Merged: Short stories.

[splendid moonlight]

---

true maybe. but maybe it's easier to dismiss no reaction as an overwhelming feeling from the audience of your performance. sometimes a scene can be pulled so perfectly people don't know how to react. a silence as strong as a standing ovation you might say. but then again even that can be considered a reaction. it's hard to distinguish 'no reaction' at all.

i haven't seen Doubt kay nakatulog ko'g sayo. can we get a written copy of it somewhere?

[diem]

@Luthienne. Nope. Since DOUBT is relatively a "new" play... you have to purchase a copy of the script and they(the owners) would only allow that if you assure them that you're going to produce it on-stage.

There is a secret about today's live theater that not many are aware of. It's utter manipulation. Even during the play itself, the actors have been instructed by the director to sway the audience accordingly. That's why reaction is necessary. It is a gauge of the audience's mood. If the audience appear to be too happy, the actors know what to do to change the mood, to bring it down if called for, to lead the audience to where its supposed to be.

If too silent, the actors may fear that the audience has fallen morose or the worst case scenario(which do happen) most of the audience have left or fallen asleep. So the actors must do subtle action to bring the mood up!

You see, once the stage is lighted and the theater lights are down, the actors cannnot see much of the audience, really. I've been in the same spot before. So they really have to depend on their other senses

That's why I love theater, it is a living art, there is a connection between the actors and the audience that one could not so much achieve in film.

[splendid moonlight]

ic. looks like there's much i don't know about theater. it's a recent love actually. reading Bernard Shaw's Pygmalion did that to me.

someone start a theater thread.

[wayuk]

That's why I love theater, it is a living art, there is a connection between the actors and the audience that one could not so much achieve in film.

amen!...

[OCEANNE]

THE LAST SUNSET
a short story
by OCEANNE


Just one more hour and the ceremony we all came here for will be starting. The private resort that boasts of an exquisite shoreline and cultured garden facing the Pacific is full of happy and expectant faces. People, some of whom I have known for years, some were barely acquaintances, have swarmed the place for a special celebration of two of my most special persons in my life.

I have been standing here, facing the sea and feeling both the warmth of the afternoon sun and the captivating coolness of the north winds. I have slightly distanced myself from the crowd and let the sound of the waves drown the familiar voices of anticipation and excitement. Summer has just freshly started, yet it feels like December. Looking down at the beautifully adorned invitation card in my hands, which I got a month ago, I felt my blood rushing through my veins. The name on the paper I have been staring at still gives me shivers. It was so long ago, yet it seems like yesterday. Five long years, of denial and escape, but all it took was just one day to bring everything back to me crisp and clearly that I could almost touch it…or blow it all away…again. Who would have thought that the only man I have loved so deeply is set to walk down the aisle with another beloved soul of mine…my best friend.

Life was a little different when you’re young and restless. Call me lucky, but I just had everything girls of my age wanted and needed. NO, my parents were not millionaires. I just had the luxury of having a father who just wanted the best for his only daughter. Nothing can compare seeing your dad shout your name out loud and knowing how proud they are for you. All I wanted as for them to be happy. I had a rare mix of curricular achievements and fancy living…and the company of an angel, my best friend Sarah whom I met even before we even knew our ABC’s. She was like a little lamp to my darkest nightmares and all those things only best friends knew. But unlike my Sarah, I only knew so much. I saw in her the happiness I could not decipher. I wished I knew how it felt to be Sarah…complete…in spite of a lot of absences.

College came and I got to enter the school I have been wanting so long. Sarah, who dreamed of becoming a vet, went to a medical school just a bus away from mine. I have been wanting to write, some passion I wish I could give justice to. But going to law school would be the best and seeing my dad’s wish come true is what I’m more passionate for. Everything came so well and the best part was always hearing my dad say, “Elise, I always knew you’d be a great lawyer, someone I can never be. I wish I will still be here when you become a chief justice,”

“Dad, c’mon, you certainly will see me become one. You have to! So be healthy, okey? Promise,” I kidded with him while I massaged his forehead. I love my daddy so much that I would give the world to him. I lived all my life making people happy and contented. That’s where I get my strength. But somehow, somewhere beneath the beauty and perfection, there must have been something I missed. I wish I knew then.

“Liz, c’mon, lighten up. You don’t have to kill yourself of work. You need to relax. You’ve never even dated, for Christ sake!” Sarah once lamented while I worked on my term paper.

“Of course I did date! What d’ya call that night with Mike. You were even there with us.” I countered.

“That’s the whole point. You won’t even go out if I’m not around. You never even cared to remember his number. You just let the poor man in the dark. Liz, I’m not pushing you to have a guy. I just want you to experience some life outside your books and your…dad’s dreams for you,” for the first time, I saw the concern in my best friend’s eyes. There must be something wrong, but I just let it pass. “Sarah, I know you just want the best for me. But you know just how badly I wanted to succeed in this. I cannot afford to have someone and mess up everything I have sowed. He’ll come don’t worry…”

Sarah made sense but everything was just a stranger to me…until I met Ryan. He came to my life in such an unexpected way. We literally bumped into each other on my way to a major class. I picked up my things from their fall and had no time to argue with whomever I bumped into. The next day, I had the biggest shock of my life seeing a poem I made printed in a font size so large posted on every bulletin in school. I knew who posted them. The Free Verse Society has been so serious with their drive to spread poetry in school. I went to their office to find out who’s responsible for what I call “invasion of privacy”. I entered their office and there he was. Sitting at what is probably their president’s table. Smiling like there’s no tomorrow. “You write so well. I wanted to run after you yesterday to give this back. But, what are you? A sprinter?” Another smile was all it took and he just took my breath away. For the first time, I was able to look deeply into the eyes of a certain stranger. His smile, so genuine, dissolved all the world’s anguish. Ryan, the society’s president of 3 years, quite an activist in school, a gentle soul with so much passion for life and things that comes with it. We have become friends, close friends, we have become a trio and eventually, we fell in love…so deeply in love. Our love was almost surreal and Sarah became the happiest person for us. I could not paint how perfect everything for us. She was right all the time. I have been missing a lot. But I thought, it was right that I waited this long, because Ryan was just there, waiting for me, too. I had made a great leap of faith.

With Ryan, life became simpler…yet magical. With him, I was able to write again and freed me from the world. Every beautiful thing that have happened…Ryan…somehow changed me. My dad saw the changes, the thing is, and he didn’t know a thing about Ryan and me. When he found out, he was devastated. I came home one night with his furious face in front of me, something so stranger to me.

