short stories

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1. The World Is An Apple By: Alberto S. Florentino. Can one man’s world revolve in one apple? Can all his flaws be magnified a million times beyond the naked eyes? Can he see his mistakes no matter how he avoid confronting his own conscience? Alberto Florentino did just that. One of the stories written by a Filipino author, "The World is an Apple", has reached the conscience of even an ordinary man whose willpower to view life is anchored mainly on a three-square round meals a day. Alberto Florentino managed to tap the inner voice of man through the use of a symbolism to inject a deeper sense of purpose in life, which is rising from one's frailties. It goes beyond the essence of the entire plot by focusing on the microcosm of daily life lived in poverty. Florentino's "The World is An Apple" talks about the sad fate of an indigent father who had to struggle everyday to feed his family, but the twisting part of the story was focused on his weakness to the temptation of the flesh, hence eroding his noble purpose as a father for the story evolved in man's evil-minded nature to succumb to the lust for physical pleasure forgetting his greater responsibility outside himself. Florentino has also managed to use another angle in the story to make his readers see that money is not the evil but the man who uses the money is to be blamed for his personal woes. The story went this way... A poor worker of an apple factory was fired from work after stealing one apple which he said was for his sick daughter. He had to steal to feed his daughter for he used his salary to spend nights with prostitutes, hence, the money that was intended for the family was diverted to satisfy his lust for the flesh. Unmindful of his own sin, the poor worker blamed the management of the apple factory for firing him just only because of the one apple that he stole. He opined that the company had plenty of apples to share and asserted that he was treated unfairly. He questioned the act done to correct his mistake, but he failed to examine himself for the bad thing he did as a wayward and selfish husband. What is the moral lesson

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1. The World Is An Apple By: Alberto S. Florentino. Can one man‟s world revolve in one apple? Can all his flaws be magnified a million times beyond the naked eyes? Can he see his mistakes no matter how he avoid confronting his own conscience? Alberto Florentino did just that. One of the stories written by a Filipino author, "The World is an Apple", has reached the conscience of even an ordinary man whose willpower to view life is anchored mainly on a three-square round meals a day. Alberto Florentino

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Page 1: Short Stories

1. The World Is An AppleBy: Alberto S. Florentino.

Can one man’s world revolve in one apple? Can all his flaws be magnified a million times beyond the naked eyes? Can he see his mistakes no matter how he avoid confronting his own conscience? Alberto Florentino did just that. One of the stories written by a Filipino author, "The World is an Apple", has reached the conscience of even an ordinary man whose willpower to view life is anchored mainly on a three-square round meals a day. Alberto Florentino managed to tap the inner voice of man through the use of a symbolism to inject a deeper sense of purpose in life, which is rising from one's frailties.It goes beyond the essence of the entire plot by focusing on the microcosm of daily life lived in poverty. Florentino's "The World is An Apple" talks about the sad fate of an indigent father who had to struggle everyday to feed his family, but the twisting part of the story was focused on his weakness to the temptation of the flesh, hence eroding his noble purpose as a father for the story evolved in man's evil-minded nature to succumb to the lust for physical pleasure forgetting his greater responsibility outside himself.Florentino has also managed to use another angle in the story to make his readers see that money is not the evil but the man who uses the money is to be blamed for his personal woes.The story went this way...A poor worker of an apple factory was fired from work after stealing one apple which he said was for his sick daughter. He had to steal to feed his daughter for he used his salary to spend nights with prostitutes, hence, the money that was intended for the family was diverted to satisfy his lust for the flesh.Unmindful of his own sin, the poor worker blamed the management of the apple factory for firing him just only because of the one apple that he stole. He opined that the company had plenty of apples to share and asserted that he was treated unfairly. He questioned the act done to correct his mistake, but he failed to examine himself for the bad thing he did as a wayward and selfish husband. What is the moral lesson of this story: that man's ineptness is the cause of his own

misfortune. Man can choose to become bad because he wanted the pleasures of life and he does not exercise control over his reactions to the evils that life could bring. He should have prevailed over his temporal desires for the flesh and not spent all his money for prostitutes. His family should have been his priority more than anything else.

2. FootNote To YouthBy: Jose Garcia Villa.

The sun was salmon and hazy in the west. Dodong thought to himself he would tell his father about Teang when he got home, after he had unhitched the carabao from the plow, and led it to its shed and fed it. He was hesitant about saying it, he wanted his father to know what he had to say was of serious importance as it would mark a climacteric in his life. Dodong finally decided to tell it, but a thought came to him that his father might refuse to consider it. His father was a silent hardworking farmer, who chewed areca nut, which he had learned to do from his mother, Dodong’s grandmother.

He wished as he looked at her that he had a sister who could help his mother in the housework.

I will tell him. I will tell it to him.

The ground was broken up into many fresh wounds and fragrant with a sweetish earthy smell. Many slender soft worm emerged from the further rows and then burrowed again deeper into the soil. A short colorless worm marched blindly to Dodong’s foot and crawled clammilu over it. Dodong got tickled and jerked his foot, flinging the worm into the air. Dodong did not bother to look where into the air, but thought of his age, seventeen, and he said to himself he was not young anymore.

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Dodong unhitched the carabao leisurely and fave it a healthy tap on the hip. The beast turned its head to look at him with dumb faithful eyes. Dodong gave it a slight push and the animal walked alongside him to its shed. He placed bundles of grass before it and the carabao began to eat. Dodong looked at it without interest.

Dodong started homeward thinking how he would break his news to his father. He wanted to marry, Dodong did. He was seventeen, he had pimples on his face, then down on his upper lip was dark-these meant he was no longer a boy. He was growing into a man – he was a man. Dodong felt insolent and big at the thought of it, although he was by nature low in stature.

Thinking himself man – grown, Dodong felt he could do anything.

He walked faster, prodded by the thought of his virility. A small angled stone bled his foot, but he dismissed it cursorily. He lifted his leg and looked at the hurt toe and then went on walking. In the cool sundown, he thought wild young dreams of himself and Teang, his girl. She had a small brown face and small black eyes and straight glossy hair. How desirable she was to him. She made him want to touch her, to hold her. She made him dream even during the day.

Dodong tensed with desire and looked at the muscle of his arms. Dirty. This fieldwork was healthy invigorating, but it begrimed you, smudged you terribly. He turned back the way he had come, then marched obliquely to a creek.

Must you marry, Dodong?”

Dodong resented his father’s question; his father himself had married early.

Dodong stripped himself and laid his clothes, a gray under shirt and red kundiman shorts, on the grass. Then he went into the water, wet

his body over and rubbed at it vigorously. He was not long in bathing, then he marched homeward again. The bath made him feel cool.

