_Kite._ Pum, pum! Tat, tat!
_Mother._ Who is here and what is that?
_Kite._ 'Tis the kite.
_Mother._ What seeks the kite?
_Kite._ Human flesh! A bite, a bite!
_Mother._ You must catch before you dine.
Children, children, keep the line!
And with this the dauntless parent, abandoning song for action, darts
with outspread arms in front of the robber, who bends all his energies
to reaching and snatching away Little Mary. The entire line, keeping
rank, curves and twists behind the leader, all intent on protecting
that poor midget at the end. And when the wild frolic has resulted in
her capture, and every child is panting with fatigue, they straightway
resume their original positions and play it all over again. In Seville
this game takes on a religious variation, the kite becoming the Devil,
and the _madre_ the angel Michael defending a troop of souls. In Cuba
we have a hawk pitted against a hen with her brood of chickens.
We stepped into a Protestant Kindergarten one day to see how such
stirring atoms of humanity might demean themselves in school. Talk of
little pitchers! Here were some twoscore tiny jugs, bubbling full of
mischief, with one bright, sympathetic girl of twenty-two keeping a
finger on every dancing lid. Impossible, of course! But all her week's
work looked to us impossible. We had known diligent teachers in the
United States; this "lazy Spaniard," however, not only keeps her
Kindergarten well in hand from nine to twelve, but instructs the same
restless mites--so many of them as do not fall into a baby-sleep over
their desks--in reading and counting from two to four, gives a Spanish
lesson from six to seven, and struggles with the pathetic ignorance of
grown men and women in the night school from eight to half-past nine
or ten.
The Spanish pastor and his wife, also teachers in day school, night
school, Sunday school, are no less marvels of industry. The
multiplication table, lustily intoned to the tramp of marching feet,
called us into a class-room where the older girls were gathered for
lessons in reading and writing, arithmetic and geography, sewing and
embroidery. The delicate little lady who presides over this lively
kingdom may be seen on Sunday, seated at the melodeon, leading the
chapel music--an exquisite picture of a Spanish senora, with the lace
mantilla crowning the black hair and gracefully falling to the slender
shoulders. We had heard her give an address on foreign soil, before an
audience of a hundred strangers, speaking with an irresistible fervor
of appeal, and no less charming was she at the head of her own table,
the soul of vivacious and winsome hospitality.
As for the pastor himself, he carries the administrative burdens of
church and school, teaches the larger boys morning and afternoon, and
the men in the evening, preaches once on Thursday and twice on Sunday,
and slips in between these stated tasks all the innumerable incidental
duties of a missionary pastorate. And yet this man of many labors is
not only Spanish, but Philippine. His childhood was passed at Cavite,
the home of his father, a Spanish officer, who had chosen his bride
from a native family. The boy was put to school with the friars at
Manila, where, rather to the disgust of the soldier-father, he formed
the desire to enter the brotherhood. He was not blind--what students
are?--to the blemishes of his teachers. He had often stood by with the
other lads and shouted with laughter to see a group of friars, their
cassocks well girded up, drive a pig into their shallow pond and stab
the plunging creature there, that it might be counted "fish" and serve
them for dinner on Friday. But his faith in the order held firm, and,
when his novitiate was well advanced, he was sent to Madrid for the
final ceremonies. Here, by chance, he dropped into a Protestant
service, and after several years of examination and indecision, chose
the thorny road.
[Illustration: PASAJES]
All his wearing occupations do not dull that fine sense of courtesy
inherent in a Spanish gentleman. The sun itself had hardly risen when
we departed from San Sebastian, yet we found Don Angel at the station,
muffled in the inevitable Spanish _capa_, to say good-by once more and
assure us that, come what might, we had always "a house and a friend
in Spain." We laid down the local journal, hard reading that it was
with its denunciations of "the inhuman barbarities of the North
Americans toward the Filipinos," and ventured to ask for his own view
of the matter.
"The United States," he answered, speaking modestly and very gently,
"means well and has, in the main, done well. When I say this in the
Casino, men get angry and call me a Yankee filibuster. But in truth
the Philippines are very dear to me and I carry a sad heart. It was
the protocol that did the mischief. It is not easy for simple
islanders to understand that words may say one thing and mean another.
Philippine faith in American promises is broken. And red is a hard
color to wash out. Yet I still hope that, when the days of slaughter
are over, peace and life may finally come to my unhappy birthplace
from your great nation. The Tagalos are not so worthless as Americans
seem to think, though the climate of the Philippines, like that of
Andalusia, tempts to indolence. But strong motives make good workers
everywhere."