“Of all people out there, why him? I’ve never prevented you from meeting boys but to date a son of a rebel leader, how could you do that?” dad blurted out words about Ryan which I have never heard before. “Dad, I’m sorry. I don’t know what you are talking about. Ryan is a great guy. You will love him. I was about to tell you about us….” He cut me off “…now when did you start hiding things from me? I have given you everything, Elise. I brought you up to be a woman you’ll be proud of someday. Don’t ruin everything you have earned just for some guy who could not give you the peace of mind someday. Now, if you still have a lil respect and love left for me, see enough of that man.” No dad, you’ve only given me things that would only make you happy, I told myself. I just realized it was my first time I saw my dad shed a tear. It broke my heart seeing him so disappointed at me. I ruined his trust. But I loved Ryan so much that it just tears me apart to think and choose….decide. What did I do wrong?

My dad was right about Ryan. He was a son of a top rebel leader residing abroad. No wonder he kept his family affairs close to his chest. I just didn’t see why it has to be a great deal for us. The confusion clouded my once so sunny disposition. Sarah told me to talk to my father about it and make him understand that Ryan means no harm to me and no matter what, I’ll stick with Ryan coz we both love each other. But the face of my dad in my mind lingers. Maybe I was just overwhelmed by everything. Maybe I just thought of myself too much and exaggerated things. I met with Ryan and told him about what my father knew and it was best to just distance from each other until things have settled down.

“…what is this? All of a sudden you accuse me of being a communist? What if its true, you’ll break up with me because of that? Elise, you, of all people should know it wouldn’t matter. I love you…El..” I stepped back from him. All I want to do that time was to touch him, hug him, kiss him and tell him that he’s right, we love each other so much, so much we’d run away from ‘em all. But all I did was look down, stepped away from him…

“I love you too, Ryan. So much. You have no idea just how you make everything perfect. But I can’t afford to see my father hate you more because of that. You have no idea what he could do. Please, just listen to me. We need a little time away from each other,” looking at him with watery eyes just torn me into pieces. “Elise, we can get over this without breaking up. I know your dad is gonna understand. Let me talk to him, please just don’t leave me. It will kill me….”, he begged on his knees. I knelt down kissed him for the last time and whispered… “I love you…this is for the best…” and I stood up, wiped my tears, left him without turning back. I could still remember his sobs on my departure. But what can I do, that was what I had to do.

On my way to the airport the week after, I met with Sarah. “Elise, please don’t do this to you and Ryan. You have no idea how you’re slowly killing him. He just stopped showing up in his classes. Don’t do something you might regret one day. He loves you so much, why is it so easy for you to give him up if you love him that much? I don’t get you….” My best friend saw how he suffered, I hope she did saw mine, too. No hell could compare to the agony I felt. “I hope I can explain and tell you just why, but like you I’m clueless. It’s so painful but I can’t fight it. Please, be there for him. Don’t leave him. Take care of him for me. I have faith in you….” I took her hands and just felt how warm it is. That single gesture did everything for us. Words are just needed nom more. We know what each other meant. Then she took my head, brought it to her shoulders. “Whatever you have in mind, I trust it. I love you, Liz. Just take good care.” I flew away, away from them all. Five years of escape and now I’m back. I haven’t seen my Sarah and Ryan since that fateful day. Ryan had 2 years of agony because of me, but Sarah has made him realize that his life doesn’t end with me. She took good care of him, just as I asked her to. She has fallen in love with Ryan during his hardest moments…and Ryan was able to love her back just as much…maybe even more than he has loved me. It hurts to think of it coz up until now, Ryan still has the key to my heart. Nothing has changed since then. A cold breeze gently tapped me and brought me back to reality. It was a long journey back in time. I turned back and slowly walked to the nearby garden and warm up. The lilies and gerberas flooding the place for the wedding tells of how the couple is feeling right now…so happy and so in love. I smiled at the sight of my best friend giggling in my mind and all of a sudden a shadow coming from behind overcastted me. I turned to see hat it is and it engulfed me. Ryan, in his tuxedo was standing there. So vibrant and contented. He is still has the most handsome face I have seen. His smile never failed to nail me. Strangely, every noise and movements came to a halt. It’s just me and the man I love.

“I thought you’d never come. Glad Sarah’s right. She just has the biggest faith in you. It’s been a while….I…we missed you,” I never said a word; I just stared at him, not even hearing what he said. All I wanted was that moment with him. His smile and his face was enough for me to breathe. “You look beautiful in your dress, Sarah, picked that color and design for you. She wanted you to be the most beautif…,” I ran to him and hugged him, so deeply and hard. The warmth of it melted me. I drifted away from reality. He just held me still, letting me have my moment. Silence…just pure silence. It felt like years and centuries. I love this man. I faced up to him. He wiped my tears and kissed my forehead. He smiled again and brought me to my feet.

“I’m sorry for everything. I didn’t even said goodbye. I ruined your life…” I finally found the words. “Sssshhh…no need. I have come to realize that you were right. What you did was for the best. I couldn’t imagine now, keeping you away from your dreams and your dad,” No, Ryan. You were my only dream. What else I’m here for if not for you. “I know, I was hurt, badly hurt. Did you know I almost killed myself? I almost did. I just couldn’t understand why you had to leave me when everything was perfect and we loved each other. You were like my life. Sarah was just at the right time. He gave me more reasons to move on. She told me, you wouldn’t wanna see me like that. And so I did,” His words were like spears into my heart. But they were true. He is a different man now who deserves to be happy.

“Ryan, I know just how much I’ve hurt you, but you just have no idea how much pain I had because of that. But seeing you now, I think I have to thank myself for doing what I had to do. You deserve Sarah more than anyone. I’m so glad you have moved on and I could witness you on this special day. I thought, I could never face you both again. Thank you so much….,” I love you…I whispered again to myself for the last and he held me again for another minute and the bell tolled.

It’s time.

The ceremony is held on the beach. The sun, almost touching the sea is a breathtaking sight. I stood along with the bridesmaids and saw Ryan standing there, just a picture of a man so in love. I smiled at his sight. The man I once loved, maybe it’ll take some time to move on. I will just wait ‘til its time. And then there’s the bride. My Sarah, so beautiful in her flowing white dress. From where I stand, I could tell she was looking at me and that undoubtedly Sarah’s genuine smile lifted me up. It was like we read each other’s mind. I nearly cheered and clapped at her presence. She walked her walk. With the enchanting song at the background, I closed my eyes. For the last time, I just felt the moment…full of love. My love for Ryan is still strongly there, and this time, no more pain. Just love. Somehow, I felt like the sun has slowly set with me. I could almost hear its sound. Maybe after this sunset, I can now sleep, and when I wake up, I will learn to fly again.

[MrBiddle]

There was a painless stage of incubation that lasted twenty-five years, and then it broke out on me, and people said I was It.

But they called it humor instead of measles.