It was dusk when he reached home. The petroleum lamp on the ceiling was already lighted and the low unvarnished square table was set for supper. He and his parents sat down on the floor around the table to eat. They had fried freshwater fish, and rice, but did not partake of the fruit. The bananas were overripe and when one held the,, they felt more fluid than solid. Dodong broke off a piece of caked sugar, dipped it in his glass of water and ate it. He got another piece and wanted some more, but he thought of leaving the remainder for his parent.

Dodong’s mother removed the dishes when they were through, and went with slow careful steps and Dodong wanted to help her carry the dishes out. But he was tired and now, feld lazy. He wished as he looked at her that he had a sister who could help his mother in the housework. He pitied her, doing all the housework alone.

His father remained in the room, sucking a diseased tooth. It was paining him, again. Dodong knew, Dodong had told him often and again to let the town dentist pull it out, but he was afraid, his father was. He did not tell that to Dodong, but Dodong guessed it. Afterward, Dodong himself thought that if he had a decayed tooth, he would be afraid to go to the dentist; he would not be any bolder than his father.

Dodong said while his mother was out that he was going to marry Teang. There it was out, what we had to say, and over which he head said it without any effort at all and without self-consciousness. Dodong felt relived and looked at his father expectantly. A decresent moon outside shed its feebled light into the window, graying the still black temples of his father. His father look old now.

“I am going to marry Teang,” Dodong said.

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His father looked at him silently and stopped sucking the broken tooth, The silenece became intense and cruel, and Dodong was uncomfortable and then became very angry because his father kept looking at him without uttering anything.

“I will marry Teang,” Dodong repeated. “I will marry Teang.”

His father kept gazing at him in flexible silence and Dodong fidgeted on his seat.

I asked her last night to marry me and she said… “Yes. I want your permission… I… want… it…” There was an impatient clamor in his voice, an exacting protest at his coldness, this indifference. Dodong looked at his father sourly. He cracked his knuckles one by one, and the little sound it made broke dully the night stillness.

“Must you marry, Dodong?”

Dodong resented his father’s question; his father himself had married early. Dodong made a quick impassioned essay in his mind about selfishness, but later, he got confused.

“You are very young, Dodong.”

“I’m seventeen.”

“That’s very young to get married at.”

“I… I want to marry… Teang’s a good girl…

“Tell your mother,” his father said.

“You tell her, Tatay.”

“Dodong, you tell your Inay.”

“You tell her.”

“All right, Dodong.”

“All right, Dodong.”

“You will let me marry Teang?”

“Son, if that is your wish… of course…” There was a strange helpless light in his father’s eyes. Dodong did not read it. Too absorbed was he in himself.

Dodong was immensely glad he has asserted himself. He lost his resentment for his father, for a while, he even felt sorry for him about the pain I his tooth. Then he confined his mind dreaming of Teang and himself. Sweet young dreams…

***

Dodong stood in the sweltering noon heat, sweating profusely so that his camiseta was damp. He was still like a tree and his thoughts were confused. His mother had told him not to leave the house, but he had left. He wanted to get out of it without clear reason at all. He was afraid, he felt afraid of the house. It had seemingly caged him, to compress his thoughts with severe tyranny. He was also afraid of Teang who was giving birth in the house; she face screams that chilled his blood. He did not want her to scream like that. He began to wonder madly if the process of childbirth was really painful. Some women, when they gave birth, did not cry.

In a few moments he would be a father. “Father, father,” he whispered the word with awe, with strangeness. He was young, he realized now contradicting himself of nine months ago. He was very young… He felt queer, troubled, uncomfortable.

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Dodong felt tired of standing. He sat down on a saw-horse with his feet close together. He looked at his calloused toes. Then he thought, supposed he had ten children…

The journey of thought came to a halt when he heard his mother’s voice from the house.

Some how, he was ashamed to his mother of his youthful paternity. It made him feel guilty, as if he had taken something not properly his.

“Come up, Dodong. It is over.”

Suddenly, he felt terribly embarrassed as he looked at her. Somehow, he was ashamed to his mother of his youthful paternity. It made him feel guilty, as if he has taken something not properly his. He dropped his eyes and pretended to dust off his kundiman shorts.

“Dodong,” his mother called again. “Dodong.”

He turned to look again and this time, he saw his father beside his mother.

“It is a boy.” His father said. He beckoned Dodong to come up.

Dodong felt more embarrassed and did not move. His parent’s eyes seemed to pierce through him so he felt limp. He wanted to hide or even run away from them.

“Dodong, you come up. You come up,” his mother said.

Dodong did not want to come up. He’d rather stayed in the sun.

“Dodong… Dodong.”

I’ll… come up.

Dodong traced the tremulous steps on the dry parched yard. He ascended the bamboo steps slowly. His heart pounded mercilessly in him. Within, he avoided his parent’s eyes. He walked ahead of them so that they should not see his face. He felt guilty and untru. He felt like crying. His eyes smarted and his chest wanted to burst. He wanted to turn back, to go back to the yard. He wanted somebody to punish him.

“Son,” his father said.

And his mother: “Dodong..”

How kind their voices were. They flowed into him, making him strong.

“Teanf?” Dodong said.

“She’s sleeping. But you go in…”

His father led him into the small sawali room. Dodong saw Teang, his wife, asleep on the paper with her soft black hair around her face. He did not want her to look that pale.

Dodong wanted to touch her, to push away that stray wisp of hair that touched her lips. But again that feeling of embarrassment came over him, and before his parent, he did not want to be demonstrative.

The hilot was wrapping the child Dodong heard him cry. The thin voice touched his heart. He could not control the swelling of happiness in him.

“You give him to me. You give him to me,” Dodong said.

***

Blas was not Dodong’s only child. Many more children came. For six successive years, a new child came along. Dodong did not want any

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more children. But they came. It seemed that the coming of children could not helped. Dodong got angry with himself sometimes.

Teang did not complain, but the bearing of children tolled on her. She was shapeless and thin even if she was young. There was interminable work that kept her tied up. Cooking, laundering. The house. The children. She cried sometimes, wishing she had no married. She did not tell Dodong this, not wishing him to dislike her. Yet, she wished she had not married. Not even Dodong whom she loved. There had neen another suitor, Lucio older than Dodong by nine years and that wasw why she had chosen Dodong. Young Dodong who was only seventeen. Lucio had married another. Lucio, she wondered, would she have born him children? Maybe not, either. That was a better lot. But she loved Dodong… in the moonlight, tired and querulous. He wanted to ask questions and somebody to answer him. He wanted to be wise about many thins.

