POEM HOT

Karlo Pineda

A wrinkled forehead
alters your fair face.
Furious stares nest
in your eyes--sanctuaries
for nothing save fears and fires.
By this time
you are a swollen sun
ready to punish
my city with the scorching
of twin hells.
And in your mad radiation
I am a giant sunburn.
As I write this poem
my heart has already exploded
to myriad embers.

NO REST
Kyo Zapanta

It's time for me to rest for a while

My condition is not that good
But hell, I can't seem to leave behind
Whatever it is that I must do

c pI know it’s been in overtime

I shouldn’t be here anymore
But that workaholiart of me
Seem to like the stress in store

But then again by head’s in pain

My body is just saying no
My eyes are swollen and tears are forming
I could cry in stress ever so

But I wouldn’t cry even if I feel it

For when I do I’ll be okay
 Then I would again want to work
And I’ll be working for the rest of the day

DECLAMATION
Am I to Be Blamed?
This is a moving piece about a young girl arrested for stealing. She pleads her case to the police
officers and tells her life story.

They're chasing me, they're chasing, no they must not catch me, I have enough money now, yes
enough for my starving mother and brothers.
Please let me go, let me go home before you imprison me.
Very well, officers? Take me to your headquarters. Good morning captain! no captain, you are
mistaken, I was once a good girl, just like the rest of you here. Just like any of your daughters.
But time was, when I was reared in slums. But we lived honestly, we lived honestly in life. My,
father, mother, brothers, sisters, and I. But then, poverty entered the portals of our home. My
father became jobless, my mother got ill. The small savings that my mother had kept for our
expenses were spent. All for our daily needs and her needed medicine.
One night, my father went out, telling us that he would come back in a few minutes with plenty
of food and money, but that was the last time I saw him. He went with another woman. If only I
could lay my hands on his neck I would wring it without pain until he breathes no more. If you
were in my place, you'll do it, wouldn't you Captain? What? You won't still believe in me? Come
and I'll show you a dilapidated shanty by a railroad.
Mother, mother I'm home. Mother? Mother?! There Captain, see my dead mother. Captain?
There are tears in your eyes? Now pack this stolen money and return it to the owner. What good
would this do to my mother now? She's already gone! Do you hear me? She's already gone. Am I
to be blamed for the things I have done?

Bad Girl
This is a popular declamation piece about a "bad girl" who becomes bad because of the
negligence of her family, school, and society.

Hey! Everybody seems to be staring at me.

You! You! All of you!
How dare you to stare at me?!
Why? Is it because I`m a bad girl?
A bad girl I am, a good-for-nothing teenager—a problem child?
That's what you call me!
I smoke. I drink. I gamble at my young tender age.
I lie. I cheat, and I could even kill, if I have to.
Yes, I`m a bad girl, but where are my parents?
You! You! You are my good parents?
My good elder brother and sister in this society where I live?
Look! Look at me.... What have you done to me?
You have pampered and spoiled me, neglected me when I needed you most!
Entrusted me to a yaya, whose intelligence was much lower than mine!
While you go about your parties, your meetings and gambling session.
Thus... I drifted away from you!
Longing for a father`s love, yearning for a mother`s care!
 As I grew up, everything changed!
You too have changed!
You spent more time in your poker, majong tables, bars and night clubs.
You even landed on the headlines of the newspaper as crooks, pedlars and racketeers.
Now, you call me names, accuse me of everything I do to myself?
Tell me! How good are you?
If you really wish to ensure my future...
Then hurry....hurry back home! Where I await you, because I need you.
Protect me from all evil influences that will threaten me at my very own understanding.
But if I am bad, really bad...then, you've got to help me!
Help me! Oh please... Help me!
 Anecdote

The Master's Hand

Wishing to encourage her young son’s progress on the piano, a mother took the small boy to a
concert of the famous pianist, Paderewski. After they were seated, the mother spotted a friend in
the audience and walked down the aisle to greet her. Seizing the opportunity to explore the
wonders of the concert hall, the little boy rose and eventually explored his way through a door
marked “No Admittance.”

When the house lights dimmed and the concert was about to begin, the mother returned to her
seat and discovered that her son was missing. Suddenly, the curtains parted and the spotlights
focused on the impressive Steinway piano on stage.

In horror, the mother saw her little boy sitting at the keyboard. Innocently, he then began to play
"Chopsticks". The crowd reacted with anger, some shouts were heard, "Take the boy away!",
"Who is bringing a little boy to a concert?!".

When Paderewski heard the uproar backstage, he grabbed his coat and rushed to the stage.
Realizing what was going on, he went to the piano, Reaching around the little boy from behind,
the master began to improvise a countermelody to “chopsticks.” As the two of them played
together, Paderewski kept whispering in the boy's ear, “Keep going. Don't quit, son... don't stop...
don't stop.”

Together, the old master and the little boy transformed an embarrassing situation into a
wonderfully creative experience. The audience was mesmerized

The Whole World Stinks

Wise men and philosophers throughout the ages have disagreed on many things, but many are in
unanimous agreement on one point: "We become what we think about." Ralph Waldo Emerson
said, "A man is what he thinks about all day long." The Roman emperor Marcus Aurelius put it
this way: "A man's life is what his thoughts make of it." In the Bible we find: "As a man thinks
in his heart, so is he."

One Sunday afternoon, a cranky grandfather was visiting his family. As he lay down to take a
nap, his grandson decided to have a little fun by putting Limburger cheese on Grandfather's
mustache. Soon, grandpa awoke with a snort and charged out of the bedroom saying, "This room
stinks." Through the house he went, finding every room smelling the same. Desperately he made
his way outside only to find that "The whole world stinks!"
 So it is when we fill our minds with negativism. Everything we experience and everybody we
encounter will carry the scent we hold in our mind.

SAYINGS OR PROVERBS
. A broom is sturdy because its strands are tightly bound.

Matibay ang walis, palibhasa'y magkabigkis.

People gain strength by standing together.

2. While the blanket is short, learn how to bend.

Hangga't makitid ang kumot, matutong mamaluktot.

If your blanket is too short to cover you completely with your legs straight, bend them so that
you fit. In other words, learn how to adapt to your environment and be satisfied with what you
have. If you have less in life, learn to be frugal until you come to the point when you can spare
some money for a little bit of luxury.

3. It is hard to wake up someone who is pretending to be asleep.

Mahirap gisingin ang nagtutulog-tulugan.

While it is easy to tell people something they do not know, it is much harder if they are willfully
choosing not to see what is before them.

4. If you persevere, you will reap the fruits of your labor.

Pag may tiyaga, may nilaga.

They don't call them the fruits of labor for nothing. Hard work and perseverance are needed to
reach your goals. But if you keep trying, one day you will enjoy the results of your efforts.

