Ibalon Lam-ang

The Myth about the Lanzones Fruit

Lanzones are local berry-like fruits with light brown skin. The fruit itself is white inside. When ripe enough they have a
subtle sweetness that tantalizes the taste buds and make them want to sample for more. But according to a local myth, it
used to be a harmful fruit.
Before, according to the myth, the lanzones fruit was poisonous. The fruit looked edible enough, and in fact many were
tempted to sample it. The myth says, the people wondered: How could anything that looked so good be so dangerous?
Some people, despite the death toll, could not fight off the temptation once they see the fruits abundantly display
themselves in clusters hanging invitingly on the lanzones tree. Several deaths in the village had been linked to eating its
fruits, the myth adds. One day, the myth says, a hungry old woman came to the village begging for food. The kind
villagers gladly gave the old woman food and water and clothes to wear. They even offered her free lodging as long as she
saw the need to stay with them. According to the myth, the woman was awed by the kindness of the villagers. One day,
while staying with the people, she learned about the lanzones fruits that could not be eaten because they were poisonous.
She asked the people where the tree was. They gladly obliged. Then, according to the myth, upon seeing the lanzones tree
and its fruits, the old woman smiled knowingly. She announced to the people that the fruit was edible, to everyone’s wary
delight.
She taught the villagers the proper way to pick, peel and eat the fruits of the lanzones tree. According to the myth, the old
woman said that peeling the fruit by pinching it lets out a small amount of the white sticky sap from the fruit, and that
served as an antidote to the poison of the fruit. Then, the myth says, she did it with a fruit and ate it. She did the same with
another fruit, and another, and another. The myth says the villagers also discovered for themselves that the fruits were
very edible and delicious. Since then, the villagers started planting more lanzones trees and it became a very lucrative
source of income for everyone, the myth adds.
The Philippine myth on the lanzones tree and fruit reminds us that there is a proper procedure for doing things, even
things untried before, to end up with a safe outcome.

Summary of The Tale Of Marinduque

I a small island kingdom there once lived a very beautiful princess. She was nicknamed Maring. Her favorite haunt was
the top of a very tall mountain. Mount Malindig. She was very fond of hunting wild animals, a diversion which was much
against her father's wish. One day she espied a pretty white deer. It ran so swiftly that it took her a long time to catch up
with it. She had the game already at bay when the owner came along looking for it. The stranger was a man of princely
bearing and fine manners. He introduced himself as Duque and offered the deer to her as a token of their first meeting.
Maring could not resist his gallant gesture. She could not help admiring the stranger, who fell in love with her at first
sight. Since that day they often met in the forest. The beauty of Maring was known far and wide. Innumerable suitors
came to woo her, but she turned a deaf ear to them all, for she had set her heart on the modest Duque. Not knowing about
her secret love affair, her royal father announced that her hand would be given to the one who would win a ship race. So
the most persistent suitors, three wealthy kings, fitted out vessels for the contest. Duque could not participate, He was not
rich enough to equip a vessel. Meanwhile, Maring was very unhappy. She prayed to the Gods for help. Bathala heard her
prayers, On the appointed day, the sky grew suddenly dark. The sea seethed turbulently and winds blew furiously, but the
contest could not be put off for another day. The three kings set forth bravely on their ships. Before they were half way on
the goal, one of them hit a rock and soon vanished from sight with his ship. The second vessel was able to move on a little
farther and then it was also devoured by the angry sea. The last ship met the same fate.The king and the spectators grieved
over the fate of the three royal suitors. Only Maring did not feel grieved at the outcome of the race. When the sea calmed
down, everyone was surprised to see three Islands at the places where the ships had sunk. they were named Tres Reyes, or
Three Kings, after the unlucky trio. The father of Maring did not wish to sacrifice more lives after that disaster. He gave
his daughter freedom to choose her husband. So she confessed to him her secret love. The king consented to the marriage.
Seven days of festing and marry making followed, To mark the happy union of the two young people, the island kingdom
was named Marinduque, after Maring and Duque.
 Darangan
(Maranao Epic)
There was a king in a farawaykingdom in Mindanao who had two sons. The elder was Prince Madali and the
younger one was Prince Bantugan. At a very early age, Prince Bantugan had shown superior qualities over
his elder brother Prince Madali. Their tutors would always tell their father that Prince Bantugan was very
intelligent. He was a fast learner, even in the use of sword and bow and arrow. And he possessed such great
strength that he could subdue three to five men in a hand-to-hand combat.
The first indication that he would soon be a formidable soldier was seen when he single-handedly killed a big
and ferocious crocodile that had killed several villagers. The villagers could not believe their eyes after the
very short struggle.He is so strong! an old man blurted out upon seeing the dead crocodile.
How could a man so young as he is can kill a killer crocodile? He must be possessed by the gods! another
villager said in awe.Come on, let's thank the prince for killing the beast! the chieftain of the place said to all
the villagers.
 Maria Makiling