The employees in the store bought a silver inkstand for the senior partner on his fiftieth birthday. We crowded into his private office to present it. I had been selected for spokesman, and I made a little speech that I had been preparing for a week.

It made a hit. It was full of puns and epigrams and funny twists that brought down the house--which was a very solid one in the wholesale hardware line. Old Marlowe himself actually grinned, and the employees took their cue and roared.

My reputation as a humorist dates from half-past nine o'clock on that morning. For weeks afterward my fellow clerks fanned the flame of my self-esteem. One by one they came to me, saying what an awfully clever speech that was, old man, and carefully explained to me the point of each one of my jokes.

Gradually I found that I was expected to keep it up. Others might speak sanely on business matters and the day's topics, but from me something gamesome and airy was required.

I was expected to crack jokes about the crockery and lighten up the granite ware with persiflage. I was second bookkeeper, and if I failed to show up a balance sheet without something comic about the footings or could find no cause for laughter in an invoice of plows, the other clerks were disappointed. By degrees my fame spread, and I became a local "character." Our town was small enough to make this possible. The daily newspaper quoted me. At social gatherings I was indispensable.

I believe I did possess considerable wit and a facility for quick and spontaneous repartee. This gift I cultivated and improved by practice. And the nature of it was kindly and genial, not running to sarcasm or offending others. People began to smile when they saw me coming, and by the time we had met I generally had the word ready to broaden the smile into a laugh.

I had married early. We had a charming boy of three and a girl of five. Naturally, we lived in a vine-covered cottage, and were happy. My salary as bookkeeper in the hardware concern kept at a distance those ills attendant upon superfluous wealth.

At sundry times I had written out a few jokes and conceits that I considered peculiarly happy, and had sent them to certain periodicals that print such things. All of them had been instantly accepted. Several of the editors had written to request further contributions.

One day I received a letter from the editor of a famous weekly publication. He suggested that I submit to him a humorous composition to fill a column of space; hinting that he would make it a regular feature of each issue if the work proved satisfactory. I did so, and at the end of two weeks he offered to make a contract with me for a year at a figure that was considerably higher than the amount paid me by the hardware firm.

I was filled with delight. My wife already crowned me in her mind with the imperishable evergreens of literary success. We had lobster croquettes and a bottle of blackberry wine for supper that night. Here was the chance to liberate myself from drudgery. I talked over the matter very seriously with Louisa. We agreed that I must resign my place at the store and devote myself to humor.

I resigned. My fellow clerks gave me a farewell banquet. The speech I made there coruscated. It was printed in full by the Gazette. The next morning I awoke and looked at the clock.

"Late, by George!" I exclaimed, and grabbed for my clothes. Louisa reminded me that I was no longer a slave to hardware and contractors' supplies. I was now a professional humorist.

After breakfast she proudly led me to the little room off the kitchen. Dear girl! There was my table and chair, writing pad, ink, and pipe tray. And all the author's trappings--the celery stand full of fresh roses and honeysuckle, last year's calendar on the wall, the dictionary, and a little bag of chocolates to nibble between inspirations. Dear girl!

I sat me to work. The wall paper is patterned with arabesques or odalisks or--perhaps--it is trapezoids. Upon one of the figures I fixed my eyes. I bethought me of humor.

A voice startled me--Louisa's voice.

"If you aren't too busy, dear," it said, "come to dinner."

I looked at my watch. Yes, five hours had been gathered in by the grim scytheman. I went to dinner.

"You mustn't work too hard at first," said Louisa. "Goethe--or was it Napoleon?--said five hours a day is enough for mental labor. Couldn't you take me and the children to the woods this afternoon?"

"I am a little tired," I admitted. So we went to the woods.

But I soon got the swing of it. Within a month I was turning out copy as regular as shipments of hardware.

And I had success. My column in the weekly made some stir, and I was referred to in a gossipy way by the critics as something fresh in the line of humorists. I augmented my income considerably by contributing to other publications.

I picked up the tricks of the trade. I could take a funny idea and make a two-line joke of it, earning a dollar. With false whiskers on, it would serve up cold as a quatrain, doubling its producing value. By turning the skirt and adding a ruffle of rhyme you would hardly recognize it as vers de societe with neatly shod feet and a fashion-plate illustration.

I began to save up money, and we had new carpets, and a parlor organ. My townspeople began to look upon me as a citizen of some consequence instead of the merry trifier I had been when I clerked in the hardware store.

After five or six months the spontaniety seemed to depart from my humor. Quips and droll sayings no longer fell carelessly from my lips. I was sometimes hard run for material. I found myself listening to catch available ideas from the conversation of my friends. Sometimes I chewed my pencil and gazed at the wall paper for hours trying to build up some gay little bubble of unstudied fun.

And then I became a harpy, a Moloch, a Jonah, a vampire, to my acquaintances. Anxious, haggard, greedy, I stood among them like a veritable killjoy. Let a bright saying, a witty comparison, a piquant phrase fall from their lips and I was after it like a hound springing upon a bone. I dared not trust my memory; but, turning aside guiltily and meanly, I would make a note of it in my ever-present memorandum book or upon my cuff for my own future use.

My friends regarded me in sorrow and wonder. I was not the same man. Where once I had furnished them entertainment and jollity, I now preyed upon them. No jests from me ever bid for their smiles now. They were too precious. I could not afford to dispense gratuitously the means of my livelihood.

I was a lugubrious fox praising the singing of my friends, the crow's, that they might drop from their beaks the morsels of wit that I coveted.

Nearly every one began to avoid me. I even forgot how to smile, not even paying that much for the sayings I appropriated.

No persons, places, times, or subjects were exempt from my plundering in search of material. Even in church my demoralized fancy went hunting among the solemn aisles and pillars for spoil.

Did the minister give out the long-meter doxology, at once I began: "Doxology --sockdology--sockdolager--meter--meet her."

The sermon ran through my mental sieve, its precepts filtering unheeded, could I but glean a suggestion of a pun or a bon mot. The solemnest anthems of the choir were but an accompaniment to my thoughts as I conceived new changes to ring upon the ancient comicalities concerning the jealousies of soprano, tenor, and basso.

My own home became a hunting ground. My wife is a singularly feminine creature, candid, sympathetic, and impulsive. Once her conversation was my delight, and her ideas a source of unfailing pleasure. Now I worked her. She was a gold mine of those amusing but lovable inconsistencies that distinguish the female mind.

I began to market those pearls of unwisdom and humor that should have enriched only the sacred precincts of home. With devilish cunning I encouraged her to talk. Unsuspecting, she laid her heart bare. Upon the cold, conspicuous, common, printed page I offered it to the public gaze.

A literary Judas, I kissed her and betrayed her. For pieces of silver I dressed her sweet confidences in the pantalettes and frills of folly and made them dance in the market place.