5. New king, new character.

Bagong hari, bagong ugali.

New leadership always brings new ways.

NURSERY RHYME
And dutay nga damang
nag saka sa sa-nga
umabut and u-lan
na anod siya
nag gu-wa and aglaw
nag mala and duta
and dutay nga damang
nag saka sa sa-nga.

The itsy bitsy spider

Climbed up the waterspout
Down came the rain
And washed the spider out
Out came the sun
And dried up all the rain
And the itsy bitsy spider
Climbed up the spout again.

JACK EN POY
Jack en Poy*
Hali-hali-hoy!
Sinong matalo
Siya'ng unggoy!

Jack en Poy*
Hali-hali-hoy!
Whoever loses
Is a monkey!
 Song
HAYAAN MONG IKAY TULUNGAN
KO
Pwede bang ako na lang ulit
Ang ngalang lagi mong nasasambit
Baka sakaling magbago takbo ng isip mo
Kaya't tinatanong ko na
Baka kasi pwedeng ako na lang

Pwede bang subukan pang isa

Baka naman ako'y mahal mo pa
At kung wala nang damdamin sa aki'y ayos lang
Hindi ako magagalit
Pero baka pwedeng ako na lang ulit

Hayaan mong ika'y tulungan ko

Hanapin ang lugar sa puso mo
Siguro kahit konti pa
Ako'y may daratnan
Buhayin ang nakaraan
Ako sana ay pakinggan

Dinggin mo ang hiling ng puso ko

Nanabik ang buhay ko sa 'yo
Araw gabi wala akong ibang hinihiling
Magbalik na sa 'king piling
Baka kasi pwedeng ako na lang ulit

Hayaan mong ika'y tulungan ko

Hanapin ang lugar sa puso mo
Siguro kahit konti pa
Ako'y may daratnan
Buhayin ang nakaraan
Ako sana ay pakinggan

Ako sa 'yo pa ri'y nagtatanong

Mahal pa ba ako hanggang ngayon
Baka kasi ang oras natin ay lumipas na
At ang kahapo'y magbalik
Baka maisip mong ako na lang ulit

Nanabik sa 'yong halik

Pwede ba sana ako na lang ulit
 Hashtag in love pumapag-ibig
Paselfi-selfie lang kumuha
Nang bigla syang nandyan nang sumali
Pasenti-senti lang nung una
Nang biglang napalitan ng smiley
Abot-tengang napangiti
Hindi ko napigilan
Parang kulang ang sandali
At kay bilis naman

Teka lang muna wait

Ganito pala ang pumapag-ibig
Napapa-sing-along sa love song
Woh oh oh parapapa
Teka lang muna wait
Kalito pala ang pumapag-ibig
Madrama parang telenobela
Araw-gabi hindi na mapakali
Alam na pag may time
Hashtag #inlab pumapag-ibig
Fine

Nagmamahal na daw bilihin

Hinanapan ng konek sa topic
Nagmamahal na daw aminin
Peg lang ang “Gotta believe in magic”
Sobrang napapatulala
Pumapag-ibig moment
Ewan lang baka mawala
Pumapag-epic fail

Teka lang muna wait

Ganito pala ang pumapag-ibig
Napapa-sing-along sa love song
Woh oh oh parapapa
Teka lang muna wait
Kalito pala ang pumapag-ibig
Madrama parang telenobela
Araw-gabi hindi na mapakali
Alam na pag may time
Hashtag #inlab pumapag-ibig
Fine

Tumatagilid pumapaligid
Umaali-aligid pumapag-ibig
Pumapag-ibig

Teka lang muna wait

Ganito pala ang pumapag-ibig
Napapa-sing-along sa love song
Woh oh oh parapapa
Teka lang muna wait
Kalito pala ang pumapag-ibig
Madrama parang telenobela
Araw-gabi hindi na mapakali
Alam na pag may time
Hashtag #inlab pumapag-ibig
Trending na daw pumapag-ibig
 Sabi nila pumapag-ibig
Fine

FABLES

The Crow and the Hungry Dog

100

A dog was once lost in the forest by hunters. Not being able to find his way back, he wandered
through the forest in search of something to eat. After a few days of unprofitable search for
food, he became very thin and weak. He had not tasted anything except water, for several
days. One day as he was walking listlessly and staggeringly under the trees, he saw by chance a
crow that had a piece of meat in her beak. Looking up, the dog sat on its legs, and prayed to the
crow to give him a piece of her meat.

The dog said: Hey, good friend, please give me a piece of your victual for I am very very hungry.

The crow, in hearing this remark of the dog, opened her beak and laughed. But when she opened
her mouth the piece of meat which she had, fell to the ground. The hungry dog greedily picked it
up and he now had the occasion to laugh at the poor crow.

After having feasted on the meat, the dog said: I thought that you were wiser than I at first, but I
see now that it is just the reverse. And if you would only come down, I will eat you up also, the
dog continued.

Upon hearing this, the crow flew away. She was sorely distressed by the loss of the meat. She
would have sacrificed her life for it but seeing that she could not do anything against the dog, she
was contented, though sorely, to spend the whole day without eating anything.

Bakit Dala-dala ni Pagong ang kanyang Bahay

Noong mga unang araw ay sinusugong paminsan-minsan ng bathalang maykapal si Barangaw
magmula sa alapaap upang tingnan kung maligaya ang ating mga ninuno. Kung minsan si
Barangaw ay nag-aanyong bahaghari upang pahintuin ang unos na maaaring makasira sa mga
pananim. Kung minsan ay nag-aanyong isang sultan, naglalagay ng putong, nagdadamit ng
kundiman at palakad-lakad sa loob at labas ng balangay. Isang baston o tungkod na nilalik na
kamagong ang kanyang dala-dala tanda ng kapangyarihan. Ito ang pinaparusa niya sa mga
malulupit at mga masasama, at ito rin ang ginagamit niya sa paggawad ng gantimpala sa
mabubuti.

Isang araw noong panahon ni Lakan Lumatay ay inutusan nga ni Bathala si Barangaw na
mamasyal sa Malanday upang malaman ang mga daing ng mga aliping namamahay at aliping
sagigilid. Samantalang naglalakad si Barangaw, nakaalinig siya ng abot-abot na lagapak ng
hagupit na kasabay ang malungkot na daing. Bakit kaya? ang tanong ni Barangaw sa kanyang
sarili walang kakilakilatis siyang nasok sa silid na pinanggagalingan ng daing ng taong
hinahagupit ng lanubo ng bayabas. Kitang-kita niyang namimilipit sa sakit ang taong
hinahagupit na sa kahit saan tamaan! Kaawa-awang alipin! ang malungkot niyang nasabi.
 Walang nakakita kay Barangaw sapagkat ang tagaputong niya ay maysa tagabulag, ngunit
kitang-kita niya ang lahat. Naroon si Lakan Lumatay at nakapamewang, pinag-abot-sikong
nakabalita ang alipin at pinapalo ng walang patumangga ni Magbitag na siyang tagapagparusa ni
Lakan.