Mariang Makiling is said to be the mysterious fairy guarding Mount Makiling. No one knows how old she is. It
is believed she is as old as the mountain itself. The very few people who have seen her wandering around the
thick forest of Makiling say she is tall and graceful, with brown skin, deep black eyes, and hair almost touching
the ground. Deer hunters have seen her standing on the edge of a cliff on moonlit nights, with her long hair
floating in the air and her singing echoing throughout the deep valleys. Mariang Makiling likes to appear after a
storm. She strolls around the woods to straighten broken trunks, replace nests on the branches of trees, mend the
wings of butterflies, and clear the streams of fallen twigs and logs. As she walks around, all signs of the storm
disappear; roses and orchids bloom, birds chirp with glee, and deer run around once again. Mariang Makiling is
also known to have a good heart. She would appear as a young girl to help old women gather firewood. She
would then slip gold nuggets, coins, and jewels into their bundles of wood. She would also invite tired hunters
to her home where she will serve them a warm meal and cold drinks. She often gives them a small parting gift
of ginger, which hunters discover to have turned into gold when they arrive home. Many of those who were
granted Mariang Makiling’s generosity knows well how to repay her kindness. They thus leave on the grounds
of Mount Makiling a hen that is less than one year old and with feathers as white as milk. White hens are her
favourite treats. Mariang Makiling has often appeared as an old woman begging for food from hunters. She
does this to test their kindness to those in need. People who refuse to help her are chased away from the forest
with the sound of howling monsters hiding in the shadows of the woods. As time went by people saw less of
Mariang Makiling. She no longer appears to people to bring them gifts of gold and jewels. Hunters have no one
to turn to when they are hungry and thirsty.blame Mariang Makiling’s disappearance from the forest on the
people who do not return her generosity. Others say that the cutting of trees and excessive hunting of wild
animals have greatly disappointed Mariang Makiling that she refuses to come out anymore. But the tale of the
mysterious fairy of Mount Makiling lives on.
 First a poem Must be Magical
(LYRIC 17)-Jose Garcia Villa
First, a poem must be magical,
Then musical as a sea-gull.
It must be a brightness moving
And hold secret a bird's flowering.
It must be slender as a bell,
And it must hold fire as well.
It must have the wisdom of bows
And it must kneel like a rose.
It must be able to hear
The luminance of dove and deer.
It must be able to hide
What it seeks, like a bride.
And over all I would like to hover
God, smiling from the poem's cover.
 THE CENTIPEDE

WHEN I saw my sister, Delia, beating my dog with a stick, I felt hate heave like a caged, angry beast in my chest. Out in the sun, the
hair of my sister glinted like metal and, in her brown dress, she looked like a sheathed dagger. Biryuk hugged the earth and
screamed but I could not bound forward nor cry out to my sister. She had a weak heart and she must not be surprised. So I held
myself, my throat swelled, and I felt hate rear and plunge in its cage of ribs.

