One of my pupils, a very intelligent young girl, described to me the American entry.  She said that the houses of the rich were closed, shell windows were drawn to, and the iron-sheathed outer doors were locked and barred.  But most shell windows have in the centre a little pane of glass to permit the occupants of the house to look out without being seen.  My young friend told me how her family were all “peeking,” breathless, at their window pane, and how the first view of the marching columns struck fear to their hearts, so tall and powerful seemed the well-clad, well-armed men.  A halt was called, and after the proper formalities at the provoste, or town hall, the municipality was handed over to American rule, and the Stars and Stripes floated from the local flagstaff.  The soldiers were permitted to break ranks, and they began buying fruits and bottles of beer and of native wine in the tiendas, or shops.  The soldiers overpaid, of course, joked, picked up the single-shirted pickaninnies, tossed them, kissed them, and otherwise displayed their content.  Then, said my informant, her father (who is an astute old fellow) decided that the story of American ferocity was a lie.  He ordered his house opened, and the shell windows slid back, revealing his pretty daughters in their best raiment, smiling and bowing.  The officers raised their caps and gave back smiles and bows; a few natives cried, “Viva los Americanos,” and behold, the terrible event was all over.

Acquaintance was at once struck up.  The officers came to pay their respects, drank beer and muscatel, consumed sweets, and paid florid compliments in Spanish.  They began to take possession of those houses whose owners were out of town, and the news went out.  Then there was as great a scramble to get back as there had been to get away.  In a few days everything was running smoothly, and, as my interlocutor remarked, all the American officers were much in love with the charming Filipino girls.

Almost the first act of the military was to open the schools.  The schoolhouses had been used as barracks by the Tagalogs.  The chaplain of the Eighteenth Infantry, the children told me, was their first teacher.  The opening of the schools was a great surprise to the Filipinos, who were clever enough to appreciate the national standards which the act implied.

At the time of my arrival the foregoing facts were, in the rush of events, almost ancient history.  Two years had passed.  American women, wives of officers, had come and gone.  Peace had been declared and the machinery of civil government had been put in action.

It would be foolish for me to spend time discussing the Filipino’s aptitude for self-government.  Wiser heads than mine have already arrived at a hopeless impasse of opinion on that point.  There are peculiarities of temperament in the Filipino people which are seldom discussed in detail, but which offer premises for statements and denials, not infrequently acrimonious, and rarely approached in a desire to make those judging from a distance take into consideration all that makes opinions reliable.  Such peculiarities of character seem to me pertinent to a book which deals with impressions.