Saan mo itinago ang iyong anak na dalaga? Ang tanong ni Magbitag, sandaling tinigilan ng palo
ang alipin ito’y hubad baro, at ang katawan ay halos putok-putok sa sa kapapalo.

Hala, magsabi ka ng totoo. Pag hindi’y mauutas ka. Dapat mong ipagpasalamat na Lakan pa at
puno natin ay may ibig sa anak mo. Ano, magsasabi ka o hindi?

Hindi umimik si Barangaw. Nakinig siya upang malaman ang puno’t dulo ng paghahagupit na
yaon. Hinintay na sumagot ang alipin, ngunit ito’y walang imik Matigas ang ulo, Hala lantakan
mo uli! ang makapangyarihang utos ni Lakan Lumatay. Pagkamatay ay itapon na ninyo sa ilog
at ng lamunin ng buwaya.

Pagkaunat-unat ng Magbitag ng kanyang bisig upang hagupitin na naman ang aliping halos wala
ng malay-tao. Datapwa’t ng sasayad na sa katawan ang lanubo ang tagapagparusa ay biglang
sinangga ng tungkod na kamagong ni Barangaw. Nahulog sa lupa ang lanubo at nanginig ang
buong katawan ng mabalasik na si Magbitag.

Si Barangaw ay galit na galit sa nakita niayang kalupitan ng punong dapat sanang magpasunod
sa kahabag-habag na alipin.

Lakan Lumatay! Ikaw ba ang nag-utos na hagupitin ang aliping ito? ang tanong ni Barangaw.

Hulihin ang pangahas! ang mabangis na utos ni Lakan Lumatay sa kanyang mga
kampon. Paluhurin sa monggo at timbain sa tubig.

Sayang, sa gulogod mo sana naubos ang lanubo ko. Kung hindi lamang sa utos ng puno ko,
masasarapan ka! Mata mo lang ang walang latay! At inakmang hagupitin si Barangaw.

Ngunit pinigil ni Barangaw ang lanubo, hinarap si Magbitag at ang wika: Malupit kang walang
kaparam wala kang awa sa kapwa. Ngayon din ay magsisi ka ng iyong mga kasalanan.

Dadaluhong sana si Magbitag ngunit ang mga paa nito ay parang natilos sa kinatatayuan at
nawalan ng lakas.

Kaya si Lakan Lumatay naman ang nagtangkang humagupit kay Barangaw, ngunit ito’y nawalan
din ng lakas.

Ah, malulupit, magagara ang inyong damit, maiinam ang inyong bihis ngunit wala kayong
bait. Binigyan pa naman kayo ng Lumikha ng puso’t diwa, ang bagay sa inyo ay ito! at anyong
hahatawin ang kanyang tungkod.

Ngunit ang alipin ay natauhan noon at napasigaw. Poon ko po patawarin mo po ang aking
puno. Ang akin pong anak ay itinatago ko nga!

Hindi itinuloy ang paghataw ni Barangaw.

Bakit mo itinago ang iyong anak? ang tanong sa alipin.

Ayaw ko ng anak ko na mahulog sa kamay ni Lakan. May tunay po siyang iniibig: si Malaya,
ayoko po namang piliting ibigin ng anak ko ang Lakan. Ako po ang may sala. Patawarin mo na
po ang aking puno.
 Mabuti kang kampon, aliping tapat hanggang wakas. Bakit ang kalupitan ay sinusuklian mo ng
katapatan? Dahil sa iyong hiling ay hindi ko papatayin ang iyong puno at ang humagupit sa
iyo. Subalit sila’y hindi makatao, kaya’t sila’y dapat parusahan. Buhat ngayo’y mag-uusad
silang tulad ng ibang hayop; ngunit ng sila’y may masilungan, dadalhin nila ang kanilang bahay.

Sinaling ang tungkod niya kay Lakan at si Magbitag, at ang wika sa mga ito: Mula ngayon ay
dadalhin ninyo ang inyong bahay at kayo’y uusad upang huwag ng pamarisan.
 SHORT STORY
ANG PILOSOPO (Dulang Komedya)
March 13, 2018

Written by KABATAANGMAKAFILIPINO

Malapit na ang pasukan, nagkukwentuhan sina Michael at Madonna tungkol sa

nalalapit na enrollment.

Madonna: Michael malapit na ang pasukan ahhh, kailan ka ba mag-eenroll?

Michael: Tungkol sa bagay na yan napaghandaan ko na.

Madonna: Yung pang-eenroll?

Michael: Hindi yung pambili pa lang ng notebook.

(After 3 days pasukan na)

Nagkukwentuhan na ang lahat sa loob ng classroom ng biglang pumasok si

Professor Sir A Ulo

Classmates: (Goodmorning Sir A Ulo)

Prof: Goodmorning class our lesson for today is all about history. Meron bang
nakakaalam ditto kung sino ang pumatay kay lapu-lapu? You the guy in a black
jacket.

Michael: Ako, sir?

Prof: Yes, you.

Michael: Hindi ako sir! Kahit tignan niyo pa po ang police record wala akong alam
sa pagkamatay niya.

Prof:Pilospo kang bata! I need your paren tomorrow!

(Pagkauwi ni Michael sa bahay nila nakita niya ang kaniyang tatay

Michael: Tay may tatanong po sana ako.

Tatay: Ano yun nak?

Michael: Tinatanong kase ako ng prof ko kung sino ang pumatay kay lapu-lapu.

Tatay: Anong sinagot mo anak?

Michael: Sabi ko tay hindi ako.

 Tatay: Mas lalong hindi ako nak.

(Narinig ng lola ang pinag-uusapan ng mag-ama)

Lola: Bakit hindi niyo pa kasi aminin na kayong dalawa ang pumatay

(Kinabukasan)

Nag-siupo ang mga estudyante ng bigla dumating si Prof Sir A Ulo

Prof: Alam naman natin na si Columbus ang nakadiskubre na bilog nga ang
mundo. Ngayon patunayan niyo na bilog nga ang mundo. Ikaw, Michael!

Michael: Ako, Sir?

Prof: Yes, you!

Michael: Ang hirap naman ng tanong niyo sir tsaka bakit niyo sakin
pinapatunayan, ako ba ang nagsabi non, bakit hindi niyo tanungin si Columbus.

(Nagtawanan ang buong klase)

Prof: Ikaw bat aka kahit kailan pilosopo ka talaga! Dahil diyan hindi ka
makakagraduate!