I WAS thirteen when my father first took me hunting. All through the summer of that year, I had tramped alone and unarmed the
fields and forest around our farm. Then one afternoon in late July my father told me I could use his shotgun.
Beyond the ipil grove, in a grass field we spotted a covey of brown pigeons. In the open, they kept springing to the air and
gliding away every time we were within range. But finally they dropped to the ground inside a wedge of guava trees. My father
pressed my shoulder and I stopped. Then slowly, in a half-crouch, we advanced. The breeze rose lightly; the grass scuffed against my
bare legs. My father stopped again. He knelt down and held my hand.
“Wait for the birds to rise and then fire,” he whispered.
I pushed the safety lever of the rifle off and sighted along the barrel. The saddle of the stock felt greasy on my cheek. The gun
was heavy and my arm muscles twitched. My mouth was dry; I felt vaguely sick. I wanted to sit down.
“You forgot to spit,” my father said.
Father had told me that hunters always spat for luck before firing. I spat and I saw the breeze bend the ragged, glassy threads of
spittle toward the birds.
“That’s good,” Father said.
“Can’t we throw a stone,” I whispered fiercely. “It’s taking them a long time.”
“No, you’ve to wait.”
Suddenly, a small dog yelping shrilly came tearing across the brooding plain of grass and small trees. It raced across the plain in
long slewy swoops, on outraged shanks that disappeared and flashed alternately in the light of the cloud-banked sun. One of the
birds whistled and the covey dispersed like seeds thrown in the wind. I fired and my body shook with the fierce momentary life of
the rifle. I saw three pigeons flutter in a last convulsive effort to stay afloat, then fall to the ground. The shot did not scare the dog.
He came to us, sniffing cautiously. He circled around us until I snapped my fingers and then he came me.“Not bad,” my father said
grinning. “Three birds with one tube.” I went to the brush to get the birds. The dog ambled after me. He found the birds for me. The
breast of one of the birds was torn. The bird had fallen on a spot where the earth was worn bare, and its blood was spread like a
tiny, red rag. The dog scraped the blood with his tongue. I picked up the birds and its warm, mangled flesh clung to the palm of my
hand.
“You’re keen,” I said to the dog. “Here. Come here.” I offered him my bloody palm. He came to me and licked my palm clean.
I gave the birds to my father. “May I keep him, Father?” I said pointing to the dog. He put the birds in a leather bag which he
carried strapped around his waist.
Father looked at me a minute and then said: “Well, I’m not sure. That dog belongs to somebody.”
“May I keep him until his owner comes for him?” I pursued.
“He’d make a good pointer,” Father remarked. “But I would not like my son to be accused of dog-stealing.”
“Oh, no!” I said quickly. “I shall return him when the owner comes to claim him.”
“All right,” he said, “I hope that dog makes a hunter out of you.”
Biryuk and I became fast friends. Every afternoon after school we went to the field to chase quails or to the bank of the river
which was fenced by tall, blade-sharp reeds to flush snipes. Father was away most of the time but when he was home he hunted
with us. BIRYUK scampered off and my sister flung the stick at him. Then she turned about and she saw me.
“Eddie, come here,” she commanded. I approached with apprehension. Slowly, almost carefully, she reached over and twisted
my ear.
“I don’t want to see that dog again in the house,” she said coldly. “That dog destroyed my slippers again. I’ll tell Berto to kill that
dog if I see it around again.” She clutched one side of my face with her hot, moist hand and shoved me, roughly. I tumbled to the
ground. But I did not cry or protest. I had passed that phase. Now, every word and gesture she hurled at me I caught and fed to my
growing and restless hate.
MY sister was the meanest creature I knew. She was eight when I was born, the day my mother died. Although we continued to live
in the same house, she had gone, it seemed, to another country from where she looked at me with increasing annoyance and
contempt.
One of my first solid memories was of standing before a grass hut. Its dirt floor was covered with white banana stalks, and there
was a small box filled with crushed and dismembered flowers in one corner. A doll was cradled in the box. It was my sister’s
playhouse and I remembered she told me to keep out of it. She was not around so I went in. The fresh banana hides were cold under
my feet. The interior of the hut was rife with the sour smell of damp dead grass. Against the flowers, the doll looked incredibly
heavy. I picked it up. It was slight but it had hard, unflexing limbs. I tried to bend one of the legs and it snapped. I stared with horror
at the hollow tube that was the leg of the doll. Then I saw my sister coming. I hid the leg under one of the banana pelts. She was
running and I knew she was furious. The walls of the hut suddenly constricted me. I felt sick with a nameless pain. My sister snatched
the doll from me and when she saw the torn leg she gasped. She pushed me hard and I crashed against the wall of the hut. The
flimsy wall collapsed over me. I heard my sister screaming; she denounced me in a high, wild voice and my body ached with fear. She
seized one of the saplings that held up the hut and hit me again and again until the flesh of my back and thighs sang with pain. Then
suddenly my sister moaned; she stiffened, the sapling fell from her hand and quietly, as though a sling were lowering her, she sank
to the ground. Her eyes were wild as scud and on the edges of her lips,. drawn tight over her teeth, quivered a wide lace of froth. I
ran to the house yelling for Father.
She came back from the hospital in the city, pale and quiet and mean, drained, it seemed, of all emotions, she moved and acted
with the keen, perversity and deceptive dullness of a sheathed knife, concealing in her body that awful power for inspiring fear and
pain and hate, not always with its drawn blade but only with its fearful shape, defined by the sheath as her meanness was defined by
her body.
Nothing I did ever pleased her. She destroyed willfully anything I liked. At first, I took it as a process of adaptation, a step of
adjustment; I snatched and crushed every seed of anger she planted in me, but later on I realized that it had become a habit with
her. I did not say anything when she told Berto to kill my monkey because it snickered at her one morning, while she was brushing
her teeth. I did not say anything when she told Father that she did not like my pigeon house because it stank and I had to give away
my pigeons and Berto had to chop the house into kindling wood. I learned how to hold myself because I knew we had to put up with
her whims to keep her calm and quiet. But when she dumped my butterflies into a waste can and burned them in the backyard, I
realized that she was spiting me.
My butterflies never snickered at her and they did not smell. I kept them in an unused cabinet in the living room and unless she
opened the drawers, they were out of her sight. And she knew too that my butterfly collection had grown with me. But when I
arrived home, one afternoon, from school, I found my butterflies in a can, burned in their cotton beds like deckle. I wept and Father
had to call my sister for an explanation. She stood straight and calm before Father but my tear-logged eyes saw only her harsh and
arrogant silhouette. She looked at me curiously but she did not say anything and Father began gently to question her. She listened
politely and when Father had stopped talking, she said without rush, heat or concern: “They were attracting ants.”