Life did not fulfill all of Youth’s dreams.

Why must be so? Why one was forsaken… after love?

One of them was why life did not fulfill all of the youth’ dreams. Why it must be so. Why one was forsaken… after love.

Dodong could not find the answer. Maybe the question was not to be answered. It must be so to make youth. Youth must be dreamfully sweet. Dreamfully sweet.

Dodong returned to the house, humiliated by himself. He had wanted to know little wisdom but was denied it.

When Blas was eighteen, he came home one night, very flustered and happy. Dodong heard Blas’ steps for he could not sleep well at night. He watched Blass undress in the dark and lie down softly. Blas was restless on his mat and could not sleep. Dodong called his name and asked why he did not sleep.

You better go to sleep. It is late,” Dodong said.

Life did not fulfill all of youth’s dreams. Why it must be so? Why one was forsaken after love?

“Itay..” Blas called softly.

Dodong stirred and asked him what it was.

“I’m going to marry Tona. She accepted me tonight.

“Itay, you think its over.”

Dodong lay silent.

I loved Tona and… I want her.”

Dodong rose from his mat and told Blas to follow him. They descended to the yard where everything was still and quiet.

The moonlight was cold and white.

“You want to marry Tona, Dodong said, although he did not want Blas to marry yet. Blas was very young. The life that would follow marriage would be hard…

“Yes.”

“Must you marry?”

Blas’ voice was steeled with resentment. “I will mary Tona.”

“You have objection, Itay?” Blas asked acridly.

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“Son… non…” But for Dodong, he do anything. Youth must triumph… now. Afterward… It will be life.

As long ago, Youth and Love did triumph for Dodong… and then life.

Dodong looked wistfully at his young son in the moonlight. He felt extremely sad and sorry for him.

3. May Day EveBy: Nick Jouquin

Life is always full of regret, for we always realize what we have when it is gone. For Badoy and Agueda Montiya, they both lived and loved with hate, resentment, regret. As the story ends, Badoy realized how he wasted his time with Agueda, how he could have loved her, so much more than he did. He realized that he became the devil in Agueda's life, as she became the witch in his. In the end, they both blamed the superstition of May Day Eve.For a moment he had forgotten that she was dead, that she had perished---the poor Agueda; that they were at peace at last, the two of them, her tired body at rest; her broken body set free at last from the brutal pranks of the earth---from the trap of a May night; from the snare of summer; from the terrible silver nets of the moon.Fate is defined in the dictionary as an inevitable and often adverse outcome, condition, or end. The story is set under the assumption that Badoy and Agueda both believe in superstition, as well as fate. They believed that for they saw each other in the mirror that fated night that they are bound to be with each other.What they failed to realize is that fate is dictated by the people involved. It is not anything inevitable, since love cannot be forced, only given or received. Badoy and Agueda fell into the trap of the May Day Eve, wherein they saw it as fate, only to be duped in the end by the circumstance of their relationship. However, they failed to see that it was how they saw their relationship to begin with, that caused them to be the devil/witch in their mirror that night.

Love is a splendid thing: it just happens, as most romantics say. That is how it had happened for Badoy and Agueda. But as the honeymoon stage ended, they both felt what was missing, and in turn grew to hate each other. What they never realized is that love is constantly worked on. Love is earned, and given willingly like it is free to the one we love.Badoy and Agueda both saw the worst in each other whenever they told their children the story of that fateful night. They chose to see the worst, but in the end, it can be seen that they were in love. The worst in each other only came out when they chose to see it that way. Happiness comes out whenever we choose to be happy.And remembering how she had sobbed so piteously; remembering how she had bitten his hand and fled and how he had sung aloud in the dark room and surprised his heart in the instant of falling in love: such a grief tore up his throat and eyes that he felt ashamed before the boy; pushed the boy away; stood up and looked out----looked out upon the medieval shadows of the foul street where a couple of street-lamps flickered and a last carriage was rattling away upon the cobbles, while the blind black houses muttered hush-hush, their tiled roofs looming like sinister chessboards against a wild sky murky with clouds, save where an evil old moon prowled about in a corner or where a murderous wind whirled, whistling and whining, smelling now of the sea and now of the summer orchards and wafting unbearable the window; the bowed old man sobbing so bitterly at the window; the tears streaming down his cheeks and the wind in his hair and one hand pressed to his mouth...Regret comes to Badoy in the end, when he realized what he had lost. However, in the way he chose to see Agueda, he loved her in the end. The realization may have come too late. It is a pity that he had to regret the life he had with Agueda, as she did with him. Yet the May Day Eve can be seen as a blessing for the both of them. For they both loved each other, even though they failed to realize it.

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4. Blonde And Blue EyesBy: Patricia Evangelista

When I was little, I wanted what many Filipino children all over the country wanted. I wanted to be blond, blue-eyed, and white. I thought-if I just wished hard enough and was good enough, I’d wake up on Christmas morning with snow outside my window and freckles across my nose!More than four centuries under western domination does that to you. Ihave sixteen cousins. In a couple of years, there will just be five of us left in the Philippines, the rest will have gone abroad in search of “greener pastures.” It’s not just an anomaly; it’s a trend; the Filipino diaspora. Today, about eight million Filipinos are scattered around the world.

There are those who disapprove of Filipinos who choose to leave. I used to. Maybe this is a natural reaction of someone who was left behind, smiling for family pictures that get emptier with each succeeding year. Desertion, I called it. My country is a land that has perpetually fought for the freedom to be itself. Our heroes offered their lives in the struggle against the Spanish, the Japanese, the Americans. To pack up and deny that identity is tantamount to spitting on that sacrifice.Or is it? I don’t think so, not anymore. True, there is no denying this phenomenon, aided by the fact that what was once the other side of the world is now a twelve-hour plane ride away. But this is a borderless world, where no individual can claim to be purely from where he is now. My mother is of Chinese descent, my father is a quarter Spanish, and I call myself a pure Filipino-a hybrid of sorts resulting from a combination of cultures.Each square mile anywhere in the world is made up of people of different ethnicities, with national identities and individual personalities. Because of this, each square mile is already a microcosm of the world. In as much as this blessed spot that is England is the world, so is my neighborhood back home.

