Nochebuena se va." [172]

For a long time the boy wept and moaned. When at last he raised his

head he saw a man standing over him, gazing at the scene in silence.

"Are you her son?" asked the unknown in a low voice.

The boy nodded.

"What do you expect to do?"

"Bury her!"

"In the cemetery?"

"I haven't any money and, besides, the curate wouldn't allow it."

"Then?"

"If you would help me--"

"I'm very weak," answered the unknown as he sank slowly to the ground,

supporting himself with both hands. "I'm wounded. For two days I

haven't eaten or slept. Has no one come here tonight?"

The man thoughtfully contemplated the attractive features of the boy,

then went on in a still weaker voice, "Listen! I, too, shall be dead

before the day comes. Twenty paces from here, on the other side of

the brook, there is a big pile of firewood. Bring it here, make a

pyre, put our bodies upon it, cover them over, and set fire to the

whole--fire, until we are reduced to ashes!"

Basilio listened attentively.

"Afterwards, if no one comes, dig here. You will find a lot of gold

and it will all be yours. Take it and go to school."

The voice of the unknown was becoming every moment more

unintelligible. "Go, get the firewood. I want to help you."

As Basilio moved away, the unknown turned his face toward the east

and murmured, as though praying:

"I die without seeing the dawn brighten over my native land! You,

who have it to see, welcome it--and forget not those who have fallen

during the night!"

He raised his eyes to the sky and his lips continued to move, as if

uttering a prayer. Then he bowed his head and sank slowly to the earth.

Two hours later Sister Rufa was on the back veranda of her house

making her morning ablutions in order to attend mass. The pious woman

gazed at the adjacent wood and saw a thick column of smoke rising

from it. Filled with holy indignation, she knitted her eyebrows

and exclaimed:

"What heretic is making a clearing on a holy day? That's why so many

calamities come! You ought to go to purgatory and see if you could

get out of there, savage!"

EPILOGUE

Since some of our characters are still living and others have been lost

sight of, a real epilogue is impossible. For the satisfaction of the

groundlings we should gladly kill off all of them, beginning with Padre

Salvi and ending with Doña Victorina, but this is not possible. Let

them live! Anyhow, the country, not ourselves, has to support them.

After Maria Clara entered the nunnery, Padre Damaso left his town

to live in Manila, as did also Padre Salvi, who, while he awaits a

vacant miter, preaches sometimes in the church of St. Clara, in whose

nunnery he discharges the duties of an important office. Not many

months had passed when Padre Damaso received an order from the Very

Reverend Father Provincial to occupy a curacy in a remote province. It

is related that he was so grievously affected by this that on the

following day he was found dead in his bedchamber. Some said that

he had died of an apoplectic stroke, others of a nightmare, but his

physician dissipated all doubts by declaring that he had died suddenly.

None of our readers would now recognize Capitan Tiago. Weeks before

Maria Clara took the vows he fell into a state of depression so great

that he grew sad and thin, and became pensive and distrustful, like

his former friend, Capitan Tinong. As soon as the doors of the nunnery

closed he ordered his disconsolate cousin, Aunt Isabel, to collect

whatever had belonged to his daughter and his dead wife and to go to

make her home in Malabon or San Diego, since he wished to live alone

thenceforward, tie then devoted himself passionately to _liam-pó_ and

the cockpit, and began to smoke opium. He no longer goes to Antipolo

nor does he order any more masses, so Doña Patrocinia, his old rival,

celebrates her triumph piously by snoring during the sermons. If at

any time during the late afternoon you should walk along Calle Santo

Cristo, you would see seated in a Chinese shop a small man, yellow,

thin, and bent, with stained and dirty finger nails, gazing through

dreamy, sunken eyes at the passers-by as if he did not see them. At

nightfall you would see him rise with difficulty and, supporting

himself on his cane, make his way to a narrow little by-street to

enter a grimy building over the door of which may be seen in large

red letters: FUMADERO PUBLICO DE ANFION. [173] This is that Capitan

Tiago who was so celebrated, but who is now completely forgotten,

even by the very senior sacristan himself.