Michael: Grabe naman kayo sir, hindi naman ho kayo mabiro

Sa isang maliit na Canteen, kumakain sina Michael at Madonna nang biglang

dumating si Banjo ang mortal na kaaway ni Michael.

Banjo: (Dumating bigla) tinapik sa balikat si Michael.

Michael: (Tumayo) anong problema mo tol? (sumuntok)

Banjo: Ikaw tol! (Nagsuntukan)

Nang biglang dumating ang Prof sa canteen nakita niya nagsusuntukan sina
Michael at Banjo.

Prof: Michael and Banjo please proceed on the Guidance Office

(Michael at Banjo nagbabangayan pa rin)

Banjo: Ikaw kasi eh, ang yabang mo!

Michael: Anong ako?!

Banjo: Oo, ikaw kaya!

Guidance Officr: You are both suspended!

Naglalakad si Michael patungo sa gate nang eskwelahan ng Makita niya na

hinaharangan ng mga lalaki si Banjo.

(Pinuntahan niya kaagad ito)

Michael: Anong problema nga tol?

 Banjo: Salamat Michael nandito ka.

Mga lalaki: Kailangan magbayad ni Banjo sa mga utang niya samin!

Michael: Ako na ang magbabayad huwag niyo na siyang bugbugin.

Banjo: Talaga ba Michael salamat! Salamat.

Michael: Walang problema Banjo basta ikaw.

Mga lalaki: Tara na mga tol alis na tayo.

Banjo: Pare, patawarin mo ako sa lahat ng mga nagawa ko sayo pinagsisihan ko

lahat, sana magkaibigan na tayo mula ngayon. Michael: Wala yun pare haha basta
ikaw Simula noon magkaibigan na silang lahat sina Madonna, Michael at Banjo.

(Graduation Day)

Michael: Sabi ko na nga ba kahit pilosopo ako gagraduate ako.

Classmates: Ikaw na Michael (Nagtawanan)

(Natapos silang lahat ng puno ng saya at ligaya)

 MYTH
The Great Flood
Mythology speaks of such world calamities as a great fire and a deluge that happened a long time ago,
and myths describing such calamities are worldwide in occurrence. In the Philippines, there seems to be
no myth about great fires, but flood myths are quite common. In majority of the myths, the flood occurs
as a punishment for the people's failure to fulfill their sacrificial obligations to the gods or to observe
God's laws. Other reasons or causes of the flood are given in the myths. A Nabaloi version blames the
flood on the negligence of the woman guarding the river. She fell asleep and wood and thrash clogged
the river and caused it to swell and overflow.

Establishment of Natural Order:

Myths try to explain many kinds of natural phenomena: why there is rain, rainbow, thunder, lightning,
earthquake, eclipse, and the like. The rain is believed by many as the tears shed by a man longing for his
vanished wife, a Diwata (fairy) throwing out water in the sky. The rainbow is believed to be the flower
loving daughter of Bathala, who was cursed by the latter to stay on earth forever because of her failure to
attend a family council ordered by the Bathala. Other believed that the rainbow is not a person but a road
from the sky to the earth that a man built so that his star wife and child could visit him without any
difficulty. The origin of the lightning and thunder are stories about the marriage of a god and a mortal
wife. The earthquake is what early Filipinos believed as the movement of the body part of a great
being or by the movement of the post or being that supports the earth. Others believed that the eclipse of
the moon occurs whenever the moon is swallowed or embraced by a monster --huge snake, lion, or
gigantic tarantula.
 LEGEND

The Legend of the Guava

Philippine culture is rich in folklore. One tale I enjoyed during my childhood was the legend of
the guava fruit, which comes with a moral lesson. A guava tree or fruit is called bayabas in
Tagalog, which is the language of the Philippines.

The story goes like this:

A long time ago, there's a king who ruled a rich, prosperous island. He had all the things a king
could ever ask for: the power, the wealth, and all the delicious foods one could only imagine.The
king's name was King Barabas.

King Barabas is a rude king and overweight, indulging himself to all the foods available, hesitant
to share to anyone. And his castle is starting to become filthy. He would spend most of his time
sitting and eating with his bare hands. As he eats, he drips food on the floor and smile mockingly
at the people around him, specially his servants.

People in the kingdom would approach with requests for his help, but he would always refuse.
As he neglected his kingdom, people started to complain and starve.

After some time, an old hunched-back woman showed up at the castle begging for food while the
king was eating. The old lady asked for food as she was starving.

"Go away! I don't have anything to give. Can't you see I'm eating?" said the king.

"Please, my king," begged the old woman. "I'm asking for anything, anything you could give me
as I am so hungry. Even a little piece of bread or fruit would do."

"Get out at once! You disgust me," the king belittled the old beggar.

The old woman stood up straight, casting aside her stooped posture. "I've heard much about you
and how your kingdom is suffering." The tone of her voice had changed. It was no longer the
voice of a weak, old woman. "I asked for help, and you shoved me away. You have a lot for
yourself, but when I only asked for a little food, you belittled me. You are selfish. No one loves
you and no one will remember you when you are gone!"

And the beggar disappeared.

After a few more days, the king slowly weakened and became sick. No one knows what's wrong
with him. He got weaker and weaker and lost much weight. He looked older than his age. Soon
after that, the king died. As unfortunate and unexpected as it was, no one cried and nobody
showed up at the king's burial. He died alone.
And where the king was buried, his people noticed a strange plant growing, a plant they had
never seen before. The plant soon grew into a tree, which bore rounded fruits that turned
yellowish when ripe.

People also noticed that the fruit seemed to have a crown as it develops, which reminded them of
their selfish, arrogant king. The flesh of the fruit tasted a bit sour, just like the sour personality of
the king towards them.

The people learned to eat the fruit, which helped them with starvation. And because the tree was
from the grave of their King Barabas and it has crown just like their king, they named the tree
after him: barabas, which in time they called bayabas.

The fruit is still called, as to this day, bayabas.

And although the guava may have came from the rude, selfish King Barabas, guava fruit is one
of the fruits that offers many health benefits when consumed, the fruit is a good source of
vitamin C. The leaves are made into tea and treats many diseases as well from a simple
toothache, to treating diarrhea, lowering blood sugar, and many more. And it is used amongst
young boys after their circumcision in the Philippines.

Or maybe it's the way of the late king to make up for the wrongdoings he did?
 The Legend of Makopa
Once upon a time, there was a town that never goes hungry because of a mysterious gong that
provides them with the food they wish. Some bandits from a different town heard about this
mysterious gong and plotted to steal it away from the townspeople and hide it in their own town
because they themselves don’t want to go hungry again. The townspeople were informed about
these bandits’ plot of stealing their most precious gong, so they hid it somewhere in the forest.