Dear Louisa! Of nights I have bent over her cruel as a wolf above a tender lamb, hearkening even to her soft words murmured in sleep, hoping to catch an idea for my next day's grind. There is worse to come.

God help me! Next my fangs were buried deep in the neck of the fugitive sayings of my little children.

Guy and Viola were two bright fountains of childish, quaint thoughts and speeches. I found a ready sale for this kind of humor, and was furnishing a regular department in a magazine with "Funny Fancies of Childhood." I began to stalk them as an Indian stalks the antelope. I would hide behind sofas and doors, or crawl on my hands and knees among the bushes in the yard to eavesdrop while they were at play. I had all the qualities of a harpy except remorse.

Once, when I was barren of ideas, and my copy must leave in the next mail, I covered myself in a pile of autumn leaves in the yard, where I knew they intended to come to play. I cannot bring myself to believe that Guy was aware of my hiding place, but even if he was, I would be loath to blame him for his setting fire to the leaves, causing the destruction of my new suit of clothes, and nearly cremating a parent.

Soon my own children began to shun me as a pest. Often, when I was creeping upon them like a melancholy ghoul, I would hear them say to each other: "Here comes papa," and they would gather their toys and scurry away to some safer hiding place. Miserable wretch that I was!

And yet I was doing well financially. Before the first year had passed I had saved a thousand dollars, and we had lived in comfort.

But at what a cost! I am not quite clear as to what a pariah is, but I was everything that it sounds like. I had no friends, no amusements, no enjoyment of life. The happiness of my family had been sacrificed. I was a bee, sucking sordid honey from life's fairest flowers, dreaded and shunned on account of my stingo.

One day a man spoke to me, with a pleasant and friendly smile. Not in months had the thing happened. I was passing the undertaking establishment of Peter Heffelbower. Peter stood in the door and saluted me. I stopped, strangely wrung in my heart by his greeting. He asked me inside.

The day was chill and rainy. We went into the back room, where a fire burned, in a little stove. A customer came, and Peter left me alone for a while. Presently I felt a new feeling stealing over me --a sense of beautiful calm and content, I looked around the place. There were rows of shining rosewood caskets, black palls, trestles, hearse plumes, mourning streamers, and all the paraphernalia of the solemn trade. Here was peace, order, silence, the abode of grave and dignified reflections. Here, on the brink of life, was a little niche pervaded by the spirit of eternal rest.

When I entered it, the follies of the world abandoned me at the door. I felt no inclination to wrest a humorous idea from those sombre and stately trappings. My mind seemed to stretch itself to grateful repose upon a couch draped with gentle thoughts.

A quarter of an hour ago I was an abandoned humorist. Now I was a philosopher, full of serenity and ease. I had found a refuge from humor, from the hot chase of the shy quip, from the degrading pursuit of the panting joke, from the restless reach after the nimble repartee.

I had not known Heffelbower well. When he came back, I let him talk, fearful that he might prove to be a jarring note in the sweet, dirgelike harmony of his establishment.

But, no. He chimed truly. I gave a long sigh of happiness. Never have I known a man's talk to be as magnificently dull as Peter's was. Compared with it the Dead Sea is a geyser. Never a sparkle or a glimmer of wit marred his words. Commonplaces as trite and as plentiful as blackberries flowed from his lips no more stirring in quality than a last week's tape running from a ticker. Quaking a little, I tried upon him one of my best pointed jokes. It fell back ineffectual, with the point broken. I loved that man from then on.

Two or three evenings each week I would steal down to Heffelbower's and revel in his back room. That was my only joy. I began to rise early and hurry through my work, that I might spend more time in my haven. In no other place could I throw off my habit of extracting humorous ideas from my surroundings. Peter's talk left me no opening had I besieged it ever so hard.

Under this influence I began to improve in spirits. It was the recreation from one's labor which every man needs. I surprised one or two of my former friends by throwing them a smile and a cheery word as I passed them on the streets. Several times I dumfounded my family by relaxing long enough to make a jocose remark in their presence.

I had so long been ridden by the incubus of humor that I seized my hours of holiday with a schoolboy's zest.

Mv work began to suffer. It was not the pain and burden to me that it had been. I often whistled at my desk, and wrote with far more fluency than before. I accomplished my tasks impatiently, as anxious to be off to my helpful retreat as a drunkard is to get to his tavern.

My wife had some anxious hours in conjecturing where I spent my afternoons. I thought it best not to tell her; women do not understand these things. Poor girl!--she had one shock out of it.

One day I brought home a silver coffin handle for a paper weight and a fine, fluffy hearse plume to dust my papers with.

I loved to see them on my desk, and think of the beloved back room down at Heffelbower's. But Louisa found them, and she shrieked with horror. I had to console her with some lame excuse for having them, but I saw in her eyes that the prejudice was not removed. I had to remove the articles, though, at double-quick time.

One day Peter Heffelbower laid before me a temptation that swept me off my feet. In his sensible, uninspired way he showed me his books, and explained that his profits and his business were increasing rapidly. He had thought of taking in a partner with some cash. He would rather have me than any one he knew. When I left his place that afternoon Peter had my check for the thousand dollars I had in the bank, and I was a partner in his undertaking business.

I went home with feelings of delirious joy, mingled with a certain amount of doubt. I was dreading to tell my wife about it. But I walked on air. To give up the writing of humorous stuff, once more to enjoy the apples of life, instead of squeezing them to a pulp for a few drops of hard cider to make the pubic feel funny--what a boon that would be!

At the supper table Louisa handed me some letters that had come during my absence. Several of them contained rejected manuscript. Ever since I first began going to Heffelbower's my stuff had been coming back with alarming frequency. Lately I had been dashing off my jokes and articles with the greatest fluency. Previously I had labored like a bricklayer, slowly and with agony.

Presently I opened a letter from the editor of the weekly with which I had a regular contract. The checks for that weekly article were still our main dependence. The letter ran thus:

DEAR SIR:
As you are aware, our contract for the year expires with the present
month. While regretting the necessity for so doing, we must say that
we do not care to renew same for the coming year. We were quite
pleased with your style of humor, which seems to have delighted quite
a large proportion of our readers. But for the past two months we
have noticed a decided falling off in its quality. Your earlier work
showed a spontaneous, easy, natural flow of fun and wit. Of late it
is labored, studied, and unconvincing, giving painful evidence of hard
toil and drudging mechanism.
Again regretting that we do not consider your contributions
available any longer, we are, yours sincerely,
THE EDITOR.
I handed this letter to my wife. After she had read it her face grew extremely long, and there were tears in her eyes.

"The mean old thing!" she exclaimed indignantly. "I'm sure your pieces are just as good as they ever were. And it doesn't take you half as long to write them as it did." And then, I suppose, Louisa thought of the checks that would cease coming. "Oh, John," she wailed, "what will you do now?"