Seen this way, the Filipino Diaspora, or any sort of dispersal ofpopulations, is not as ominous as so many claim. It must be understood. I come from a Third World country, one that is still trying mightily to get back on its feet after many years of dictatorship. But we shall make it, given more time. Especially now, when we have thousands of eager young minds who graduate from college every year. They have skills. They need jobs. We cannot absorb them all.A borderless world presents a bigger opportunity, yet one that is not so much abandonment but an extension of identity. Even as we take, we give back. We are the 40,000 skilled nurses who support the UK’s National Health Service. We are the quarter-of-a-million seafarers manning most of the world’s commercial ships. We are your software engineers in Ireland, your construction workers in the Middle East, your doctors and caregivers in North America, and, your musical artists in London’s West End.Nationalism isn’t bound by time or place. People from other nations migrate to create new nations, yet still remain essentially who they are. British society is itself an example of a multi-cultural nation, a melting pot of races, religions, arts and cultures. We are, indeed, in a borderless world!Leaving sometimes isn’t a matter of choice. It’s coming back that is.The Hobbits of the shire traveled all over Middle-Earth, but they chose to come home, richer in every sense of the word. We call people like these balikbayans or the ‘returnees’-those who followed their dream, yet choose to return and share their mature talents and good fortune.In a few years, I may take advantage of whatever opportunities come my way. But I will come home. A borderless world doesn’t preclude the idea of a home. I’m a Filipino, and I’ll always be one. It isn’t about just geography; it isn’t about boundaries. It’s about giving back to the country that shaped me.And that’s going to be more important to me than seeing snow outside my windows on a bright Christmas morning.

5. Restoring Democracy By Way Of

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DemocracyBy: President Corazon Aquino

Delivered during the Joint Session of the United States Congress, Washington, D.C.September 18, 1986Three years ago, I left America in grief to bury my husband, Ninoy Aquino. I thought I had left it also to lay to rest his restless dream of Philippine freedom. Today, I have returned as the president of a free people.

In burying Ninoy, a whole nation honored him. By that brave and selfless act of giving honor, a nation in shame recovered its own. A country that had lost faith in its future found it in a faithless and brazen act of murder. So in giving, we receive, in losing we find, and out of defeat, we snatched our victory.

For the nation, Ninoy became the pleasing sacrifice that answered their prayers for freedom. For myself and our children, Ninoy was a loving husband and father. His loss, three times in our lives, was always a deep and painful one.

Fourteen years ago this month was the first time we lost him. A president-turned-dictator, and traitor to his oath, suspended the Constitution and shut down the Congress that was much like this one before which I am honored to speak. He detained my husband along with thousands of others – senators, publishers and anyone who had spoken up for the democracy as its end drew near. But for Ninoy, a long and cruel ordeal was reserved. The dictator already knew that Ninoy was not a body merely to be imprisoned but a spirit he must break. For even as the dictatorship demolished one by one the institutions of democracy – the press, the Congress, the independence of the judiciary, the protection of the Bill of Rights – Ninoy kept their spirit alive in himself.

The government sought to break him by indignities and terror. They

locked him up in a tiny, nearly airless cell in a military camp in the north. They stripped him naked and held the threat of sudden midnight execution over his head. Ninoy held up manfully – all of it. I barely did as well. For 43 days, the authorities would not tell me what had happened to him. This was the first time my children and I felt we had lost him.

When that didn’t work, they put him on trial for subversion, murder and a host of other crimes before a military commission. Ninoy challenged its authority and went on a fast. If he survived it, then, he felt, God intended him for another fate. We had lost him again. For nothing would hold him back from his determination to see his fast through to the end. He stopped only when it dawned on him that the government would keep his body alive after the fast had destroyed his brain. And so, with barely any life in his body, he called off the fast on the fortieth day. God meant him for other things, he felt. He did not know that an early death would still be his fate, that only the timing was wrong.

At any time during his long ordeal, Ninoy could have made a separate peace with the dictatorship, as so many of his countrymen had done. But the spirit of democracy that inheres in our race and animates this chamber could not be allowed to die. He held out, in the loneliness of his cell and the frustration of exile, the democratic alternative to the insatiable greed and mindless cruelty of the right and the purging holocaust of the left.

And then, we lost him, irrevocably and more painfully than in the past. The news came to us in Boston. It had to be after the three happiest years of our lives together. But his death was my country’s resurrection in the courage and faith by which alone they could be free again. The dictator had called him a nobody. Two million people threw aside their passivity and escorted him to his grave. And so began the revolution that has brought me to democracy’s most famous home, the Congress of the United States.

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The task had fallen on my shoulders to continue offering the democratic alternative to our people.

Archibald Macleish had said that democracy must be defended by arms when it is attacked by arms and by truth when it is attacked by lies. He failed to say how it shall be won.

I held fast to Ninoy’s conviction that it must be by the ways of democracy. I held out for participation in the 1984 election the dictatorship called, even if I knew it would be rigged. I was warned by the lawyers of the opposition that I ran the grave risk of legitimizing the foregone results of elections that were clearly going to be fraudulent. But I was not fighting for lawyers but for the people in whose intelligence I had implicit faith. By the exercise of democracy, even in a dictatorship, they would be prepared for democracy when it came. And then, also, it was the only way I knew by which we could measure our power even in the terms dictated by the dictatorship.

The people vindicated me in an election shamefully marked by government thuggery and fraud. The opposition swept the elections, garnering a clear majority of the votes, even if they ended up, thanks to a corrupt Commission on Elections, with barely a third of the seats in parliament. Now, I knew our power.

Last year, in an excess of arrogance, the dictatorship called for its doom in a snap election. The people obliged. With over a million signatures, they drafted me to challenge the dictatorship. And I obliged them. The rest is the history that dramatically unfolded on your television screen and across the front pages of your newspapers.

You saw a nation, armed with courage and integrity, stand fast by democracy against threats and corruption. You saw women poll watchers break out in tears as armed goons crashed the polling places to steal the ballots but, just the same, they tied themselves to the ballot boxes. You saw a people so committed to the ways of democracy that they were prepared to give their lives for its pale

imitation. At the end of the day, before another wave of fraud could distort the results, I announced the people’s victory.

The distinguished co-chairman of the United States observer team in his report to your President described that victory:

“I was witness to an extraordinary manifestation of democracy on the part of the Filipino people. The ultimate result was the election of Mrs. Corazon C. Aquino as President and Mr. Salvador Laurel as Vice-President of the Philippines.”

Many of you here today played a part in changing the policy of your country towards us. We, Filipinos, thank each of you for what you did: for, balancing America’s strategic interest against human concerns, illuminates the American vision of the world.

When a subservient parliament announced my opponent’s victory, the people turned out in the streets and proclaimed me President. And true to their word, when a handful of military leaders declared themselves against the dictatorship, the people rallied to their protection. Surely, the people take care of their own. It is on that faith and the obligation it entails, that I assumed the presidency.