Doña Victorina has added to her false frizzes and to her

_Andalusization_, if we may be permitted the term, the new custom

of driving the carriage horses herself, obliging Don Tiburcio to

remain quiet. Since many unfortunate accidents occurred on account

of the weakness of her eyes, she has taken to wearing spectacles,

which give her a marvelous appearance. The doctor has never been

called upon again to attend any one and the servants see him many

days in the week without teeth, which, as our readers know, is a

very bad sign. Linares, the only defender of the hapless doctor,

has long been at rest in Paco cemetery, the victim of dysentery and

the harsh treatment of his cousin-in-law.

The victorious alferez returned to Spain a major, leaving his

amiable spouse in her flannel camisa, the color of which is now

indescribable. The poor Ariadne, finding herself thus abandoned,

also devoted herself, as did the daughter of Minos, to the cult of

Bacchus and the cultivation of tobacco; she drinks and smokes with

such fury that now not only the girls but even the old women and

little children fear her.

Probably our acquaintances of the town of San Diego are still alive,

if they did not perish in the explosion of the steamer "_Lipa_," which

was making a trip to the province. Since no one bothered himself to

learn who the unfortunates were that perished in that catastrophe or to

whom belonged the legs and arms left neglected on Convalescence Island

and the banks of the river, we have no idea whether any acquaintance

of our readers was among them or not. Along with the government and

the press at the time, we are satisfied with the information that

the only friar who was on the steamer was saved, and we do not ask

for more. The principal thing for us is the existence of the virtuous

priests, whose reign in the Philippines may God conserve for the good

of our souls. [174]

Of Maria Clara nothing more is known except that the sepulcher seems

to guard her in its bosom. We have asked several persons of great

influence in the holy nunnery of St. Clara, but no one has been

willing to tell us a single word, not even the talkative devotees

who receive the famous fried chicken-livers and the even more famous

sauce known as that "of the nuns," prepared by the intelligent cook

of the Virgins of the Lord.

Nevertheless: On a night in September the hurricane raged over

Manila, lashing the buildings with its gigantic wings. The thunder

crashed continuously. Lightning flashes momentarily revealed the havoc

wrought by the blast and threw the inhabitants into wild terror. The

rain fell in torrents. Each flash of the forked lightning showed a

piece of roofing or a window-blind flying through the air to fall

with a horrible crash. Not a person or a carriage moved through the

streets. When the hoarse reverberations of the thunder, a hundred

times re-echoed, lost themselves in the distance, there was heard

the soughing of the wind as it drove the raindrops with a continuous

tick-tack against the concha-panes of the closed windows.

Two patrolmen sheltered themselves under the eaves of a building near

the nunnery, one a private and the other a _distinguido_.

"What's the use of our staying here?" said the private.

"No one is moving about the streets. We ought to get into a house. My

_querida_ lives in Calle Arzobispo."

"From here over there is quite a distance and we'll get wet," answered

the _distinguido_.

"What does that matter just so the lightning doesn't strike us?"

"Bah, don't worry! The nuns surely have a lightningrod to protect

them."

"Yes," observed the private, "but of what use is it when the night

is so dark?"

As he said this he looked upward to stare into the darkness. At

that moment a prolonged streak of lightning flashed, followed by a

terrific roar.

"_Nakú! Susmariosep!_" exclaimed the private, crossing himself and

catching hold of his companion. "Let's get away from here."

"What's happened?"

"Come, come away from here," he repeated with his teeth rattling

from fear.

"What have you seen?"

"A specter!" he murmured, trembling with fright.

"A specter?"

"On the roof there. It must be the nun who practises magic during

the night."

The _distinguido_ thrust his head out to look, just as a flash of

lightning furrowed the heavens with a vein of fire and sent a horrible

crash earthwards. "_Jesús!_" he exclaimed, also crossing himself.