At last, the bandits invaded their town and the townspeople fought with all their might to drive
these bandits away who wanted to steal their gong. They were successful and the bandits fled all
wounded or dying. Unfortunately, the battle has caused the townspeople many lives as well
including the lives of the people who were assigned to hide the mysterious gong. Nobody knew
where they hid the mysterious gong and so, they still have suffered the loss of their treasure. The
gong was not found for years and the townspeople grew hungry.

Years passed and nobody had found the mysterious gong. The people are suffering from poverty
already and after all those years they still mourn the loss of the precious mysterious gong. One
day, a young boy was walking along the forest and saw a tree with fruits that look like a gong.
It’s the shape of the gong that they have lost many years ago. The young boy climbed up the tree,
tried eating the fruit and was surprised that it tastes really good. He took some of its fruit along
with him to give to the townspeople. Upon seeing the fruit that the boy brought with him, they
believed that the mysterious gong was hidden underneath that tree. They immediately went to the
place where the young boy had found the tree with the gong-shaped fruits and there they dug out
the roots and everybody rejoiced as they have found their lost treasure. Underneath the tree was
the mysterious gong
 SHORT STORY
ALL OVER THE WORLD
by Vicente Rivera, Jr.

ONE evening in August 1941, I came out of a late movie to a silent, cold night. I shivered a little
as I stood for a moment in the narrow street, looking up at the distant sky, alive with stars. I
stood there, letting the night wind seep through me, and listening. The street was empty, the
houses on the street dim—with the kind of ghostly dimness that seems to embrace sleeping
houses. I had always liked empty streets in the night; I had always stopped for a while in these
streets listening for something I did not quite know what. Perhaps for low, soft cries that empty
streets and sleeping houses seem to share in the night.
I lived in an old, nearly crumbling apartment house just across the street from the
moviehouse. From the street, I could see into the open courtyard, around which rooms for the
tenants, mostly a whole family to a single room, were ranged. My room, like all the other rooms
on the groundfloor, opened on this court. Three other boys, my cousins, shared the room with
me. As I turned into the courtyard from the street, I noticed that the light over our study-table,
which stood on the corridor outside our room, was still burning. Earlier in the evening after
supper, I had taken out my books to study, but I went to a movie instead. I must have forgotten to
turn off the light; apparently, the boys had forgotten, too.
I went around the low screen that partitioned off our “study” and there was a girl reading at
the table. We looked at each other, startled. I had never seen her before. She was about eleven
years old, and she wore a faded blue dress. She had long, straight hair falling to her shoulders.
She was reading my copy of Greek Myths.
The eyes she had turned to me were wide, darkened a little by apprehension. For a long time
neither of us said anything. She was a delicately pretty girl with a fine, smooth. pale olive skin
that shone richly in the yellow light. Her nose was straight, small and finely molded. Her lips,
full and red, were fixed and tense. And there was something else about her. Something lonely?
something lost?
“I know,” I said, “I like stories, too. I read anything good I find lying around. Have you been
reading long?”
“Yes,” she said. not looking at me now. She got up slowly, closing the book. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you want to read anymore? I asked her, trying to smile, trying to make her feel that
everything was all right.
“No.” she said, “thank you.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, picking up the book. “It’s late. You ought to be in bed. But, you can take
this along.”
She hesitated, hanging back, then shyly she took the book, brought it to her side. She looked
down at her feet uncertain as to where to turn.
“You live here?” I asked her.
“Yes.”
“What room?”
She turned her face and nodded towards the far corner, across the courtyard, to a little room
near the communal kitchen. It was the room occupied by the janitor: a small square room with no
windows except for a transom above the door.
“You live with Mang Lucio?”
“He’s my uncle.”
“How long have you been here? I haven’t seen you before, have I?”
“I’ve always been here. I’ve seen you.”
“Oh. Well, good night—your name?”
“Maria.”
“Good night, Maria.”
 She turned quickly, ran across the courtyard, straight to her room, and closed the door
without looking back.
I undressed, turned off the light and lay in bed dreaming of far-away things. I was twenty-one
and had a job for the first time. The salary was not much and I lived in a house that was slowly
coming apart, but life seemed good. And in the evening when the noise of living had died down
and you lay safe in bed, you could dream of better times, look back and ahead, and find that life
could be gentle—even with the hardness. And afterwards, when the night had grown colder, and
suddenly you felt alone in the world, adrift, caught in a current of mystery that came in the hour
between sleep and waking, the vaguely frightening loneliness only brought you closer to
everything, to the walls and the shadows on the walls, to the other sleeping people in the room,
to everything within and beyond this house, this street, this city, everywhere.
I met Maria again one early evening, a week later, as I was coming home from the office. I
saw her walking ahead of me, slowly, as if she could not be too careful, and with a kind of
grownup poise that was somehow touching. But I did not know it was Maria until she stopped
and I overtook her.
She was wearing a white dress that had been old many months ago. She wore a pair of brown
sneakers that had been white once. She had stopped to look at the posters of pictures advertised
as “Coming” to our neighborhood theater.
“Hello,” I said, trying to sound casual.
She smiled at me and looked away quickly. She did not say anything nor did she step away. I
felt her shyness, but there was no self-consciousness, none of the tenseness and restraint of the
night we first met. I stood beside her, looked at the pictures tacked to a tilted board, and tried
whistling a tune.
She turned to go, hesitated, and looked at me full in the eyes. There was again that wide-
eyed—and sad? —stare. I smiled, feeling a remote desire to comfort her, as if it would do any
good, as if it was comfort she needed.
“I’ll return your book now,” she said.
“You’ve finished it?”
“Yes.”
We walked down the shadowed street. Magallanes Street in Intramuros, like all the other
streets there, was not wide enough, hemmed in by old, mostly unpainted houses, clumsy and
unlovely, even in the darkening light of the fading day.
We went into the apartment house and I followed her across the court. I stood outside the
door which she closed carefully after her. She came out almost immediately and put in my hands
the book of Greek myths. She did not look at me as she stood straight and remote.
“My name is Felix,” I said.
She smiled suddenly. It was a little smile, almost an unfinished smile. But, somehow, it felt
special, something given from way deep inside in sincere friendship.
I walked away whistling. At the door of my room, I stopped and looked back. Maria was not
in sight. Her door was firmly closed.
August, 1941, was a warm month. The hangover of summer still permeated the air, specially
in Intramuros. But, like some of the days of late summer, there were afternoons when the
weather was soft and clear, the sky a watery green, with a shell-like quality to it that almost made
you see through and beyond, so that, watching it made you lightheaded.
I walked out of the office one day into just such an afternoon. The day had been full of
grinding work—like all the other days past. I was tired. I walked slowly, towards the far side of
the old city, where traffic was not heavy. On the street there were old trees, as old as the walls
that enclosed the city. Half-way towards school, I changed my mind and headed for the gate that
led out to Bonifacio Drive. I needed stiffer winds, wider skies. I needed all of the afternoon to
myself.
Maria was sitting on the first bench, as you went up the sloping drive that curved away from
the western gate. She saw me before I saw her. When I looked her way, she was already smiling
that half-smile of hers, which even so told you all the truth she knew, without your asking.
“Hello,” I said. “It’s a small world.”
“What?”
“I said it’s nice running into you. Do you always come here?”
“As often as I can. I go to many places.”
 “Doesn’t your uncle disapprove?”
“No. He’s never around. Besides, he doesn’t mind anything.”
“Where do you go?”
“Oh, up on the walls. In the gardens up there, near Victoria gate. D’you know?”
“I think so. What do you do up there?”
“Sit down and—”
“And what?”
“Nothing. Just sit down.”
She fell silent. Something seemed to come between us. She was suddenly far-away. It was
like the first night again. I decided to change the subject.
“Look,” I said, carefully, “where are your folks?”
“You mean, my mother and father?”
“Yes. And your brothers and sisters, if any.”
“My mother and father are dead. My elder sister is married. She’s in the province. There isn’t
anybody else.”
“Did you grow up with your uncle?”
“I think so.”
We were silent again. Maria had answered my questions without embarrassment. almost
without emotion, in a cool light voice that had no tone.
“Are you in school, Maria?”
“Yes.”
“What grade?”
“Six.”
“How d’you like it?”
“Oh, I like it.”
“I know you like reading.”
She had no comment. The afternoon had waned. The breeze from the sea had died down. The
last lingering warmth of the sun was now edged with cold. The trees and buildings in the
distance seemed to flounder in a red-gold mist. It was a time of day that never failed to carry an
enchantment for me. Maria and I sat still together, caught in some spell that made the silence
between us right, that made our being together on a bench in the boulevard, man and girl,
stranger and stranger, a thing not to be wondered at, as natural and inevitable as the lengthening
shadows before the setting sun.
Other days came, and soon it was the season of the rain. The city grew dim and gray at the
first onslaught of the monsoon. There were no more walks in the sun. I caught a cold.
Maria and I had become friends now, though we saw each other infrequently. I became
engrossed in my studies. You could not do anything else in a city caught in the rains. September
came and went.
In November, the sun broke through the now ever present clouds, and for three or four days
we had bright clear weather. Then, my mind once again began flitting from my desk, to the walls
outside the office, to the gardens on the walls and the benches under the trees in the boulevards.
Once, while working on a particularly bad copy on the news desk, my mind scattered, the way it
sometimes does and, coming together again, went back to that first meeting with Maria. And the
remembrance came clear, coming into sharper focus—the electric light, the shadows around us,
the stillness. And Maria, with her wide-eyed stare, the lost look in her eyes…