I RAN after Biryuk. He had fled to the brambles. I ran after him, bugling his name. I found him under a low, shriveled bush. I called
him and he only whimpered. Then I saw that one of his eyes was bleeding. I sat on the ground and looked closer. The eye had been
pierced. The stick of my sister had stabbed the eye of my dog. I was stunned. ,For a long time I sat motionless, staring at Biryuk. Then
I felt hate crouch; its paws dug hard into the floor of its cage; it bunched muscles tensed; it held itself for a minute and then it sprang
and the door of the cage crashed open and hate clawed wildly my brain. I screamed. Biryuk, frightened, yelped and fled, rattling the
dead bush that sheltered him. I did not run after him.
A large hawk wheeled gracefully above a group of birds. It flew in a tightening spiral above the birds.
On my way back to the house, I passed the woodshed. I saw Berto in the shade of a tree, splitting wood. He was splitting the
wood he had stacked last year. A mound of bone-white slats was piled near his chopping block When he saw me, he stopped and
called me.
His head was drenched with sweat. He brushed away the sweat and hair from his eyes and said to me: “I’ve got something for
you.”
He dropped his ax and walked into the woodshed. I followed him. Berto went to a corner of the shed. I saw a jute sack spread
on the ground. Berto stopped and picked up the sack.
“Look,” he said.
I approached. Pinned to the ground by a piece of wood, was a big centipede. Its malignantly red body twitched back and forth.
“It’s large,” I said.
“I found him under the stack I chopped.” Berto smiled happily; he looked at me with his muddy eyes.
“You know,” he said. “That son of a devil nearly frightened me to death”
I stiffened. “Did it, really?” I said trying to control my rising voice. Berto was still grinning and I felt hot all over.
“I didn’t expect to find any centipede here,” he said. “It nearly bit me. Who wouldn’t get shocked?” He bent and picked up a
piece of wood.
 “This wood was here,” he said and put down the block. “Then I picked it up, like this. And this centipede was coiled here. Right
here. I nearly touched it with my hand. What do you think you would feel?”
I did not answer. I squatted to look at the reptile. Its antennae quivered searching the tense afternoon air. I picked up a sliver of
wood and prodded the centipede. It uncoiled viciously. Its pinchers slashed at the tiny spear.
“I could carry it dead,” I said half-aloud.
“Yes,” Berto said. “I did not kill him because I knew you would like it.”
“Yes, you’re right.”
“That’s bigger than the one you found last year, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s very much bigger.”
I stuck the sliver into the carapace of the centipede. It went through the flesh under the red armor; a whitish liquid oozed out.
Then I made sure it was dead by brushing its antennae. The centipede did not move. I wrapped it in a handkerchief.
My sister was enthroned in a large chair in the porch of the house. Her back was turned away from the door; she sat facing the
window She was embroidering a strip of white cloth. I went near, I stood behind her chair. She was not aware of my presence. I
unwrapped the centipede. I threw it on her lap.
My sister shrieked and the strip of white sheet flew off like an unhanded hawk. She shot up from her chair, turned around and
she saw me but she collapsed again to her chair clutching her breast, doubled up with pain The centipede had fallen to the floor.
“You did it,” she gasped. “You tried to kill me. You’ve health… life… you tried…” Her voice dragged off into a pain-stricken moan.
I was engulfed by a sudden feeling of pity and guilt.
“But it’s dead!” I cried kneeling before her. “It’s dead! Look! Look!” I snatched up the centipede and crushed its head between
my fingers. “It’s dead!”
My sister did not move. I held the centipede before her like a hunter displaying the tail of a deer, save that the centipede felt
thorny in my hand.
 The Strangers

