ouring some cold water on
them and letting them dry gradually. The cook will rinse the glasses
with his hand. How would you like to eat a chicken boiled with its
pin-feathers on, or find a colony of red ants in your soup? The
poorer families seldom go through the formality of serving meals. As
soon as the rice and _guinimos_ are cooked, the children and their
parents squat around the bowl and help themselves, holding a lump of
salt in one hand, and using the other for a fork or spoon. The women
do what little marketing needs to be done, and though the Filipino
acts in most things lavishly, the women can drive close bargains,
and will scold like ale-wives if they find the measure short even by
so much as a single _guinimo_.

The _guinimo_ is probably the smallest creature with a vertebra known
to the world of science--a small fish--and it strikes one as amusing
when the people count them out so jealously. But all their marketing
is done on retail lines. Potatoes, eggs, and fruit sell for so much
apiece. A single fish will be chopped up so as to go around among the
customers, while the measures used in selling rice and salt are so
small that you can not take them seriously. The transaction reminds
you of your childhood days when you were playing "keep store" with
a nickel's worth of candy on the ironing-board.

At Easter-time, or during the celebration of the "Santa Cruz,"
an enterprising family will get up a singing bee. Perhaps a wheezy
organ will be brought to light, and the musician then officiates
behind the instrument. His bare feet work the pedals vigorously,
and his body sways in rhythm with the strains. As the performance
is continuous, arriving or departing guests do not disturb the
ceremony. There seems to be a special song for this occasion, the
words of which must be repeated over and over as the music falls
and rises in a dismal wail. Refreshments of Holland gin and _tuba_
keep the party going until long after midnight.

As you walk down the long dusty street at evening, you will be half
suffocated by the smoke and the rank odor of the burning cocoanut-husks
over which the supper is being cooked. Then you remember how the
broiling beefsteak used to smell "back home," and even dream about
grandmother's kitchen on a baking day. And as you pass by the poor
_nipa_ shacks, you hear the murmur of the evening prayer pronounced
by those within. It is a prayer from those who have but little and
desire no more.