IN December, I had a little fever. On sick leave, I went home to the province. I stayed three days.
I felt restless, as if I had strayed and lost contact with myself. I suppose you got that way from
being sick,
A pouring rain followed our train all the way back to Manila. Outside my window, the
landscape was a series of dissolved hills and fields. What is it in the click of the wheels of a train
that makes you feel gray inside? What is it in being sick, in lying abed that makes you feel you
are awake in a dream, and that you are just an occurrence in the crying grief of streets and houses
and people?
In December, we had our first air-raid practice.
I came home one night through darkened streets, peopled by shadows. There was a ragged
look to everything, as if no one and nothing cared any more for appearances.
 I reached my room just as the siren shrilled. I undressed and got into my old clothes. It was
dark, darker than the moment after moon-set. I went out on the corridor and sat in a chair. All
around me were movements and voices. anonymous and hushed, even when they laughed.
I sat still, afraid and cold.
“Is that you. Felix?”
“Yes. Maria.”
She was standing beside my chair, close to the wall. Her voice was small and disembodied in
the darkness. A chill went through me, She said nothing more for a long time.
“I don’t like the darkness,” she said.
“Oh, come now. When you sleep, you turn the lights off, don’t you?”
“It’s not like this darkness,” she said, softly. “It’s all over the world.”
We did not speak again until the lights went on. Then she was gone.
The war happened not long after.
At first, everything was unreal. It was like living on a motion picture screen, with yourself as
actor and audience. But the sounds of bombs exploding were real enough, thudding dully against
the unready ear.
In Intramuros, the people left their homes the first night of the war. Many of them slept in the
niches of the old walls the first time they heard the sirens scream in earnest. That evening, I
returned home to find the apartment house empty. The janitor was there. My cousin who worked
in the army was there. But the rest of the tenants were gone.
I asked Mang Lucio, “Maria?”
“She’s gone with your aunt to the walls.” he told me. “They will sleep there tonight.”
My cousin told me that in the morning we would transfer to Singalong. There was a house
available. The only reason he was staying, he said, was because they were unable to move our
things. Tomorrow that would be taken care of immediately.
“And you, Mang Lucio?”
“I don’t know where I could go.”
We ate canned pork and beans and bread. We slept on the floor, with the lights swathed in
black cloth. The house creaked in the night and sent off hollow echoes. We slept uneasily.
I woke up early. It was disquieting to wake up to stillness in that house which rang with
children’s voices and laughter the whole day everyday. In the kitchen, there were sounds and
smells of cooking.
“Hello,” I said.
It was Maria, frying rice. She turned from the stove and looked at me for a long time. Then,
without a word, she turned back to her cooking.
“Are you and your uncle going away?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Did he not tell you?”
“No.”
“We’re moving to Singalong.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well, anyway, I’ll come back tonight. Maybe this afternoon. We’ll not have to say goodbye
till then.”
She did not say anything. I finished washing and went back to my room. I dressed and went
out.
At noon, I went to Singalong to eat. All our things were there already, and the folks were
busy putting the house in order. As soon as I finished lunch, I went back to the office. There
were few vehicles about. Air-raid alerts were frequent. The brightness of the day seemed glaring.
The faces of people were all pale and drawn.
In the evening, I went back down the familiar street. I was stopped many times by air-raid
volunteers. The house was dark. I walked back to the street. I stood for a long time before the
house. Something did not want me to go away just yet. A light burst in my face. It was a
volunteer.
“Do you live here?”
“I used to. Up to yesterday. I’m looking for the janitor.”
“Why, did you leave something behind?”
“Yes, I did. But I think I’ve lost it now.”
 “Well, you better get along, son. This place, the whole area. has been ordered evacuated.
Nobody lives here anymore.”
“Yes, I know,” I said. “Nobody.” Ω

BIG SISTER
by Consorcio Borje

"YOU can use this," said Inciang, smiling brightly and trying to keep her tears back. "It is still quite strong,
and you will not outgrow if for a year yet."