( Ismael v, Mallari)

One day, David brought a big package in school. Each one was curious to know what’s inside the package. It
was “puto seco” made by his grandmother, the most tempting classmates had seen in life. He shared it with
shining eyes. He became interesting to his classmates.

David suddenly became very interesting to them. He had gone to many places because of his father’s job; he
had lived in Bacolod, Zamboanga, Aparri and many places. He had lots of toys, pop gun and small bicycle, trucks
and toy trains. His mother thanked the boys for being nice with her sons.

One day while the boy was swimming in the river, a boy took the boat and paddled out to Dagatdagatan.
Pendong had a formal swimming lesson. No wonder, he was a good swimmer. Pendong swam out far. He was in
great danger. But no one to dared to go out for him but David did. He plunged out into the water. We held our
breath as we watched him. His feet churned the propeller of a steamboat. His strokes were beautiful to see. The
four boys shouted with encouragement to him. He hoped that he would reach Pendong in time. David put his left
arm around Pendong’s neck expectedly to prevent Pendong’s from holding on to his. The boys laughed nervously,
relieved that pending had been saved. David was the talked of the school the following Monday. Everybody
looked at him now with pride. He was a hero.

In the story, David was considered a friend by his classmates, because of his generosity and extraordinary
deed for saving Pendong’s life. The author tells us that winning friends is not difficult to do. Wearing a sunny smile
as you cheerfully greet people each day is one way of doing this. One must also be willing to reach out and help
others sincerely every time you have the chance to do so. If other’s hate, show them how to love by forgiving. in
return, the friends you make will fill your world with joy.
 Kaleidoscope ( lyrics)
So many faces, so many races
Different voices, different choices
And some are mad, while others laugh
Some live alone with no better half
Others grieve, while others curse
And others mourn behind a big black hearse

And some are pure, and some half-bred

And some are sober, and some are wasted
Some are rich because of fate

And some are poor with no food on their plate

Some stand out, while others blend
And some are fat and stout, while some are thin
And some are friends and some are foes
Some have some, while some have most
Yeah
[Chorus]
Every color and every hue
Is represented by me and you
Take a slide in the slope
Take a look in the kaleidoscope
Spinnin' round, make it twirl
In this kaleidoscope world
Yeah

[Verse 2]
Some are great and some are few
Others lie, while some tell the truth
And some say poems and some do sing
Another sing through their guitar strings

Some know it all, while some act dumb

Let the bass line strum to the bang of the drum
Some can swim, while some will sink
And some will find their minds and think
Others walk, while others run
You can't talk peace and have a gun

Some are hurt and start to cry

Don't ask me how don't ask me why
And some are friends and some are foes
Some have some while some have most
Yeah

(repeat Chorus)
 "PLIANT LIKE A BAMBOO"