In the brilliant glare of the celestial light he had seen a white

figure standing almost on the ridge of the roof with arms and face

raised toward the sky as if praying to it. The heavens responded with

lightning and thunderbolts!

As the sound of the thunder rolled away a sad plaint was heard.

"That's not the wind, it's the specter," murmured the private, as if

in response to the pressure of his companion's hand.

"Ay! Ay!" came through the air, rising above the noise of the rain,

nor could the whistling wind drown that sweet and mournful voice

charged with affliction.

Again the lightning flashed with dazzling intensity.

"No, it's not a specter!" exclaimed the _distinguido_.

"I've seen her before. She's beautiful, like the Virgin! Let's get

away from here and report it."

The private did not wait for him to repeat the invitation, and both

disappeared.

Who was moaning in the middle of the night in spite of the wind and

rain and storm? Who was the timid maiden, the bride of Christ, who

defied the unchained elements and chose such a fearful night under the

open sky to breathe forth from so perilous a height her complaints

to God? Had the Lord abandoned his altar in the nunnery so that He

no longer heard her supplications? Did its arches perhaps prevent the

longings of the soul from rising up to the throne of the Most Merciful?

The tempest raged furiously nearly the whole night, nor did a single

star shine through the darkness. The despairing plaints continued to

mingle with the soughing of the wind, but they found Nature and man

alike deaf; God had hidden himself and heard not.

On the following day, after the dark clouds had cleared away and the

sun shone again brightly in the limpid sky, there stopped at the door

of the nunnery of St. Clara a carriage, from which alighted a man

who made himself known as a representative of the authorities. He

asked to be allowed to speak immediately with the abbess and to see

all the nuns.

It is said that one of these, who appeared in a gown all wet and torn,

with tears and tales of horror begged the man's protection against

the outrages of hypocrisy. It is also said that she was very beautiful

and had the most lovely and expressive eyes that were ever seen.

The representative of the authorities did not accede to her request,

but, after talking with the abbess, left her there in spite of her

tears and pleadings. The youthful nun saw the door close behind him

as a condemned person might look upon the portals of Heaven closing

against him, if ever Heaven should come to be as cruel and unfeeling

as men are. The abbess said that she was a madwoman. The man may

not have known that there is in Manila a home for the demented;

or perhaps he looked upon the nunnery itself as an insane asylum,

although it is claimed that he was quite ignorant, especially in a

matter of deciding whether a person is of sound mind.

It is also reported that General J---- thought otherwise, when the

matter reached his ears. He wished to protect the madwoman and asked

for her. But this time no beautiful and unprotected maiden appeared,

nor would the abbess permit a visit to the cloister, forbidding it

in the name of Religion and the Holy Statutes. Nothing more was said

of the affair, nor of the ill-starred Maria Clara.

GLOSSARY

_abá_: A Tagalog exclamation of wonder, surprise, etc., often used

to introduce or emphasize a contradictory statement.

_abaka_: "Manila hemp," the fiber of a plant of the banana family.

_achara_: Pickles made from the tender shoots of bamboo, green

papayas, etc.

_alcalde_: Governor of a province or district with both executive

and judicial authority.

_alferez_: Junior officer of the Civil Guard, ranking next below

a lieutenant.

_alibambang_: A leguminous plant whose acid leaves are used in cooking.

_alpay_: A variety of nephelium, similar but inferior to the Chinese

lichi.

_among_: Term used by the natives in addressing a priest, especially

a friar: from the Spanish _amo_, master.

_amores-secos_: "Barren loves," a low-growing weed whose small,

angular pods adhere to clothing.

_andas_: A platform with handles, on which an image is borne in

a procession.

_asuang_: A malignant devil reputed to feed upon human flesh, being

especially fond of new-born babes.

_até_: The sweet-sop.

_Audiencia_: The administrative council and supreme court of the

Spanish régime.

_Ayuntamiento_: A city corporation or council, and by extension

the building in which it has its offices; specifically, in Manila,

the capitol.