As I came to power peacefully, so shall I keep it. That is my contract with my people and my commitment to God. He had willed that the blood drawn with the lash shall not, in my country, be paid by blood drawn by the sword but by the tearful joy of reconciliation.

We have swept away absolute power by a limited revolution that respected the life and freedom of every Filipino. Now, we are restoring full constitutional government. Again, as we restored democracy by the ways of democracy, so are we completing the constitutional structures of our new democracy under a constitution that already gives full respect to the Bill of Rights. A jealously independent Constitutional Commission is completing its draft which will be submitted later this year to a popular referendum. When it is

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approved, there will be congressional elections. So within about a year from a peaceful but national upheaval that overturned a dictatorship, we shall have returned to full constitutional government. Given the polarization and breakdown we inherited, this is no small achievement.

My predecessor set aside democracy to save it from a communist insurgency that numbered less than 500. Unhampered by respect for human rights, he went at it hammer and tongs. By the time he fled, that insurgency had grown to more than 16,000. I think there is a lesson here to be learned about trying to stifle a thing with the means by which it grows.

I don’t think anybody, in or outside our country, concerned for a democratic and open Philippines, doubts what must be done. Through political initiatives and local reintegration programs, we must seek to bring the insurgents down from the hills and, by economic progress and justice, show them that for which the best intentioned among them fight.

As President, I will not betray the cause of peace by which I came to power. Yet equally, and again no friend of Filipino democracy will challenge this, I will not stand by and allow an insurgent leadership to spurn our offer of peace and kill our young soldiers, and threaten our new freedom.

Yet, I must explore the path of peace to the utmost for at its end, whatever disappointment I meet there, is the moral basis for laying down the olive branch of peace and taking up the sword of war. Still, should it come to that, I will not waver from the course laid down by your great liberator: “With malice towards none, with charity for all, with firmness in the rights as God gives us to see the rights, let us finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle, and for his widow and for his orphans, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.”

Like Lincoln, I understand that force may be necessary before mercy. Like Lincoln, I don’t relish it. Yet, I will do whatever it takes to defend the integrity and freedom of my country.

Finally, may I turn to that other slavery: our $26 billion foreign debt. I have said that we shall honor it. Yet must the means by which we shall be able to do so be kept from us? Many conditions imposed on the previous government that stole this debt continue to be imposed on us who never benefited from it. And no assistance or liberality commensurate with the calamity that was visited on us has been extended. Yet ours must have been the cheapest revolution ever. With little help from others, we Filipinos fulfilled the first and most difficult conditions of the debt negotiation the full restoration of democracy and responsible government. Elsewhere, and in other times of more stringent world economic conditions, Marshall plans and their like were felt to be necessary companions of returning democracy.

When I met with President Reagan yesterday, we began an important dialogue about cooperation and the strengthening of the friendship between our two countries. That meeting was both a confirmation and a new beginning and should lead to positive results in all areas of common concern.

Today, we face the aspirations of a people who had known so much poverty and massive unemployment for the past 14 years and yet offered their lives for the abstraction of democracy. Wherever I went in the campaign, slum area or impoverished village, they came to me with one cry: democracy! Not food, although they clearly needed it, but democracy. Not work, although they surely wanted it, but democracy. Not money, for they gave what little they had to my campaign. They didn’t expect me to work a miracle that would instantly put food into their mouths, clothes on their back, education in their children, and work that will put dignity in their lives. But I feel the pressing obligation to respond quickly as the leader of a people so

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deserving of all these things.

We face a communist insurgency that feeds on economic deterioration, even as we carry a great share of the free world defenses in the Pacific. These are only two of the many burdens my people carry even as they try to build a worthy and enduring house for their new democracy that may serve as well as a redoubt for freedom in Asia. Yet, no sooner is one stone laid than two are taken away. Half our export earnings, $2 billion out of $4 billion, which was all we could earn in the restrictive markets of the world, went to pay just the interest on a debt whose benefit the Filipino people never received.

Still, we fought for honor, and, if only for honor, we shall pay. And yet, should we have to wring the payments from the sweat of our men’s faces and sink all the wealth piled up by the bondsman’s two hundred fifty years of unrequited toil?

Yet to all Americans, as the leader of a proud and free people, I address this question: has there been a greater test of national commitment to the ideals you hold dear than that my people have gone through? You have spent many lives and much treasure to bring freedom to many lands that were reluctant to receive it. And here you have a people who won it by themselves and need only the help to preserve it.

Three years ago, I said thank you, America, for the haven from oppression, and the home you gave Ninoy, myself and our children, and for the three happiest years of our lives together. Today, I say, join us, America, as we build a new home for democracy, another haven for the oppressed, so it may stand as a shining testament of our two nation’s commitment to freedom.

6. What Is An Educated Filipino?By: Francisco Benitez.

What is an educated Filipino and what qualities should distinguish him today?The conception of education and of what an educated man is varies in response to fundamental changes in the details and aims of society. In our country and during this transition stage in our national life, what are the qualities which an educated man should possess?Great changes have taken place in the nature of our social life during the last forty years. The contact with Americans and their civilization has modified many of our own social customs, traditions, and practices, some for the worse and many for the better. The means of communication have improved and therefore better understanding exists among the different sections of our country. Religious freedom has developed religious tolerance in our people. The growth of public schools and the establishment of democratic institutions have developed our national consciousness both in strength and in solidarity.With this growth in national consciousness and national spirit among our people, we witness the corresponding rise of a new conception of education - the training of the individual for the duties and privileges of citizenship, not only for his own happiness and efficiency but also for national service and welfare. In the old days, education was a matter of private concern; now it is a public function, and the state not only has the duty but it has the right as well to educate every member of the community - the old as well as the young, women as well as men - not only for the good of the individual but also for the self-preservation and protection of the State itself. Our modern public school system has been established as a safeguard against the shortcomings and dangers of a democratic government and democratic institutions.In the light of social changes, we come again to the question: What qualities should distinguish the educated Filipino of today? I venture to suggest that the educated Filipino should first be distinguished by the power to do. The Oriental excels in reflective thinking; he is a philosopher. The Occidental is the doer; he manages things, men and affairs. The Filipino of today needs more of his power to translate