There is a story in Philippine folklore about a mango tree and a bamboo tree. Not being able to agree as to
which was strongest of the two, they called upon the wind to make the decision.
The winds blew its hardest. The mango tree stood fast. It would not yield. It knew it was strong and sturdy. It
would not sway. It was too proud. It was too sure of itself. But finally its roots gave way, and it tumbled down.
The bamboo tree was wiser. It knew it was not as robust as the mango tree. And so every time the wind blew, it
bent its head gracefully. It made loud protests, but it let the winds have its way. When finally the wind got tired
of blowing, the bamboo tree still stood in all its beauty and grace.
The Filipino is like the bamboo. He knows that he is not strong enough to withstand the onslaughts of superior
forces. And so he yields. He bends his head gracefully with many loud protests.
And he has survived. The Spaniards came and dominated him for more than three hundred years. And when the
Spaniards left, the Filipinos still stood-only much richer in experience and culture.
The Americans took the place of the Spaniards. They used more subtle means of winning over the Filipinos
who embraced the American way of life more readily than the Spaniards' vague promise of the hereafter.
Then the Japanese came like a storm, like a plaque of locusts, like a pestilence rude, relentless and cruel. The
Filipino learned to bow his head low to "cooperate" with the Japanese in their "holy mission of establishing the
Co-Prosperity Sphere." The Filipino had only hate and contempt for the Japanese, but he learned to smile
sweetly at them and to thank them graciously for their "benevolence and magnanimity."
And now that the Americans have come back and driven away the Japanese, those Filipinos who profited most
from cooperating with the Japanese have been loudest in their protestations of innocence. Everything is as if the
Japanese had never been in the Philippines.
For the Filipino will welcome any kind of life that the gods offer him. That is why, he is contented, happy and
at peace. The sad plight of other peoples of the world is not his. To him, as to that ancient Oriental poet, the past
is already a dream and tomorrow in only a vision but today, well-lived makes every yesterday a dream of
happiness and every tomorrow, a vision of hope. In like manner, the Filipino regards vicissitudes of fortune as
the bamboo tree regards the angry blasts of the blustering wind.
The Filipino is eminently suited to his romantic role. He is slender and wiry. He is nimble and graceful in his
movements. His voice is soft, and he has the gift of languages. In what other place in the world can you find
people who can carry on a fluent conversation in at least three languages?
This gift is another means by which the Filipino has managed to survive. There in no insurmountable barrier
between him and any of the people who have come to live with him-Spanish, Americans, Japanese. The
foreigners do not have to learn his language. He easily manages to master theirs.
Verily, the Filipino is like the bamboo tree. In its grace, in its ability to adjust itself to the peculiar and
inexplicable whims to fate, the bamboo tree is his expressive and symbolic national tree. It will have to be, not
the molave nor the narra, but the bamboo.
Lechon baboy ( Cebu) Buko Pie ( Los Baῆos, Laguna)

