hat, as they rounded the northern coast of Negros, the waves dashed
completely over the little island of Bacabac, sweeping away the hills
and bringing the land to the level of the sea.

Still the rapid flight went on. Straight for Bantayan headed Sinogo,
but suddenly changing his course he dashed into the narrow channel
between Negros and Cebu. Then Dalagan, leaving Guidala to continue the
chase alone, flew swiftly back to Caueli and told Captan that Sinogo
was in the little strait. Up sprang the god and, flying directly east,
he posted himself at the southern entrance of the channel. In his
hand he held an enormous thunderbolt, and thus armed he waited for
the appearance of Sinogo.

Down into the narrow entrance sped the faithless messenger, tearing
up the water in his mad flight, while the brave Guidala struck in
vain at his huge body. Suddenly a roar of thunder sounded and the
thunderbolt fell on the back of the monster, bearing him down beneath
the waves and then, stiffening like a bar of iron, pinning him to the
bottom far below. In vain he struggled to free himself; the bar held
him fast and sure. In his struggles the shell fell from his mouth,
but a little Tamban caught it and brought it safely to Captan.

Thousands of years have passed, but far under the water, like a fly
on a pin, Sinogo struggles in the form of a huge Buaya. The water
bubbles around him and for three miles little whirlpools go racing up
the channel. And the native in his little sacayan avoids the narrow
entrance where the water boils and foams, for Sinogo still twists
and squirms, and the Liloan is a thing to be feared and dreaded.

Catalina of Dumaguete

This is a legend of Dumaguete, the capital of the province of Negros
Occidental. From this town can be seen five islands, viz., Negros,
Cebu, Bohol, Mindanao, and Siquijor.

There is no one on the great island of Negros who does not love the
name of Catalina. Even the wild mountain men speak it with respect,
and down in the coast towns at night, when the typhoon is lashing the
waters of Tanon Strait, and the rain and wind make the nipa leaves
on the roofs dance and rattle, the older people gather their little
black-eyed grandchildren around the shell of burning cocoanut oil
and tell them her story.

Many years ago there lived in Dumaguete a poor tuba seller named Banog,
who made his daily rounds to the houses just as the milkman does in
far-off America. But instead of a rattling w