t hammock was given the sacrament. He was, no doubt, some
eminent civilian or officer, for the vast congregation rose to their
feet when the procession came in and when it passed out. I asked
two or three of the Filipino women, whom I knew well, who it was,
but they professed not to know. They always treated me with respect
when I attended any of their services and placed a chair for me. I
noticed how few carried books to church. I do not believe I ever saw
a dozen books in the hands of worshipers in any of the cathedrals,
and I visited a great many, five on Palm Sunday, 1900. I know from
the children themselves, and from their teachers, that there are
complaints about the size of the books and about the number which
they have to get their lessons from in the new schools.

There are three American newspapers in Manila, and one American
library. The grand success of the library more than repays all the cost
and trouble of establishing it. One must experience it to know the
joy of getting letters, magazines, papers, and books that come once
or twice a month, only. It really seemed when the precious mail bags
were opened that their treasures were too sacred to be even handled. We
were so hungry and thirsty for news from home, for reading matter in
this bookless country, where even a primer would have been a prize.

I alternated between passive submission to island laziness,
shiftlessness, slovenliness, dirt, and active assertion of Ohio
vim. Sick of vermin and slime, I would take pail, scrubbing brush
and lye, and fall to; sick of it all, I would get a Summit county
breakfast, old fashioned pan cakes for old times' sake; sick of the
native laundress who cleansed nothing, I would give an Akron rub myself
to my own clothes and have something fit to wear. These attacks of
energy depended somewhat on the temperature, somewhat on exhausted
patience, somewhat on homesickness, but most on dread of revolt and
attack; or of sickening news--not of battle, but of assassination and
mutilation. Whether I worked or rested, I was careful to sit or stand
close to a wall--to guard against a stab in the back. I smile now,
not gaily, at the picture of myself over a washtub, a small dagger
in my belt, a revolver on a stool within easy reach of my steady,
right hand, rubbing briskly while the tears of homesickness rolled
down in uncontrollable floods, but singing, nevertheless, with might
and main:--

"Am I a soldier of the Cross,