Sapin-sapin ( Abra)
Lapaz Batchoy ( Ilo-Ilo City)
 The Happiest Boy in the World
Julio , who had come from Tablas to settle in Barok, was writing a letter, of all people, Ka Ponso, his landlord, one warm
June night. It was about hiks son, Jose, who wanted to go to school in Mansalay that year. Jose was in fifth grade when
Julio and his family had left Tablas the year before and migrated to Mindoro; because the father had some difficulty in
getting some land of his own to farm, the boy had to stop schooling for a year. As it was, Julio thought himself lucky
enough to have Ka Ponso take him on as tetant. Later, when Julio's wife Fidela gave birth to a baby, Ka Ponso, whi
happened to be visiting his property then, offered to become its godfather. Afetr that they began to call each other
compadre.
"Dear Compadre," Julio started to write in Tagalog, bending earnestly over a piece of paper which he had torn out of
Jose's school notebook. It was many months ago, when, just as now, he had sat down with a writing implement in his
hand. That was when he had gone to the municipio in Mansalay to file a homestead application, and he had used a pen,
and to his great surprise, filled in the blank forms neatly. Nothing came of the application, although Ka Ponso had assured
him he had looked into the matter and talked with the officials concerned. Now, with a pencil instead of a pen to write
with, Julio was sure that he could make his letter legible enough for Ka Ponso.
"It's about my boy, Jose." he wrote on. "I want him to study this June in Mansalay. He's in the sixth grade now, and since
he's quite a poor hand at looking after your carabaos, I thought it would be best that he go to school in the town."
...The kerosene lamp's yellow flame flickered ceaselessly. The drank smell of food , fish broth, particularly, that had been
spilled from many a bowl and had dried on the form, now seemed to rise from the very texture of the wood itself. The
stark truth about their poverty...
""This boy, Jose, compadre," he went on, "is quite an industrious lad. If you can only let him stay in your big house,
compadre, you can make him do anything you wish--any work. He can cook rice, and I'm sure he'll wash the dishes."
..."I hope you will not think of this as a great bother," Julio continued, trying his best to phrase his thoughts. he had a
vague fear that Ka Ponso might not favorably regard his letter. But he wrote on, slowly and steadily, stopping only to read
what he had put down. "We shall repay you for whatever you can do for us, compadre. It's true we a;ready owe you for
many things, but your comadre and I will do all we can indeed to repay you."
...Suddenly he began wondering hoe Jose would move about in Ka Ponso's household, being unaccustomed to so many
things there. The boy might even stumble over a chair and break some dishes...He feared for the boy.
...Julio felt he had nothing more to say, and that he had written the longest letter in his life... He sat back again and smiled
to himself. About six o'clock the following morning, a boy of twelve was riding a carabao along the river-bed road to
town. He was very puny load on carabao's broad back.
Walking close behind the carabao, the father did not cross the stream but only stood there by the bank. "Mind to look after
the letter," he called out from where he was. "Do you have it there, in your shirt pocket?"
The boy fumbled for it. When he had found it, he said, "No, Tatay, I won't lose it."
...Then Julio started to walk back to his house, thinking of the worl that awaited him in his clearing that day...
...Jose grew suddenly curious about the letter he carried in his shirt pocket. He stopped his carabao under a shady tree by
the roadside.
A bird sang in a bush nearby. Jose could hear it even as he read the letter, jumping from word to word, for him the dialect
was quite difficult. But as the meaning of each sentence became clear to him, he experienced a curious exultation. It was
as though he were the happiest boy in the world and that the bird was singing for him. He heard the rumbling of the
stream faraway. There he and his father had parted. The world seemed full of bird song and music from the stream.
 "A Shawl for Anita" by:Lolita Andrada
"A Shawl for Anita" My mother brought us up single-handedly. It was a Herculean task for a woman so frail, dealing with
three adolescent children. But she managed. She never finished high school, but her deft hands had skillfully eked out a
living for the four of us. She was good at knitting. That tided us over until the eldest got a diploma of teaching. Then she
put up a sari-sari store to send the other children to college. Mother wanted us all to start a college degree and she had
sacrificed much to see us through.
Mother had a soft heart - especially for Anita. Anita was the youngest, and I, being the middle child, had always envied
her. She was sickly and Mother willingly indulged her. My sister's whimpers never irked her. She was ever so gentle with
her when I impatient and jealous. I never understood my mother.
My mother who had always been a frail woman was much thinner now. Anita who was married by now had never stopped
being pampered. Her lack of concern for our mother's failing health was getting on my nerves. I felt like shouting at her,
calling her names when I heard her ask Mother to knit a shawl for her. Mother could hardly refuse, but I knew that the
task was just too much for her. Her fingers had lost their flexibility; rheumatic pain told on her knuckles that felt a million
pins pricking. My heart went out to her every time I saw her painfully the knitting needles into the yarn.
The rest of us did not want to see Mother lift a finger. She was too old to work, and we wanted to save her the burden of
doing even the lightest household chores. Mother said she felt useless being cooped up in the house all day, doing nothing.
That was before Anita sweet talked her into knitting her shawl. I was beginning to hate Anita for being so callous.
Knitting the shawl might have been an agony for Mother, but she never showed any pain. At the end of the day, she would
look at her handiwork, a smile on her lips as she held it against her. Knitting proved to be a slow process, but Mother
didn't mind, I did and when Anita showed up one day to visit Mother I scolded her for being so thoughtless. Anita touched
my arm and in a gentle voice said, "I did it for Mother. That shawl is giving her reason to live. She was wasting away,
didn't you notice? She felt so useless because she had nothing to do, no matter how small. Mother is one person who
prefers to live her life working. If she stops working, she will stop living." I nodded my head. Perhaps Anita was right I
was beginning to understand my mother