For an answer I got up and began to do a polka step around the supper table. I am sure Louisa thought the trouble had driven me mad; and I think the children hoped it had, for they tore after me, yelling with glee and emulating my steps. I was now something like their old playmate as of yore.

"The theatre for us to-night!" I shouted; "nothing less. And a late, wild, disreputable supper for all of us at the Palace Restaurant. Lumpty-diddle-de-dee-de-dum!"

And then I explained my glee by declaring that I was now a partner in a prosperous undertaking establishment, and that written jokes might go hide their heads in sackcloth and ashes for all me.

With the editor's letter in her hand to justify the deed I had done, my wife could advance no objections save a few mild ones based on the feminine inability to appreciate a good thing such as the little back room of Peter Hef--no, of Heffelbower & Co's. undertaking establishment.

In conclusion, I will say that to-day you will find no man in our town as well liked, as jovial, and full of merry sayings as I. My jokes are again noised about and quoted; once more I take pleasure in my wife's confidential chatter without a mercenary thought, while Guy and Viola play at my feet distributing gems of childish humor without fear of the ghastly tormentor who used to dog their steps, notebook in hand.

Our business has prospered finely. I keep the books and look after the shop, while Peter attends to outside matters. He says that my levity and high spirits would simply turn any funeral into a regular Irish wake.

[MrBiddle]

The season of irresponsibility is at hand. Come, let us twine round our brows wreaths of poison ivy (that is for idiocy), and wander hand in hand with sociology in the summer fields.

Likely as not the world is flat. The wise men have tried to prove that it is round, with indifferent success. They pointed out to us a ship going to sea, and bade us observe that, at length, the convexity of the earth hid from our view all but the vessel's topmast. But we picked up a telescope and looked, and saw the decks and hull again. Then the wise men said: "Oh, pshaw! anyhow, the variation of the intersection of the equator and the ecliptic proves it." We could not see this through our telescope, so we remained silent. But it stands to reason that, if the world were round, the queues of China-Men would stand straight up from their heads instead of hanging down their backs, as travellers assure us they do.

Another hot-weather corroboration of the flat theory is the fact that all of life, as we know it, moves in little, unavailing circles. More justly than to anything else, it can be likened to the game of baseball. Crack! we hit the ball, and away we go. If we earn a run (in life we call it success) we get back to the home plate and sit upon a bench. If we are thrown out, we walk back to the home plate -- and sit upon a bench.

The circumnavigators of the alleged globe may have sailed the rim of a watery circle back to the same port again. The truly great return at the high tide of their attainments to the simplicity of a child. The billionaire sits down at his mahogany to his bowl of bread and milk. When you reach the end of your career, just take down the sign "Goal" and look at the other side of it. You will find "Beginning Point" there. It has been reversed while you were going around the track.

But this is humour, and must be stopped. Let us get back to the serious questions that arise whenever Sociology turns summer boarder. You are invited to consider the scene of the story-wild, Atlantic waves, thundering against a wooded and rock-bound shore -- in the Greater City of New York.

The town of Fishampton, on the south shore of Long Island, is noted for its clam fritters and the summer residence of the Van Plushvelts.

The Van Plushvelts have a hundred million dollars, and their name is a household word with tradesmen and photographers.

On the fifteenth of June the Van Plushvelts boarded up the front door of their city house, carefully deposited their cat on the sidewalk, instructed the caretaker not to allow it to eat any of the ivy on the walls, and whizzed away in a 40-horse-power to Fishampton to stray alone the shade -- Amaryllis not being in their class. If a subscriber to the Toadies' Magazine, you have often -- You say you are not? Well, you buy it at a news-stand, thinking that the newsdealer is not wise to you. But he knows about it all. HE knows -- HE knows! I say that you have often seen in the Toadies' Magazine pictures of the Van Plushvelts' summer home; so it will not be described here. Our business is with young Haywood Van Plushvelt, sixteen years old, heir to the century of millions, darling of the financial gods and great grandson of Peter Van Plushvelt, former owner of a particularly fine cabbage patch that has been ruined by an intrusive lot of downtown skyscrapers.

One afternoon young Haywood Van Plushvelt strolled out between the granite gate posts of "Dolce far Niente" -- that's what they called the place; and it was an improvement on dolce Far Rockaway, I can tell you.

Haywood walked down into the village. He was human, after all, and his prospective millions weighed upon him. Wealth had wreaked upon him its direfullest. He was the product of private tutors. Even under his first hobby-horse had tan bark been strewn. He had been born with a gold spoon, lobster fork and fish-set in his mouth. For which I hope, later, to submit justification, I must ask your consideration of his haberdashery and tailoring.

Young Fortunatus was dressed in a neat suit of dark blue serge, a neat, white straw hat, neat low-cut tan shoes, of the well-known "immaculate" trade mark, a neat, narrow four-in-hand tie, and carried a slender, neat, bamboo cane.

Down Persimmon Street (there's never tree north of Hagerstown, Md.) came from the village "Smoky" Dodson, fifteen and a half, worst boy in Fishampton. "Smoky" was dressed in a ragged red sweater, wrecked and weather-worn golf cap, run-over shoes, and trousers of the "serviceable" brand. Dust, clinging to the moisture induced by free exercise, darkened wide areas of his face. "Smoky" carried a baseball bat, and a league ball that advertised itself in the rotundity of his trousers pocket. Haywood stopped and passed the time of day.

"Going to play ball?" he asked.

"Smoky's" eyes and countenance confronted him with a frank blue-and-freckled scrutiny.

"Me?" he said, with deadly mildness; "sure not. Can't you see I've got a divin' suit on? I'm goin' up in a submarine balloon to catch butterflies with a two-inch auger.

"Excuse me," said Haywood, with the insulting politeness of his caste, "for mistaking you for a gentleman. I might have known better."

"How might you have known better if you thought I was one?" said "Smoky," unconsciously a logician.

"By your appearances," said Haywood. "No gentleman is dirty, ragged and a liar."

"Smoky" hooted once like a ferry-boat, spat on his hand, got a firm grip on his baseball bat and then dropped it against the fence.

"Say," said he, "I knows you. You're the pup that belongs in that swell private summer sanitarium for city-guys over there. I seen you come out of the gate. You can't bluff nobody because you're rich. And because you got on swell clothes. Arabella! Yah!"

"Ragamuffin!" said Hay-wood.

"Smoky" picked up a fence-rail splinter and laid it on his shoulder.

"Dare you to knock it off," he challenged.

"I wouldn't soil my hands with you," said the aristocrat.

"'Fraid," said "Smoky" concisely. "Youse city-ducks ain't got the I sand. I kin lick you with one hand."