Itong watched his sister fold his old khaki shirt carefully and pack it into the rattan tampipi, which already
bulged with his clothes. He stood helplessly by, shifting his weight from one bare foot to the other, looking
down at his big sister, who had always done everything for him.

"There, that's done," said Inciang, pressing down the lid. "Give me that rope. I'll truss it up for you. And be
careful with it, Itong? Your Tia Orin has been very kind to lend it to us for your trip to Vigan."

Itong assented and obediently handed his sister the rope. His eyes followed her deft movements with
visible impatience; his friends were waiting outside to play with him. He was twelve years old, and
growing fast.

Sometimes when Inciang toiling in the kitchen, sweeping the house, or washing clothes by the well in the
front yard held a long session with herself, she admitted she did not want Itong to grow. She wanted to
keep him the boy that he was, always. Inciang had raised Itong from the whimpering, little, red lump of
flesh that he was when their mother died soon after giving birth to him. She had been as a mother to him
as long as she could remember.

"May I go out now and play, Manang?"

And Inciang heard herself saying, "It will be a year before you will see your friends again… Go now."

She listened to the sound of his footsteps down the bamboo ladder, across the bare earthen front yard.
Then she heard him whistle. There were answering whistles, running feet.

"TELL him, Inciang," her father had said. That was about three months ago. Inciang was washing clothes
by the well with Tia Orin.

"Yes, you tell him, Inciang," said Tia Orin. It was always Inciang who had dealt with Itong if anything of
importance happened.

Inciang rose to her feet. She had been squatting long over her washtub and pains shot up her spine.

"Hoy, Itong," called Inciang. Itong was out in the street playing with Nena, Lacay Illo's daughter. "Hoy,
Itong," called Inciang. "Come here. I have something to tell you."

Itong gave a playful push at Nena before he came running. He smiled as he stepped over the low
bamboo barrier at the gate which kept the neighbors' pigs out. How bright his face was! Inciang's heart
skipped a beat.

"You have something to tell me, Manang?"

Inciang brushed her sudsy hands against her soiled skirt. "Yes. It is about your going to Vigan."

Itong sat down suddenly on the barrier.

"Your are going to high school, after all, Itong," Inciang said. She said it defiantly, as if afraid that Itong
would like going away. She looked up at her father, as if to ask him to confirm her words. Father sat
leaning out of the low front window, smoking his pipe.
Itong looked at her foolishly. Inciang's heart felt heavy within her, but she said, with a little reproach,
"Why, Itong, aren't you glad? We thought you wanted to go to high school."

Itong began to cry. He sat there in front of his father and his sister and his aunt Orin, and tears crept
down his cheeks.

"The supervising principal teacher, Mr. Cablana," went on Inciang in a rush, "came this afternoon and told
us you may go to high school without paying the fees, because you are the balibictorian."

Itong nodded.

"Now, don't cry," said his aunt Orin. "You are no longer a baby."

"Yes," added the father. "And Mr. Cablana also promised to give his laundry to Inciang, so you'll have
money for your books. Mr. Cablana is also sure to get the Castila's laundry for Inciang, and that will do for
your food, besides the rice that we shall be sending you. Stop crying."

"Your Tata Cilin's house is in Nagpartian, very near the high school. You will stay with him. And," Inciang
said, "I don't have to accompany you to Vigan, Itong. You'll ride in the passenger bus where your cousin
Pedro is the conductor. Your cousin Pedro will show you where your Tata Cilin lives. Your cousin Merto,
son of your uncle Cilin, will help you register in school. He is studying in the same school. Will you stop
crying?"

Itong looked at Inciang, and the tears continued creeping down his cheeks. Itong was so young. Inciang
began to scold him. "Is that the way you should act? Why, you're old now!"

Then Itong ran into the house and remained inside. His father laughed heartily as he pulled at his pipe.
Inciang started to laugh also, but her tears began to fall fast also, and she bent her head over her
washtub and she began scrubbing industriously, while she laughed and laughed. Outside the gate,
standing with her face pressed against the fence, was Nena, watching the tableau with a great wonder in
her eyes.

Inciang had watched Itong grow up from a new-born baby. She was six years old when she carried him
around, straddled over her hip. She kept house, did the family wash, encouraged Itong to go through
primary, then intermediate school, when he showed rebellion against school authority. When he was in
the second grade and could speak more English words than Inciang, her father began to laugh at her;
also her Tia Orin and her brood had laughed at her.

"Schooling would never do me any good," Inciang had said lightly.

She watched Itong go through school, ministering to his needs lovingly, doing more perhaps for him than
was good for him. Once she helped him fight a gang of rowdies from the other end of the town. Or better,
she fought the gang for him using the big rice ladle she was using in the kitchen at the time.

And her father had never married again, being always faithful to the memory of Inciang's mother. The
farm which he tilled produced enough rice and vegetables for the family's use, and such few centavos as
Lacay Iban would now and then need for the cockpit he got out of Inciang's occasional sales of
vegetables in the public market or of a few bundles of rice in the camarin. Few were the times when they
were hard pressed for money. One was the time when Inciang's mother died. Another was now that Itong
was going to Vigan.

Inciang was working to send him away, when all she wanted was to keep him always at her side! She
spent sleepless nights thinking of how Itong would fare in a strange town amidst strange people, even
though their parientes would be near him. It would not be the same. She cried again and again, it would
not be the same.

WHEN she finished tying up the tampipi, she pushed it to one side of the main room of the house and
went to the window. Itong was with a bunch of his friends under the acacia tree across the dirt road. They
were sitting on the buttress roots of the tree, chin in hand, toes making figures in the dust. And, of course,
Itong's closest friend, Nena, was there with them. Strange, Inciang thought, how Itong, even though
already twelve years old, still played around with a girl.
And then, that afternoon, the departure. The passenger truck pausing at the gate. The tampipi of Itong
being tossed up to the roof of the truck. The bag of rice. The crate of chickens. The young coconuts for
Tata Cilin's children. Then Itong himself, in the pair of rubber shoes which he had worn at the graduation
exercises and which since then had been kept in the family trunk. Itong being handed into the truck.

Lacay Iban, Tia Orin, and Inciang were all there shouting instructions. All the children in the neighborhood
were there. Nena was there. It was quite a crowd come to watch Itong go away for a year! A year seemed
forever to Inciang. Itong sat in the dim interior of the bus, timid and teary-eyed. Inciang glanced again and
again at him, her heart heavy within her, and then as the bus was about to leave, there was such a
pleading look in his eyes that Inciang had to go close to him, and he put his hand on hers.

"I'm afraid, Manang."

"Why should you be?" said Inciang loudly, trying to drown out her own fears. "This boy. Why, you're going
to Vigan, where there are many things to see. I haven't been to Vigan, myself. You're a lucky boy."

