oth by means of a bamboo brush twisted or rolled between the
palms. The beauty of this beverage was that you could drain the cup,
and, like the miracle of loaves and fishes, stir the batter up again,
and have another drink of the same quality. "When Padre Cipriano comes
here," said the friar, "eet ees very gay. Ah! Cipriano, he can make
the foam come up three times. He knows well how to make thees drink."

When he would take his ebony cane and go out walking about sunset,
followed by his yellow dog, the village people, young and old,
would tumble over each other in their eagerness to kiss the father's
hand. He would mischievously tweak the noses of the little ones,
or pat the tiny girls upon the head. The friend of the lowly, he
had somehow incensed the upper ten. But he had shown his nerve one
Sunday morning when he had talked down one of these braggadocios who
had leveled a revolver at him in the church.

The little padre was as brave as he was "game." He was a fearless
rider, and there were few afternoons when we were not astride the
ponies, leaping the streams and ditches in the rice-pads, swimming the
fords, and racing along the beach, and it was always the little priest
that set the pace. One evening he received a message from the father
superior of that vicinity, old Padre Jose, living ten or fifteen miles
up the road in an unpacified community. The notice was imperative,
and only said to "come immediately, and as soon as possible."

Padre Jose was eighty years old, and he had been in Mindanao nearly all
his life. He spoke Visayan better than the natives, and he understood
the Filipinos just as though each one of them had been his child. He
had been all around the island and among the pagan tribes who saw
their spirits in the trees and streams. He had been back to Spain
just once, and he had frozen his fingers over there. As I remember
him, he was a dear, grandmotherly old fellow, in a long black gown,
who bustled around so for us (we had stopped there on a certain
expedition), cooking the eggs himself, and cutting the tough bologna,
holding the glass of _moscatel_ so lovingly up to the light before
he offered it, that I almost expected him to bring forth crullers,
tea, and elderberry pie. His convent was at that time occupied by
the municipal authorities; and so he lived in a small _nipa_ house
with his two dogs, his Latin library, and the sacristans who at night
slept scattered about the floor. The local cond