"How sensible," I remarked.

"This loose waist or chemisette is sometimes white and sometimes colored. It is made of jusi cloth, that is, cloth woven from banana leaf fiber. You see it is softer, thinner, and cooler than your linen or cotton."

"It is lovely," I acknowledged.

"Loose wide collars are in style with you now, but they have always been in style here. We call it 'panuelo' (pa nu ai'lo). It is our whitest, thinnest fiber, made from pineapple leaves, just like our handkerchiefs that I told you about. You see we starch it. It hangs down the back to a point, and it is very cool and dainty," explained Filippa's mother.

"What wide sleeves!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, sinamei chemisettes, or waists, have very wide sleeves, but are short to the elbow. We starch them out, so they will be cool and neat,"

replied Filippa's mother.

"I notice that Filippa's hair is worn plain," I remarked.

"Yes," replied her mother, "we brush the hair back plain; tie a knot or leave it loose. We like jewelry, and we wear splendid lace mantillas, or shawls, over the head."

"What odd slippers with no heels!" I exclaimed.

"Yes, we all like to have our feet ready to jump into mud or water, for our roads are not yet good. These slippers are called 'chinelas'

(che nay'las). They have no heel and just a catch to put the toe in. They have no laces. With them we slide along the ground. But we cannot back up straight, or run last in them. If we wish to go back we must turn around, so as to keep our chinelas on our toes. The young people do not wear stockings in our warm climate, where one lives close to Nature,--too close sometimes, when the snake bites."

"But taken all together, what a happy Eden this is for a boy or a girl," I added.

CHAPTER XIX

THE "ADIOS" FEAST

Next day as we were walking down the road to the good-by feast, I noticed a crowd gathered in a circle, and stooping over.

"What are they doing; digging gold?" I asked.

"No, they are making game-fowl fight," Moro replied. "They wager money on which will be the winner and put the other to flight. The boys and men get very much excited."

"This good-by feast in your honor, before you return home, is called a 'fiesta' (fe ais'ta)," explained Filippa. "Father and mother and Fil have spoken to the Padre, and the barrio-elders; and everything is arranged."

"But what is a 'barrio'?" I inquired.

"It means a village, a ward," replied Filippa.

I could hear bands and orchestras gathering. Here and there were tall bamboos bent over the paths, and from their arches hung banners and colored paper lanterns.

Carromatos (car ro ma' tos), small carriages drawn by little black ponies, were bringing people in. The men and boys were dressed in white duck, as though they were going aboard yachts.

In front of the houses and the Iglesia (church) and convent were hung flags, festoons, streamers, wreaths, and bunting.

Flowers and palm leaves were strewn along the path that the procession would take.

Then we all started. The procession was led by the bands to the Iglesia, where, from the high campanile tower, the church bells were ringing. In the church the good Padre said a few words, and gave us all his prayers and blessing.

While we were inside, evening had fallen. When we stepped out into the square, we saw a fairy starry land. Some one had lighted not only the lanterns and torches, but the larger southern stars of these tropical islands were shining brightly overhead. Colored rockets were also shot up into the night.

The barrio-saint--really, the small statue of the patron saint of the village--was carried at the head of the procession.

Then to the music of the bands, we all marched home to the big upper hall, and gathered around a wonderful table. Roast pig, chicken, pheasant; mountains of rice and fruit; candied ginger and mango; pickled chutney, which is sweet and sour at the same time and also spiced; coconut and nipa wine; flowers as big as a hat and smelling as sweet as a bottle of perfume! Sandalwood and spice-incense smoked sweetly, and nearly hid the good Padre and Fil's father, who sat at the head of the table.

The orchestra tinkled all kinds of drums, castanets, bells, fiddles; many of them having strange shapes and shrill noises. Funny, fat-cheeked boys were blowing the very life out of the flutes. All were very happy!

"Not happy to see you leave, but trying to make you so happy that you will not have time to entertain regrets to-night. We want to remember your smiling face," said Fil's father.

Then the table was cleared and moved. The company all gathered around the hall.

Suddenly a hush; then a clamorous call of the orchestra! Then another hush--Filippa, dressed in silver spangle, and Fil, dressed in scarlet and gold, suddenly rushed from opposite sides of the hall to do the love-dance, in which the brave soldier woos and wins his sweetheart.

They came near each other. She seemed to be coy; to quarrel sometimes; to beg; to promise. They whirled about; they executed steps; they snapped castanets. The orchestra sang, whistled, snapped, strummed. The music flowed in waltzes; it jerked in Castilian measures; it whispered. It serenaded, while Fil carried a mandolin with a ribbon. Filippa dropped her handkerchief: Fil gracefully picked it up. He danced in pleading. He showed all the pretty steps he could do. As a sign that the soldier had won his lady-love, Filippa at last consented that he should return the handkerchief, crown her proudly with it on her cloud of thick hair, and waltz away with her triumphantly.

It was a pretty tableau. The orchestra broke out in loud and full harmony, with now and then a wild Moro yell or shout, from the flutes and drums.

How we applauded! Fil and Filippa had to bow their thanks many times, from the side of the caida (hall).

Then there was another pause, after the Padre and Fil's father had whispered.

Suddenly Moro ran out with a rush, to give a wild Mohammedan dance.

How strangely he was dressed! He wore tight red trousers, a red and blue turban on his head, and a tight jeweled tunic, covered with pearl b.u.t.tons. His sash was green, dotted with purple spots. He had purple parrot feathers at his waist and in his turban.

His feet were bare, as is the custom in his native wilds in the south island. The round shield that he carried, glistened. He waved two terrible kriss-knives, with jeweled handles. Over his shoulder he carried a spear. How he drummed on that shield! He hurled his knives into the air, and cleverly caught them before they fell. He seemed to pursue a foe; to crouch like a boy scout; to listen; to follow the track; to meet the foe; to battle for his life and country. At last he seemed to conquer with a wild yell, just as he was hurled backward and his shield was thrown aside. All this, while we held our breath in excitement, he acted in his strange, barbaric dance, keeping time with the wind-like, volcano-like music of his native Moro islands.

The fiesta and the dances were over at last. The dancers and the guests departed.

Next morning, as we stood on the coconut wharf waiting for the boat to come in, Fil perhaps noticed that I looked sad. I saw by his smile that he was preparing one of his jokes to cheer me up.

"Father," said he, "may I take our friend back to America, so as to see that he arrives all right?"

"Wait till you grow bigger," replied Fil's father.

"Then don't blame me if he gets lost," laughed little Fil, as he tried to stand on his tiptoes, and lifted his hand high above his head, so as to appear as tall as a man.

After all this courtesy, all this happy, laughing time, in these sunny summer islands of the purple Philippine seas, it almost broke my heart, as I left for home, to answer Fil, Filippa, their kind parents, Moro, the good Padre, and little Favra who were calling from the wharf: "Adios, amigo" (a de os' a me'go)--"To G.o.d we commend you, our friend."

THE END