with the bitter winter winds that had blown the day before at Shanghai.
There the snow was flying, and woolen suits were greatly needed.

But to-night men and women alike walk the decks of this Manila-bound
ship. They are all in white. One stands at the bow of the ship, glad to
catch the salt spray on tanned cheeks, glad to feel the sea-touched
winds playing with his hair, glad to see fair women of the Orient tanned
with summer suns; for it is summer in the Philippines, while winter
reigns in China and the rest of the Oriental lands further north.

Last night we passed the narrow straits leading out of Shanghai harbor
directly south. Two lighthouses blinked through the dusk of evening, the
one to the north in short sharp notes, like a musician of the sea
singing coasts, rapidly beating time. The light to the south seemed to
count four in blinks and then hold its last count like a note of music.
In between the two lighthouses vague, dim, mist-belted mountains of the
China coast loomed through the dusk.

This morning and all day long we have been sailing past the huge
outlines of mountainous Formosa, that rich island off the coast of
China, between Shanghai and Manila. It looks like some fairly island
with its coves and caves, into which pours the purple sea, visible
through the faint mists of morning and noontime. Its precipitous sides
shoot down to the sea in great bare cliffs, save where, here and there,
a beautiful bay runs in from the southern sea to kiss the green lips of
the land.

But now the sun is setting. I am watching it from my stateroom window.

* * * * *

And now it is the rainy season in the Philippines.

It doesn't rain in Luzon; it opens up clouds, and oceans suddenly drop
to the land. Lakes and rivers form overnight. Bridges wash out, fields
are inundated, houses by thousands are swept away, and railroad tracks
twisted and played with, as if they were grappled by gigantic fists.

Men will tell you of the great Typhoon that suddenly dropped out of the
mountains at Baguio, sliced off a few sections of the mountains, rushed
down through the great gorge, and left in its trail the iron ruins of
eight or ten bridges, put in by American engineers, founded on solid
granite; but swept away like playthings of wood, in an hour.

One night we were driving from Baguio to Manila.

A storm dropped suddenly out of the nowhere. We had no side curtains on,
and in just three minut