_azotea_: The flat roof of a house or any similar platform;

a roof-garden.

_babaye_: Woman (the general Malay term).

_baguio_: The local name for the typhoon or hurricane.

_bailúhan_: Native dance and feast: from the Spanish _baile_.

_balete_: The Philippine banyan, a tree sacred in Malay folk-lore.

_banka_: A dugout canoe with bamboo supports or outriggers.

_Bilibid_: The general penitentiary at Manila.

_buyo_: The masticatory prepared by wrapping a piece of areca-nut

with a little shell-lime in a betel-leaf: the _pan_ of British India.

_cabeza de barangay_: Headman and tax collector for a group of about

fifty families, for whose "tribute" he was personally responsible.

_calle_: Street.

_camisa_: 1. A loose, collarless shirt of transparent material worn

by men outside the trousers.

2. A thin, transparent waist with flowing sleeves, worn by women.

_camote_: A variety of sweet potato.

_capitan_: "Captain," a title used in addressing or referring to the

gobernadorcillo or a former occupant of that office.

_carambas_: A Spanish exclamation denoting surprise or displeasure.

_carbineer_: Internal-revenue guard.

_cedula_: Certificate of registration and receipt for poll-tax.

_chico_: The sapodilla plum.

_Civil Guard_: Internal quasi-military police force of Spanish officers

and native soldiers.

_cochero_: Carriage driver: coachman.

_Consul_: A wealthy merchant; originally, a member of the _Consulado_,

the tribunal, or corporation, controlling the galleon trade.

_cuadrillero_: Municipal guard.

_cuarto_: A copper coin, one hundred and sixty of which were equal

in value to a silver peso.

_cuidao_: "Take care!" "Look out!" A common exclamation, from the

Spanish _cuidado_.

_dálag_: The Philippine _Ophiocephalus_, the curious walking mudfish

that abounds in the paddy-fields during the rainy season.

_dalaga_: Maiden, woman of marriageable age.

_dinding_: House-wall or partition of plaited bamboo wattle.

_director, directorcillo_: The town secretary and clerk of the

gobernadorcillo.

_distinguido_: A person of rank serving as a private soldier but

exempted from menial duties and in promotions preferred to others of

equal merit.

_escribano_: Clerk of court and official notary.

_filibuster_: A native of the Philippines who was accused of advocating

their separation from Spain.

_gobernadorcillo_: "Petty governor," the principal municipal official.

_gogo_: A climbing, woody vine whose macerated stems are used as soap;

"soap-vine."

_guingón_: Dungaree, a coarse blue cotton cloth.

_hermano mayor_: The manager of a fiesta.

_husi_: A fine cloth made of silk interwoven with cotton, abaka,

or pineapple-leaf fibers.

_ilang-ilang_: The Malay "flower of flowers," from which the well-known

essence is obtained.

_Indian_: The Spanish designation for the Christianized Malay of the

Philippines was _indio_ (Indian), a term used rather contemptuously,

the name _Filipino_ being generally applied in a restricted sense to

the children of Spaniards born in the Islands.

_kaingin_: A woodland clearing made by burning off the trees and

underbrush, for planting upland rice or camotes.

_kalan_: The small, portable, open, clay fireplace commonly used

in cooking.

_kalao_: The Philippine hornbill. As in all Malay countries, this bird

is the object of curious superstitions. Its raucous cry, which may

be faintly characterized as hideous, is said to mark the hours and,

in the night-time, to presage death or other disaster.

_kalikut_: A short section of bamboo in which the _buyo_ is mixed;

a primitive betel-box.

_kamagon_: A tree of the ebony family, from which fine cabinet-wood

is obtained. Its fruit is the _mabolo_, or date-plum.

_kasamá_: Tenants on the land of another, to whom they render payment

in produce or by certain specified services.

_kogon_: A tall, rank grass used for thatch.

_kris_: A Moro dagger or short sword with a serpentine blade.