bless its existence.

Pleasant as was the nooning, it had to end: we mounted and rode on
to Solano. On the way Bubud insisted on drinking from a dirty swamp
by the roadside, although there was a limpid stream not fifty yards
ahead which he could see as well as I. But there was nothing for
it but the swamp; I accordingly let him have his way, only to find
the bank slippery and the water deep, so that he went in up to his
shoulders, with his hindquarters on the bank. While I was trying to
pull him back, he got in his hindquarters, and then, in further answer
to my efforts, sat down in the water! And such water! Thick, greasy,
smelly! A _carabao_ wallow it was. He now gave unmistakable evidence of
an intention to lie down, when a friendly hand got me up on the bank,
whereupon Bubud, concluding he would get out too, emerged with a coat
of muddy slime. This seemed to have no effect whatever on his spirits,
for on entering Solano a few minutes later, to the sound of bells
and bands, with banners fluttering in the breeze, he got into such
a swivet that before I knew it he was at the head of the procession,
having worked himself forward and planted himself squarely in front
of the Governor-General's horse, where he caracoled and curvetted and
pranced to his heart's delight. As soon as we got out of the _barrio_,
he was quite satisfied to take a more modest position, but occasions
of ceremony seemed to deprive him of all realization of his proper
place in the world.

The people of Solano made a great effort to have us stay the night,
but it was impossible; we had to get on to Bagabag. Solano, by the way,
is the commercial emporium of this end of the province, for there
is not a single shop in Bayombong. So on we went, through a calm,
dignified afternoon, the country as before impressing me with its open,
smiling valleys, its broad fields, its air of expectant fertility,
inviting one to come scratch its surface, if no more, in order to
reap abundant harvests. In fact, it seemed to me that we were riding
through typical farming land at home, instead of through a Malay valley
under the tropic. And if anything more were needed to strengthen the
illusion, it was a college yell, given by a gang of Ifugaos (the people
we were now immediately on our way to visit) repairing a bridge we had
to cross! They did it in style, and naturally had no cheer-leader;
time was kept by beating on the floor of the bridge with tools. For
this uttering