"I don't wish to have any trouble with you," said Haywood. "I asked you a civil question; and you replied, like a -- like a -- a cad."

"Wot's a cad?" asked "Smoky."

"A cad is a disagreeable person," answered Haywood, "who lacks manners and doesn't know his place. They, sometimes play baseball."

"I can tell you what a mollycoddle is," said "Smoky." "It's a monkey dressed up by its mother and sent out too pick daisies on the lawn."

"When you have the honour to refer to the members of my family," said Haywood, with some dim ideas of a code in his mind, "you'd better leave the ladies out of your remarks."

"Ho! ladies!" mocked the rude one. "I say ladies! I know what them rich women in the city does. They, drink cocktails and swear and give parties to gorillas. The papers says so."

Then Haywood knew that it must be. He took off his coat, folded it neatly and laid it on the roadside grass, placed his hat upon it and began to unknot his blue silk tie.

"Hadn't yer better ring fer yer maid, Arabella?" taunted "Smoky." "Wot yer going to do -- go to bed?"

"I'm going to give you a good trouncing," said the hero. He did not hesitate, although the enemy was far beneath him socially. He remembered that his father once thrashed a cabman, and the papers gave it two columns, first page. And the Toadies' Magazine had a special article on Upper Cuts by the Upper Classes, and ran new pictures of the Van Plushvelt country seat, at Fishampton.

"Wot's trouncing?" asked "Smoky," suspiciously. "I don't want your old clothes. I'm no -- oh, you mean to scrap! My, my! I won't do a thing to mamma's pet. Criminy! I'd hate to be a hand-laundered thing like you.

"Smoky" waited with some awkwardness for his adversary to prepare for battle. His own decks were always clear for action. When he should spit upon the palm of his terrible right it was equivalent to "You may fire now, Gridley."

The hated patrician advanced, with his shirt sleeves neatly rolled up. "Smoky" waited, in an attitude of ease, expecting the affair to be conducted according to Fishampton's rules of war. These allowed combat to be prefaced by stigma, recrimination, epithet, abuse and insult gradually increasing in emphasis and degree. After a round of these "you're anothers" would come the chip knocked from the shoulder, or the advance across the "dare" line drawn with a toe on the ground. Next light taps given and taken, these also increasing in force until finally the blood was up and fists going at their best.

But Haywood did not know Fishampton's rules. Noblesse oblige kept a faint smile on his face as he walked slowly up to "Smoky" and said:

"Going to play ball?"

"Smoky" quickly understood this to be a putting of the previous question, giving him the chance to make practical apology by answering it with civility and relevance.

"Listen this time,' said he. "I'm goin' skatin' on the river. Don't you see me automobile with Chinese lanterns on it standin' and waitin' for me?"

Haywood knocked him down.

"Smoky" felt wronged. To thus deprive him of preliminary wrangle and objurgation was to send an armoured knight full tilt against a crashing lance without permitting him first to caracole around the list to the flourish of trumpets. But he scrambled up and fell upon his foe, head, feet and fists.

The fight lasted one round of an hour and ten minutes. It was lengthened until it was more like a war or a family feud than a fight. Haywood had learned some of the science of boxing and wrestling from his tutors, but these he discarded for the more instinctive methods of battle handed down by the cave-dwelling Van Plushvelts.

So, when he found himself, during the mêlée, seated upon the kicking and roaring "Smoky's" chest, he improved the opportunity by vigorously kneading handfuls of sand and soil into his adversary's ears, eyes and mouth, and when "Smoky" got the proper leg hold and "turned" him, he fastened both hands in the Plushvelt hair and pounded the Plushvelt head against the lap of mother earth. Of course, the strife was not incessantly active. There were seasons when one sat upon the other, holding him down, while each blew like a grampus, spat out the more inconveniently large sections of gravel and and strove to subdue the spirit of his opponent with a frightful and soul-paralyzing glare.

At last, it seemed that in the language of the ring, their efforts lacked steam. They broke away, and each disappeared in a cloud as he brushed away the dust of the conflict. As soon as his breath permitted, Haywood walked close to "Smoky" and said:

"Going to play ball?"

"Smoky" looked pensively at the sky, at his bat lying on the ground, and at the "leaguer" rounding his pocket.

"Sure," he said, offhandedly. "The 'Yellowjackets'" plays the 'Long Islands.' I'm cap'n of the 'Long Islands.'

"I guess I didn't mean to say you were ragged," said Haywood. "But you are dirty, you know."

"Sure," said "Smoky." "Yer get that way knockin' around. Say, I don't believe them New York papers about ladies drinkin' and havin' monkeys dinin' at the table with 'em. I guess they're lies, like they print about people eatin' out of silver plates, and ownin' dogs that cost $100."

"Certainly," said Haywood. "What do you play on your team?"

"Ketcher. Ever play any?"

"Never in my life," said Haywood. "I've never known any fellows except one or two of my cousins."

"Jer like to learn? We're goin' to have a practice- game before the match. Wanter come along? I'll put yer in left-field, and yer won't be long ketchin' on."

"I'd like it bully," said Haywood. "I've alway wanted to play baseball."

The ladies' maids of New York and the families of Western mine owners with social ambitions will remember well the sensation that was created by the report that the young multi-millionaire, Haywood Van Plushvelt, was playing ball with the village youths of Fishampton. It was conceded that the millennium of democracy had come. Reporters and photographers swarmed to the island. The papers printed half-page pictures of him as short-stop stopping a hot grounder. The Toadies' Magazine got out a Bat and Ball number that covered the subject historically, beginning with the vampire bat and ending with the Patriarchs' ball -- illustrated with interior views of the Van Plushvelt country seat. Ministers, educators and sociologists everywhere hailed the event as the tocsin call that proclaimed the universal brotherhood of man.

One afternoon I was reclining under the trees near the shore at Fishampton in the esteemed company of an eminent, bald-headed young sociologist. By way of note it may be inserted that all sociologists are more or less bald, and exactly thirty-two. Look 'em over.

The sociologist was citing the Van Plushvelt case as the most important "uplift" symptom of a generation, and as an excuse for his own existence.

Immediately before us were the village baseball grounds. And now came the sportive youth of Fishampton and distributed themselves, shouting, about the diamond. "There," said the sociologist, pointing, "there is young Van Plushvelt."

I raised myself (so far a cosycophant with Mary Ann) and gazed.

Young Van Plushvelt sat upon the ground. He was dressed in a ragged red sweater, wrecked and weather- worn golf cap, run-over shoes, and trousers of the "serviceable" brand. Dust clinging to the moisture induced by free exercise, darkened wide areas of his face.

"That is he," repeated the sociologist. If he had said "him" I could have been less vindictive.

On a bench, with an air, sat the young millionaire's chum.

