than themselves.  They go to school with their little masters and mistresses, carry their books, and play with them.  For this they receive the scantiest dole of food on which they can live, a few cast-off garments, and a stipend of a medio-peso (twenty-five cents cents U.S. currency) per annum, which their parents collect and spend.  Parents and child are satisfied, because, little as they get, it is certain.  Parents especially are satisfied, because thus do they evade the duties and responsibilities of parenthood.

It was at first a source of wonder to me how the rich man came out even on his scores of retainers, owing to their idleness and the demands for fiestas which he is compelled to grant.  But he does succeed in getting enough out of them to pay for the unhulled rice he gives them, and he more than evens up on the children.  If ever there was a land where legislation on the subject of child labor is needed, it is here.  Children are overworked from infancy.  They do much of the work of the Islands, and the last drop of energy and vitality is gone before they reach manhood or womanhood.  Indeed, the first privilege of manhood to them is to quit work.

The feeling between these poor Filipinos and their so-called employers is just what the feeling used to be between Southerners and their negroes.  The lower-class man is proud of his connection with the great family.  He guards its secrets and is loyal to it.  He will fight for it, if ordered, and desist when ordered.

The second house I lived in in Capiz was smaller than the first, and had on the lower floor a Filipino family in one room.  I demanded that they be ejected if I rented the house, but the owner begged me to reconsider.  They were, she said, old-time servants of hers to whom she felt it her duty to give shelter.  They had always looked after her house and would look after me.

I yielded to her insistence, but doubtingly.  In six weeks I was perfectly convinced of her wisdom and my foolishness.  Did it rain, Basilio came flying up to see if the roof leaked.  If a window stuck and would not slide, I called Basilio.  For the modest reward of two pesos a month (one dollar gold) he skated my floors till they shone like mirrors.  He ran errands for a penny or two.  His wife would embroider for me, or wash a garment if I needed it in a hurry.  If I had an errand which took me out nights, Basilio lit up an old lantern, unsolicited, and went ahead with the light and a bolo.  If a heavy rain came up when I was at school, he appeared with my mackintosh and rubbers.  And while a great many small coins went from me to him, I could never see that the pay was proportional to his care.  Yet there was no difficulty in comprehending it.  Pilar (my landlady) had told him to take care of me, and he was obeying orders.  If she had told him to come up and bolo me as I slept, he would have done it unhesitatingly.