Chapter XVII: Home Life

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's our way of washing, out in nature's laundry," explained Filippa's mother.

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

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

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

"Not more superstitious than you are, when you refuse to pass under a ladder, or to begin a voyage on a Friday," Fil's mother answered. Then I realized that every person, every race, and every nation, and every color of mankind have their faults as well as their virtues, weak points as well as strong and good ones. There is something good in even the worst of us; and, perhaps, something bad in the best of us!

"I can testify that you Filipinos surpass my people in one thing," I said.

"Thank you. What is it?" asked Fil's mother and father together.

"Respect for parents and poor relations," I answered. "Fil and Filippa kiss your hand and bow, morning and night. You, though a father and mother, are also as dutiful as children. You keep grandfather and grandmother, and poor old relations around the home, where they can always have a place to sleep, a kind hand near, and can get a bite to eat anyway, and a tear of sympathy over their sick bed, at the last."

"By our religion, and by the warmth of our own hearts, we Filipinos believe it to be a cruel sin to send our parents and relatives to asylums. God gave us to them at the beginning of life, and God gives them to us at the end of life," replied Fil's pious mother.

"What a very, very beautiful saying, and what a beautiful deed!" I said.

Fil's grandmother was sitting in a corner of the room. I could see a tear of joy stealing down her sweet old face.

We all now rose; saluted each other; and, as we retired for the night, we each said "Adios" (a de os'), which means "good night" or "good-by," or really, "To God we commend you."