He was dressed in a neat suit of dark blue serge, a neat white straw hat, neat low-cut tan shoes, linen of the well-known "immaculate" trade mark, a neat, narrow four-in-hand tie, and carried a- slender, neat bamboo cane.

I laughed loudly and vulgarly.

"What you want to do," said I to the sociologist, "is to establish a reformatory for the Logical Vicious Circle. Or else I've got wheels. It looks to me as if things are running round and round in circles instead of getting anywhere."

"What do you mean?" asked the man of progress.

"Why, look what he has done to "Smoky," I replied.

"You will always be a fool," said my friend, the sociologist, getting up and walking away.

------------

Well guys what do you think? Hehe, paita anang ma LAYSHO ang mga bugoy-bugoy unta. LOL.........

[MrBiddle]

A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR (Dickens)

There was once a child, and he strolled about a good deal, and thought of a number of things. He had a sister, who was a child, too, and his constant companion. These two used to wonder all day long. They wondered at the beauty of the flowers - they wondered at the height and blueness of the sky - they wondered at the depth of the bright water - they wondered at the goodness and the power of God who made the lovely world.

They used to say to one another, sometimes: "Supposing all the children upon earth were to die, would the flowers, and the water, and the sky be sorry?" They believed they would be sorry. "For,"said they, "the buds are the children of the flowers, and the little playful streams that gambol down the hillsides are the children of the water - and the smallest, bright specks playing at hide and seek in the sky all night, must surely be the children of the stars - and they would all be grieved to see their playmates, the children of men, no more."

There was one clear, shining star that used to come out in the sky before the rest, near the church spire, above the graves. It was larger and more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and every night they watched for it, standing hand in hand at a window. Whoever saw it first cried out: "I see the star!" And often they cried out both together, knowing so well when it would rise, and where. So they grew to be such friends with it, that, before lying down in their beds, they always looked out once again, to bid it good-night - and when they were turning round to sleep, they used to say: "God bless the star!"

But while she was still very young, oh, very, very young, the sister drooped, and came to be so weak that she could no longer stand in the window at night - and then the child looked sadly out by himself, and when he saw the star turned round and said to the patient, pale face on the bed: "I see the star!" and then a smile would come upon the face, and a little weak voice used to say: "God bless my brother and the star!"

And so the time came all too soon, when the child looked out alone, and when there was no face on the bed - and when there was a little grave among the graves, not there before - and when the star made long rays down towards him, as he saw it through his tears.

Now, these rays were so bright, and they seemed to make such a shining way from earth to heaven, that when the child went to his solitary bed he dreamed about the star - and dreamed that, lying where he was, he saw a train of people taken up that sparkling road by angels. And the star, opening, showed him a great world of light, where many more such angels waited to receive them.

All these angels, who were waiting, turned their beaming eyes upon the people who were carried up into the star - and some came out from the long rows in which they stood, and fell upon the people's necks, and kissed them tenderly, and went away with them down avenues of light, and were so happy in their company, that lying in his bed he wept for joy.

But there were many angels who did not go with them, and among them one he knew. The patient face, that once had lain upon the bed, was glorified and radiant, but his heart found out his sister among all the host.

His sister's angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said to the leader among those who had brought the people thither:

"Is my brother come?"

And he said: "No."

She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched out his arms, and cried: "O sister, I am here! Take me!" And then she turned her beaming eyes upon him, and it was night - and the star was shining into the room, making long rays down towards him, as he saw it through his tears.

From that hour forth, the child looked out upon the star as on the home he was to go to when his time should come - and he thought that he did not belong to the earth alone, but to the star, too, because of his sister's angel gone before.

There was a baby born to be a brother to the child - and while he was so little that he never yet had spoken word, he stretched his tiny form out on his bed, and died.

Again the child dreamed of the open star, and of the company of angels, and the train of people, and the rows of angels with their beaming eyes all turned upon those people's faces.

Said his sister's angel to the leader:

"Is my brother come?"

And he said: "Not that one, but another."

As the child beheld his brother's angel in her arms, he cried: "O sister, I am here! Take me!" And she turned and smiled upon him, and the star was shining.

He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books, when an old servant came to him and said:

"Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessing on her darling son."

Again at night he saw the star, and all that former company. Said his sister's angel to the leader:

"Is my brother come?"

And he said: "Thy mother!"

A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, because the mother was reunited to her two children. And he stretched out his arms and cried: "O mother, sister, and brother, I am here! Take me!" And they answered him: "Not yet." And the star was shining.

He grew to be a man, whose hair was turning gray, and he was sitting in his chair by the fireside, heavy with grief, and with his face bedewed with tears, when the star opened once again.

Said his sister's angel to the leader:

"Is my brother come?"

And he said: "Nay, but his maiden daughter."

And the man, who had been the child, saw his daughter, newly lost to him, a celestial creature among those three, and he said: "My daughter's head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is around my mother's neck, and at her feet there is the baby of old time, and I can bear the parting from her, God be praised!"

And the star was shining.

Thus the child came to be an old man, and his once smooth face was wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and his back was bent. And one night as he lay upon his bed, his children standing round, he cried, as he had cried so long ago:

"I see the star!"

They whispered one to another: "He is dying."

And he said: "I am. My age is falling from me like a garment, and I move towards the star as a child. And, O my Father, now I thank Thee that it has so often opened to receive those dear ones who await me!"

And the star was shining - and it shines upon his grave.

[RonzESL]

"Oh my God!!!, this is bucks!!, as in Bucks!! KWARTA!!", she exclaimed. She went with her cousin in the nearby internet cafe. They usually spent their time chatting to JOES , white and black JOES. There was one JOE, he gave her $50. So contented, she jumped off her seat and found her way to WESTERN UNION. She shops! Buy all the food she has not tried. She went home, and had a stomach ache.
Two JOE at the same time. Finally, she learned how to type with her two hands. "So terrific!, I like this!!". she said with all her sweet smile. Then, there comes the 3rd JOE, the 4th JOE untill a lot of nameless JOES. "Whew! a good harvest!", she said.She threw a 7 pcs. of WESTERN UNION slips.
Spent there...spent everywhere. Danced there, danced here. What a life!
Then there came Dr. Dollars. Dr. Dollars offered her $500 a month. She planned to build a mansion. Brought her siblings to foot spa. Dr. Dollars offered her marriage with an additional amount of money, another $500 makes it $1000 a month. She took her relatives to foot spa.
Sweet smile she met Dr. Dollars at the airport. Hugged him...and gave him sweet promises of nothing. Dr. Dollars gave up his job for her. Make a business but eventually drained for she always sipped dollars from him. She wanted more money but Dr. Dollar won't gave. "What a miserable life! I want to buy Ayala! Do you hear me? Inotil!!!", she shouted.
She went out at night. Then chat with Dr. Dollars online. She came back at dawn. Dr. Dollars worried a lot, she embrased her, comforted her but she pushed him away and told him, " I found another franchise, goodbye...