"I don't want to leave you."

"I'll come to see you in Vigan." She had considered the idea and knew that she could not afford the trip.

"Manang," said Itong, "I have a bag of lipay seeds and marbles tied to the rafter over the shelf for the
plates. See that no one takes it away, will you?"

"Yes."

"And, Manang, next time you make linubbian, don't forget to send Nena some, ah?"

Inciang nodded. "You like Nena very much?"

"Yes," coloring a little.

Itong had never concealed anything from her. He had been secretive with his father, with his aunt Orin,
but never with her.

From Vigan, Itong wrote his sister only once a month so as to save on stamps and writing paper. His
letters were full of expressions of warm endearment, and Inciang read them over and over again aloud to
her father and to Tia Orin and her brood who came to listen, and when her eyes were dim with reading,
Inciang stood on a chair and put the letters away in the space between a bamboo rafter and the cogon
roof.

"My dear sister," Itong would write in moro-moro Ilocano, "and you, my father, and Tia Orin, I can never
hope to repay my great debt to all of you." And then a narration of day-to-day events as they had
happened to him.

And so a year passed. Inciang discussed Itong with her father every day. She wanted him to become a
doctor, because doctors earned even one hundred pesos a month, and besides her father was
complaining about pain in the small of his back. Lacay Iban, on the other hand, wanted Itong to become a
lawyer, because lawyers were big shots and made big names and big money for themselves if they could
have the courts acquit murderers, embezzlers, and other criminals despite all damning evidence of guilt,
and people elected them to the National Assembly.

Itong's last letter said that classes were about to close. And then, one morning, when Inciang was
washing the clothes of the supervising principal teacher, with a piece of cotton cloth thrown over her head
and shoulders to shelter her from the hot sun, a passenger truck came to a stop beside the gate and a
boy came out. He was wearing white short pants, a shirt, and a pair of leather slippers. It was Itong. But
this stranger was taller by the width of a palm, and much narrower. Itong had grown so very fast, he had
no time to fill in.

"Itong, are you here already?"

"It is vacation, Manang. Are you not glad to see me?"

They ran into each other's arms.

Father came in from the rice field later in the afternoon. "How is my lawyer?" he asked, and then he
noticed Itong wore a handkerchief around his throat.

"I have a cold, Father," said Itong huskily.

"How long have you had it?"

"For several weeks now."

"Jesus, Maria, y Jose, Inciang, boil some ginger with a little sugar for your poor brother. This is bad. Are
you sure your cold will not become tuberculosis?"

Itong drank the concoction, and it eased his sore throat a little. It seemed he would never get tired talking,
though, telling Inciang and Lacay Iban about Vigan, about school, about the boys he met there, about his
uncle Cilin and his cousin Merto and the other people at the house in Nagpartian.

He went out with his old cronies, but he had neglected his marbles. The marbles hung from the rafter over
the shelf for the plates, gathering soot and dust and cobwebs. It was a reminder of Itong's earlier
boyhood. And he did not go out with Nena any more. "Have you forgotten your friend, Nena, already?"
Inciang asked him and he reddened. "Have you been giving her linubbian, Manang?" he asked. And
when she said "Yes," he looked glad.

On those nights when he did not go out to play, he occupied himself with writing letters in the red light of
the kerosene lamp. He used the wooden trunk for a table. Inciang accustomed to go to sleep soon after
the chickens had gone to roost under the house, would lie on the bed-mat on the floor, looking up at
Itong's back bent studiously over the wooden trunk.

Once she asked, "What are you writing about, Itong?"

And Itong had replied, "Nothing, Manang."

One day she found a letter in one of the pockets of his shirt in the laundry pile. She did not mean to read
it, but she saw enough to know that the letter came from Nena. She could guess what Itong then had
been writing. He had been writing to Nena. Itong had changed. He had begun keeping secrets from
Inciang. Inciang noted the development with a slight tightening of her throat.

Yes, Itong had grown up. His old clothes appeared two sizes too small for him now. Inciang had to sew
him new clothes. And when Itong saw the peso bills and the silver coins that Inciang kept under her
clothes in the trunk toward the purchase of a silk kerchief which she had long desired, especially since
the constabulary corporal had been casting eyes at her when she went to market, he snuggled up to
Inciang and begged her to buy him a drill suit.

"A drill terno! You are sure a drill terno is what you want?"

Itong patted his throat, as if to clear it. "Please Manang?"

"Oh, you little beggar, you're always asking for things." She tried to be severe. She was actually sorry to
part with the money. She had been in love with that silk kerchief for years now.

"Promise me, then to take care of your throat. Your cold is a bad one."

Another summertime, when Itong came home from school, he was a young man. He had put on his white
drill suit and a pink shirt and a pink tie to match, and Inciang could hardly believe her eyes. She was even
quite abashed to go meet him at the gate.

"Why, is it you, Itong?"

He was taller than she. He kept looking down at her. "Manang, who else could I be? You look at me so
strangely." His voice was deep and husky, and it had queer inflections. "But how do I look?"

Inciang embraced him tears again in her eyes, as tears had been in her eyes a year ago when Itong had
come back after the first year of parting but Itong pulled away hastily, and he looked back self-consciously
at the people in the truck which was then starting away.
"You have your cold still, so I hear," said Lacay Iban, as he came out of the house to join his children.

"Yes," said Itong, his words accented in the wrong places. "I have my cold still."

Looking at Itong, Inciang understood. And Itong, too, understood. Lacay Iban and Inciang looked at each
other, and when Inciang saw the broad grin spreading over her father's face, she knew he understood,
too. He should know!

"Inciang," said Father gravely. Inciang wrested her eyes from Nena whom she saw was looking at Itong
shyly from behind the fence of her father's front yard. "Inciang, boil some ginger and vinegar for your poor
brother. He has that bad cold still."

Inciang wept deep inside of her as she cooked rice in the kitchen a little later. She had seen Itong stay at
the door and make signs to Nena. She resented his attentions to Nena. She resented his height, his pink
shirt, his necktie.

But that night, as she lay awake on the floor, waiting for Itong to come home, she knew despite all the
ache of her heart, that she could not keep Itong forever young, forever the boy whom she had brought up.
That time would keep him growing for several years yet, and more distant to her. And then all the
bitterness in her heart flowed out in tears.

In the morning, when Nena came to borrow one of the pestles. "We are three to pound rice, Manang
Inciang; may we borrow one of your pestles?" Inciang could smile easily at Nena. She could feel a
comradely spirit toward Nena growing within her. After all, she thought, as she gave Nena the pestle, she
never had a sister, she would like to see how it was to have a sister. A good-looking one like Nena.
Inciang smiled at Nena, and Nena blushing, smiled back at her.