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reflection into action. I believe that we are coming more and more to the conviction that no Filipino has the right to be considered educated unless he is prepared and ready to take an active and useful part in the work, life, and progress of our country as well as in the progress of the world.The power to do embraces the ability to produce enough to support oneself and to contribute to the economic development of the Philippines. Undoubtedly, a man may be, and often is, an efficient producer of economic goods and at the same time he may not be educated. But should we consider a man who is utterly unable to support himself and is an economic burden to the society in which he lives as educated merely because he possesses the superficial graces of culture? I hope that no one will understand me as saying that, the only sign of economic efficiency is the ability to produce material goods, for useful social participation may take the form of any of any of the valuable services rendered to society trough such institutions as the home, the school, the church and the government. The mother, for example, who prepares wholesome meals, takes good care of her children and trains them in morals and right conduct at home, renders efficient service to the country as well as the statesman or the captain of industry.I would not make the power to do the final and only test of the educated Filipino; but I believe that in our present situation, it is fundamental and basic.The educated Filipino, in the third place, must have ingrained in his speech and conduct those elements that are everywhere recognized as accompaniments of culture and morality; so that, possessing the capacity for self - entertainment and study, he may not be at the mercy of the pleasure of the senses only or a burden to himself when alone.There are, then, at least three characteristics which I believe to be the evidence of the educated Filipino - the power to do, to support himself and contribute to the wealth of our people; acquaintance with the world's progress, especially with that of his race, people, and the community, together with love of our best ideals and traditions; and refined manners and moral conduct as well as the power of growth.

7. I Am A FilipinoBy: Carlos P. Romulo.

I am a Filipino - inheritor of a glorious past, hostage to the uncertain future. As such I must prove equal to a two-fold task- the task of meeting my responsibility to the past, and the task of performing my obligation to the future. I sprung from a hardy race - child of many generations removed of ancient Malayan pioneers. Across the centuries, the memory comes rushing back to me: of brown-skinned men putting out to sea in ships that were as frail as their hearts were stout. Over the sea I see them come, borne upon the billowing wave and the whistling wind, carried upon the mighty swell of hope- hope in the free abundance of new land that was to be their home and their children's forever.This is the land they sought and found. Every inch of shore that their eyes first set upon, every hill and mountain that beckoned to them with a green and purple invitation, every mile of rolling plain that their view encompassed, every river and lake that promise a plentiful living and the fruitfulness of commerce, is a hollowed spot to me.By the strength of their hearts and hands, by every right of law, human and divine, this land and all the appurtenances thereof - the black and fertile soil, the seas and lakes and rivers teeming with fish, the forests with their inexhaustible wealth in wild life and timber, the mountains with their bowels swollen with minerals - the whole of this rich and happy land has been, for centuries without number, the land of my fathers. This land I received in trust from them and in trust will pass it to my children, and so on until the world no moreI am a Filipino. In my blood runs the immortal seed of heroes - seed that flowered down the centuries in deeds of courage and defiance. In my veins yet pulses the same hot blood that sent Lapulapu to battle against the alien foe that drove Diego Silang and Dagohoy into rebellion against the foreign oppressor.

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That seed is immortal. It is the self-same seed that flowered in the heart of Jose Rizal that morning in Bagumbayan when a volley of shots put an end to all that was mortal of him and made his spirit deathless forever; the same that flowered in the hearts of Bonifacio in Balintawak, of Gergorio del Pilar at Tirad Pass, of Antonio Luna at Calumpit; that bloomed in flowers of frustration in the sad heart of Emilio Aguinaldo at Palanan, and yet burst fourth royally again in the proud heart of Manuel L. Quezon when he stood at last on the threshold of ancient Malacañang Palace, in the symbolic act of possession and racial vindication.The seed I bear within me is an immortal seed. It is the mark of my manhood, the symbol of dignity as a human being. Like the seeds that were once buried in the tomb of Tutankhamen many thousand years ago, it shall grow and flower and bear fruit again. It is the insigne of my race, and my generation is but a stage in the unending search of my people for freedom and happiness.I am a Filipino, child of the marriage of the East and the West. The East, with its languor and mysticism, its passivity and endurance, was my mother, and my sire was the West that came thundering across the seas with the Cross and Sword and the Machine. I am of the East, an eager participant in its struggles for liberation from the imperialist yoke. But I also know that the East must awake from its centuried sleep, shape of the lethargy that has bound his limbs, and start moving where destiny awaits.For, I, too, am of the West, and the vigorous peoples of the West have destroyed forever the peace and quiet that once were ours. I can no longer live, being apart from those world now trembles to the roar of bomb and cannon shot. For no man and no nation is an island, but a part of the main, there is no longer any East and West - only individuals and nations making those momentous choices that are hinges upon which history resolves.At the vanguard of progress in this part of the world I stand - a forlorn figure in the eyes of some, but not one defeated and lost. For through the thick, interlacing branches of habit and custom above me I have seen the light of the sun, and I know that it is good. I have seen the light of justice and equality and freedom and my heart has been lifted

by the vision of democracy, and I shall not rest until my land and my people shall have been blessed by these, beyond the power of any man or nation to subvert or destroy.I am a Filipino, and this is my inheritance. What pledge shall I give that I may prove worthy of my inheritance? I shall give the pledge that has come ringing down the corridors of the centuries, and it shall be compounded of the joyous cries of my Malayan forebears when they first saw the contours of this land loom before their eyes, of the battle cries that have resounded in every field of combat from Mactan to Tirad pass, of the voices of my people when they sing:Land of the Morning,Child of the sun returning…Ne'er shall invadersTrample thy sacred shore.

Out of the lush green of these seven thousand isles, out of the heartstrings of sixteen million people all vibrating to one song, I shall weave the mighty fabric of my pledge. Out of the songs of the farmers at sunrise when they go to labor in the fields; out of the sweat of the hard-bitten pioneers in Mal-ig and Koronadal; out of the silent endurance of stevedores at the piers and the ominous grumbling of peasants Pampanga; out of the first cries of babies newly born and the lullabies that mothers sing; out of the crashing of gears and the whine of turbines in the factories; out of the crunch of ploughs upturning the earth; out of the limitless patience of teachers in the classrooms and doctors in the clinics; out of the tramp of soldiers marching, I shall make the pattern of my pledge:

"I am a Filipino born of freedom and I shall not rest until freedom shall have been added unto my inheritance - for myself and my children's children - forever.

8. Pray For MeBy: Marcelo De Gracia Concepcion

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Unlike the preceding poem whose setting are dusk and evening, “Pray For Me” is a lyric poem. “Pray for me only, when you feel As if i were slipping away from Your thoughtPray for me.”Those were your last word of farewell,When you went away In still hours of dawn

Pale, rose-dawn was peeping at the offingOn the eastern rim of the world.The ocean Breezes breathed Over the vastness of plains below,Imperial silence: ethereal peace –And the majestic sweep of the seas beyond,What slow measured dirge.The breakers speak along the shores!

