a big crack in the
floor. "At what time was the baby born?" was asked. "I do not know,"
she answered, "but it was about the time the chickens were awake."

It is a lucky baby that can get goat's milk to drink. Their mothers,
living for the most part on dried fish and rice, are never strong
enough to give them a good start in life. It is a common sight to see
the tiny litter decorated with bright bits of paper and a half-dozen
lighted candles, with its little, waxen image of a child, waiting
without the church door till the padre comes to say the funeral
services.

In that far-distant country but a small number of children ever
have worn pretty clothes--only a tiny shirt; and they are perfectly
contented, as the weather never gets uncomfortably cold. Their mothers
or their older sisters carry them by placing them astride the hip,
where they must cling tight with their little, fat, bare legs. They
are soon old enough to run around and play; not on the grass among
the trees, but in the dust out in the street. Their houses, built of
_nipa_ and bamboo, do not set back on a green lawn, but stand as near
to the hot, dusty street as possible. To get inside the houses, which
are built on posts, the babies have to scramble up a bamboo ladder,
where they might fall off and break their necks. At this age they have
learned to stuff themselves with rice until their little bodies look
as though they were about to burst. A stick of sugar-cane will taste
as good to them as our best peppermint or lemon candy. All the boys
learn to ride as soon as they learn how to walk. Saddles and bridles
are unnecessary, as they ride bareback, and guide the wiry Filipino
ponies with a halter made of rope. The carabao is a great friend
of Filipino boys and girls. He lets them pull themselves up by his
tail, and ride him into town--as many as can make room on his back,
allowing them to guide him by a rope run through his nose.

I do not think that many of the children can remember ever having
learned to swim. The mothers, when they take their washing to the
river, do not leave the little ones behind; and you can see their
glistening brown bodies almost any morning at the riverside among the
_nipa_, the young mothers beating clothes upon a rock, the carabaos
up to their noses in the water, chewing their cuds and dreaming happy
dreams. The boys can swim and dive like water-rats, and often remain
in the river all day long.

The girls, when about five