9. The Wedding DanceBy: Amador Daguio

Awiyao reached for the upper horizontal log which served as the edge of the headhigh threshold. Clinging to the log, he lifted himself with one bound that carried him across to the narrow door. He slid back the cover, stepped inside, then pushed the cover back in place. After some moments during which he seemed to wait, he talked to the listening darkness.

"I'm sorry this had to be done. I am really sorry. But neither of us can help it."

The sound of the gangsas beat through the walls of the dark house

like muffled roars of falling waters. The woman who had moved with a start when the sliding door opened had been hearing the gangsas for she did not know how long. There was a sudden rush of fire in her. She gave no sign that she heard Awiyao, but continued to sit unmoving in the darkness.

But Awiyao knew that she heard him and his heart pitied her. He crawled on all fours to the middle of the room; he knew exactly where the stove was. With bare fingers he stirred the covered smoldering embers, and blew into the stove. When the coals began to glow, Awiyao put pieces of pine on them, then full round logs as his arms. The room brightened.

"Why don't you go out," he said, "and join the dancing women?" He felt a pang inside him, because what he said was really not the right thing to say and because the woman did not stir. "You should join the dancers," he said, "as if--as if nothing had happened." He looked at the woman huddled in a corner of the room, leaning against the wall. The stove fire played with strange moving shadows and lightsupon her face. She was partly sullen, but her sullenness was not because of anger or hate.

"Go out--go out and dance. If you really don't hate me for this separation, go out and dance. One of the men will see you dance well; he will like your dancing, he will marry you. Who knows but that, with him, you will be luckier than you were with me."

"I don't want any man," she said sharply. "I don't want any other man."

He felt relieved that at least she talked: "You know very well that I won't want any other woman either. You know that, don't you? Lumnay, you know it, don't you?"

She did not answer him.

"You know it Lumnay, don't you?" he repeated.

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"Yes, I know," she said weakly.

"It is not my fault," he said, feeling relieved. "You cannot blame me; I have been a good husband to you."

"Neither can you blame me," she said. She seemed about to cry.

"No, you have been very good to me. You have been a good wife. I have nothing to say against you." He set some of the burning wood in place. "It's only that a man must have a child. Seven harvests is just too long to wait. Yes, we have waited too long. We should have another chance before it is too late for both of us."

This time the woman stirred, stretched her right leg out and bent her left leg in. She wound the blanket more snugly around herself.

"You know that I have done my best," she said. "I have prayed to Kabunyan much. I have sacrificed many chickens in my prayers."

"Yes, I know."

"You remember how angry you were once when you came home from your work in the terrace because I butchered one of our pigs without your permission? I did it to appease Kabunyan, because, like you, I wanted to have a child. But what could I do?"

"Kabunyan does not see fit for us to have a child," he said. He stirred the fire. The spark rose through the crackles of the flames. The smoke and soot went up the ceiling.

Lumnay looked down and unconsciously started to pull at the rattan that kept the split bamboo flooring in place. She tugged at the rattan flooring. Each time she did this the split bamboo went up and came down with a slight rattle. The gong of the dancers clamorously called in her care through the walls.

Awiyao went to the corner where Lumnay sat, paused before her, looked at her bronzed and sturdy face, then turned to where the jars of water stood piled one over the other. Awiyao took a coconut cup and dipped it in the top jar and drank. Lumnay had filled the jars from the mountain creek early that evening.

"I came home," he said. "Because I did not find you among the dancers. Of course, I am not forcing you to come, if you don't want to join my wedding ceremony. I came to tell you that Madulimay, although I am marrying her, can never become as good as you are. She is not as strong in planting beans, not as fast in cleaning water jars, not as good keeping a house clean. You are one of the best wives in thewhole village."

"That has not done me any good, has it?" She said. She looked at him lovingly. She almost seemed to smile.

He put the coconut cup aside on the floor and came closer to her. He held her face between his hands and looked longingly at her beauty. But her eyes looked away. Never again would he hold her face. The next day she would not be his any more. She would go back to her parents. He let go of her face, and she bent to the floor again and looked at her fingers as they tugged softly at the split bamboo floor.

"This house is yours," he said. "I built it for you. Make it your own, live in it as long as you wish. I will build another house for Madulimay."

"I have no need for a house," she said slowly. "I'll go to my own house. My parents are old. They will need help in the planting of the beans, in the pounding of the rice."

"I will give you the field that I dug out of the mountains during the first year of our marriage," he said. "You know I did it for you. You helped me to make it for the two of us."

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"I have no use for any field," she said.

He looked at her, then turned away, and became silent. They were silent for a time.

"Go back to the dance," she said finally. "It is not right for you to be here. They will wonder where you are, and Madulimay will not feel good. Go back to the dance."

"I would feel better if you could come, and dance---for the last time. The gangsas are playing."

"You know that I cannot."

"Lumnay," he said tenderly. "Lumnay, if I did this it is because of my need for a child. You know that life is not worth living without a child. The man have mocked me behind my back. You know that."

"I know it," he said. "I will pray that Kabunyan will bless you and Madulimay."

She bit her lips now, then shook her head wildly, and sobbed.

She thought of the seven harvests that had passed, the high hopes they had in the beginning of their new life, the day he took her away from her parents across the roaring river, on the other side of the mountain, the trip up the trail which they had to climb, the steep canyon which they had to cross. The waters boiled in her mind in forms of white and jade and roaring silver; the waters tolled and growled,resounded in thunderous echoes through the walls of the stiff cliffs; they were far away now from somewhere on the tops of the other ranges, and they had looked carefully at the buttresses of rocks they had to step on---a slip would have meant death.

They both drank of the water then rested on the other bank before they made the final climb to the other side of the mountain.

She looked at his face with the fire playing upon his features---hard and strong, and kind. He had a sense of lightness in his way of saying things which often made her and the village people laugh. How proud she had been of his humor. The muscles where taut and firm, bronze and compact in their hold upon his skull---how frank his bright eyes were. She looked at his body the carved out of the mountainsfive fields for her; his wide and supple torso heaved as if a slab of shining lumber were heaving; his arms and legs flowed down in fluent muscles--he was strong and for that she had lost him.

She flung herself upon his knees and clung to them. "Awiyao, Awiyao, my husband," she cried. "I did everything to have a child," she said passionately in a hoarse whisper. "Look at me," she cried. "Look at my body. Then it was full of promise. It could dance; it could work fast in the fields; it could climb the mountains fast. Even now it is firm, full. But, Awiyao, I am useless. I must die."

"It will not be right to die," he said, gathering her in his arms. Her whole warm naked naked breast quivered against his own; she clung now to his neck, and her hand lay upon his right shoulder; her hair flowed down in cascades of gleaming darkness.

"I don't care about the fields," she said. "I don't care about the house. I don't care for anything but you. I'll have no other man."

"Then you'll always be fruitless."

"I'll go back to my father, I'll die."

"Then you hate me," he said. "If you die it means you hate me. You do not want me to have a child. You do not want my name to live on in our tribe."

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She was silent.

"If I do not try a second time," he explained, "it means I'll die. Nobody will get the fields I have carved out of the mountains; nobody will come after me."

"If you fail--if you fail this second time--" she said thoughtfully. The voice was a shudder. "No--no, I don't want you to fail."

"If I fail," he said, "I'll come back to you. Then both of us will die together. Both of us will vanish from the life of our tribe."

The gongs thundered through the walls of their house, sonorous and faraway.

"I'll keep my beads," she said. "Awiyao, let me keep my beads," she half-whispered.

"You will keep the beads. They come from far-off times. My grandmother said they come from up North, from the slant-eyed people across the sea. You keep them, Lumnay. They are worth twenty fields."

"I'll keep them because they stand for the love you have for me," she said. "I love you. I love you and have nothing to give."

She took herself away from him, for a voice was calling out to him from outside. "Awiyao! Awiyao! O Awiyao! They are looking for you at the dance!"

"I am not in hurry."

"The elders will scold you. You had better go."

"Not until you tell me that it is all right with you."

"It is all right with me."

He clasped her hands. "I do this for the sake of the tribe," he said.

"I know," she said.

He went to the door.

"Awiyao!"

He stopped as if suddenly hit by a spear. In pain he turned to her. Her face was in agony. It pained him to leave. She had been wonderful to him. What was it that made a man wish for a child? What was it in life, in the work in the field, in the planting and harvest, in the silence of the night, in the communing with husband and wife, in the whole life of the tribe itself that made man wish for the laughter and speech of a child? Suppose he changed his mind? Why did the unwritten law demand, anyway, that a man, to be a man, must have a child to come after him? And if he was fruitless--but he loved Lumnay. It was like taking away of his life to leave her like this.

"Awiyao," she said, and her eyes seemed to smile in the light. "The beads!" He turned back and walked to the farthest corner of their room, to the trunk where they kept their worldly possession---his battle-ax and his spear points, her betel nut box and her beads. He dug out from the darkness the beads which had been given to him by his grandmother to give to Lumnay on the beads on, and tied them in place. The white and jade and deep orange obsidians shone in the firelight. She suddenly clung to him, clung to his neck as if she would never let him go.

"Awiyao! Awiyao, it is hard!" She gasped, and she closed her eyes and huried her face in his neck.

The call for him from the outside repeated; her grip loosened, and he buried out into the night.

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Lumnay sat for some time in the darkness. Then she went to the door and opened it. The moonlight struck her face; the moonlight spilled itself on the whole village.

She could hear the throbbing of the gangsas coming to her through the caverns of the other houses. She knew that all the houses were empty that the whole tribe was at the dance. Only she was absent. And yet was she not the best dancer of the village? Did she not have the most lightness and grace? Could she not, alone among all women, dance like a bird tripping for grains on the ground, beautifullytimed to the beat of the gangsas? Did not the men praise her supple body, and the women envy the way she stretched her hands like the wings of the mountain eagle now and then as she danced? How long ago did she dance at her own wedding? Tonight, all the women who counted, who once danced in her honor, were dancing now in honor of another whose only claim was that perhaps she could give herhusband a child.

"It is not right. It is not right!" she cried. "How does she know? How can anybody know? It is not right," she said.

Suddenly she found courage. She would go to the dance. She would go to the chief of the village, to the elders, to tell them it was not right. Awiyao was hers; nobody could take him away from her. Let her be the first woman to complain, to denounce the unwritten rule that a man may take another woman. She would tell Awiyao to come back to her. He surely would relent. Was not their love as strong as theriver?

She made for the other side of the village where the dancing was. There was a flaming glow over the whole place; a great bonfire was burning. The gangsas clamored more loudly now, and it seemed they were calling to her. She was near at last. She could see the dancers clearly now. The man leaped lightly with their gangsas as they circled the dancing women decked in feast garments and beads, tripping on

the ground like graceful birds, following their men. Her heart warmed to the flaming call of the dance; strange heat in her blood welled up, and she started to run. But the gleaming brightness of the bonfire commanded her to stop. Did anybody see her approach? She stopped. What if somebody had seen her coming? The flames of the bonfire leaped in countless sparks which spread and rose like yellow points and died out in the night. The blaze reached out to her like a spreading radiance. She did not have the courage to break into the wedding feast.

Lumnay walked away from the dancing ground, away from the village. She thought of the new clearing of beans which Awiyao and she had started to make only four moons before. She followed the trail above the village.

When she came to the mountain stream she crossed it carefully. Nobody held her hand, and the stream water was very cold. The trail went up again, and she was in the moonlight shadows among the trees and shrubs. Slowly she climbed the mountain.

When Lumnay reached the clearing, she cold see from where she stood the blazing bonfire at the edge of the village, where the wedding was. She could hear the far-off clamor of the gongs, still rich in their sonorousness, echoing from mountain to mountain. The sound did not mock her; they seemed to call far to her, to speak to her in the language of unspeaking love. She felt the pull of their gratitude for hersacrifice. Her heartbeat began to sound to her like many gangsas.

Lumnay though of Awiyao as the Awiyao she had known long ago-- a strong, muscular boy carrying his heavy loads of fuel logs down the mountains to his home. She had met him one day as she was on her way to fill her clay jars with water. He had stopped at the spring to drink and rest; and she had made him drink the cool mountain water from her coconut shell. After that it did not take him long to decide to throw his spear on the stairs of her father's house in token on his desire to marry her.

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The mountain clearing was cold in the freezing moonlight. The wind began to stir the leaves of the bean plants. Lumnay looked for a big rock on which to sit down. The bean plants now surrounded her, and she was lost among them.

A few more weeks, a few more months, a few more harvests---what did it matter? She would be holding the bean flowers, soft in the texture, silken almost, but moist where the dew got into them, silver to look at, silver on the light blue, blooming whiteness, when the morning comes. The stretching of the bean pods full length from the hearts of the wilting petals would go on.

Lumnay's fingers moved a long, long time among the growing bean pods.