[Bigfoot Oracle]

Alejandro R. Roces

My Brother's Peculiar Chicken


My brother Kiko once had a very peculiar chicken. It was peculiar because no one could tell whether it was a rooster or a hen. My brother claimed it was a rooster. I claimed it was a hen. We almost got whipped because we argued too much.

The whole question began early one morning. Kiko and I were driving the chickens from the cornfield. The corn had just been planted, and the chickens were scratching the seeds out for food. Suddenly we heard the rapid flapping of wings. We turned in the direction of the sound and saw two chickens fighting in the far end of the field. We could not see the birds clearly as they were lunging at each other in a whirlwind of feathers and dust.

“Look at that rooster fight!” my brother said, pointing excitedly at one of the chickens. “Why, if I had a rooster like that, I could get rich in the cockpits.”

“Let’s go and catch it,” I suggested.

“No, you stay here. I will go and catch it,” Kiko said.

My brother slowly approached the battling chickens. They were so busy fighting that they did not notice him. When he got near them, he dived and caught one of them by the leg. It struggled and squawked. Kiko finally held it by both wings and it became still. I ran over where he was and took a good look at the chicken.

“Why, it is a hen,” I said.

“What is the matter with you?” my brother asked. “Is the heat making you sick?”

“No. Look at its face. It has no comb or wattles.”

“No comb and wattles! Who cares about its comb or wattles? Didn’t you see it fight?”

“Sure, I saw it fight. But I still say it is a hen.”

“Ahem! Did you ever see a hen with spurs on its legs like these? Or a hen with a tail like this?”

“I don’t care about its spurs or tail. I tell you it is a hen. Why, look at it.”

The argument went on in the fields the whole morning. At noon we went to eat lunch. We argued about it on the way home. When we arrived at our house Kiko tied the chicken to a peg. The chicken flapped its wings—and then crowed.

“There! Did you hear that?” my brother exclaimed triumphantly. “I suppose you are going to tell me now that hens crow and that carabaos fly.”

“I don’t care if it crows or not,” I said. “That chicken is a hen.”

We went into the house, and the discussion continued during lunch.

“It is not a hen,” Kiko said. “It is a rooster.”

“It is a hen,” I said.

“It is not.”

“It is.”

“Now, now,” Mother interrupted, “how many times must Father tell you, boys, not to argue during lunch? What is the argument about this time?”

We told Mother, and she went out to look at the chicken.

“That chicken,” she said, “is a binabae. It is a rooster that looks like a hen.”

That should have ended the argument. But Father also went out to see the chicken, and he said:

“No. You are wrong, Mother. The chicken is a binalake, a hen that looks like a rooster.”

“Have you been drinking again?” Mother asked.

“No,” Father answered.

“Then what makes you say that that is a hen? Have you ever seen a hen with feathers like that?”

“Listen. I have handled fighting cocks since I was a boy, and you cannot tell me that that thing is a rooster.”

Before Kiko and I realized what had happened, Father and Mother were arguing about the chicken by themselves. Soon Mother was crying. She always cried when she argued with Father.

“You know very well that that is a rooster,” she said. “You are just being mean and stubborn.”

“I am sorry,” Father said. “But I know a hen when I see one.”

“I know who can settle this question,” my brother said.

“Who?” I asked.

“The teniente del barrio, chief of the village.”

The chief was the oldest man in the village. That did not mean that he was the wisest, but anything always carried more weight if it is said by a man with gray hair. So my brother untied the chicken and we took it to the chief.

“Is this a male or a female chicken?” Kiko asked.

“That is a question that should concern only another chicken,” the chief replied.

“My brother and I happen to have a special interest in this particular chicken. Please give us an answer. Just say yes or no. Is this a rooster?”

“It does not look like any rooster I have ever seen,” the chief said.

“Is it a hen, then?” I asked.

“It does not look like any hen I have ever seen. No, that could not be a chicken. I have never seen a chicken like that. It must be a bird of some other kind.”

“Oh, what’s the use!” Kiko said, and we walked away.

“Well, what shall we do now?” I said.

“I know what,” my brother said. “Let’s go to town and see Mr. Cruz. He would know.”

Mr. Eduardo Cruz lived in the nearby town of Katubusan. He had studied poultry raising in the University of the Philippines. He owned and operated the largest poultry business in town. We took the chicken to his office.

“Mr. Cruz,” Kiko said, “is this a hen or a rooster?”

Mr. Cruz looked at the bird curiously and then said:

“Hmmm. I don’t know. I couldn’t tell in one look. I have never run across a chicken like this before.”

“Well, is there any way you can tell?”

“Why, sure. Look at the feathers on its back. If the feathers are round, then it’s a hen. If they are pointed, it’s a rooster.”

The three of us examined the fathers closely. It had both.

“Hmmm. Very peculiar,” said Mr. Cruz.

“Is there any other way you can tell?”

“I could kill it and examine its insides.”

“No. I do not want it killed,” my brother said.

I took the rooster in my arms and we walked back to the barrio.

Kiko was silent most of the way. Then he said:

“I know how I can prove to you that this is a rooster.”

“How?” I asked.

“Would you agree that this is a rooster if I make it fight in the cockpit and it wins?”

“If this hen of yours can beat a gamecock, I will believe anything,” I said.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll take it to the cockpit this coming Sunday.”

So that Sunday we took the chicken to the cockpit. Kiko looked around for a suitable opponent. He finally picked a red rooster.

“Don’t match your hen against that red rooster,” I told him. “That red rooster is not a native chicken. It is from Texas.”

“I don’t care where it came from,” my brother said. “My rooster will kill it.”

“Don’t be a fool,” I said. “That red rooster is a killer. It has killed more chickens than the fox. There is no rooster in this town that can stand against it. Pick a lesser rooster.”

My brother would not listen. The match was made and the birds were readied for the killing. Sharp steel gaffs were tied to their left legs. Everyone wanted to bet on the red gamecock.

The fight was brief. Both birds were released in the center of the arena. They circled around once and then faced each other. I expected our chicken to die of fright. Instead, a strange thing happened. A lovesick expression came into the red rooster’s eyes. Then it did a love dance. That was all our chicken needed. It rushed at the red rooster with its neck feathers flaring. In one lunge, it buried its spurs into its opponent’s chest. The fight was over.

“Tiope! Tiope! Fixed fight!” the crowd shouted.

Then a riot broke out. People tore the bamboo benches apart and used them as clubs. My brother and I had to leave through the back way. I had the chicken under my arm. We ran toward the coconut groves and kept running till we lost the mob. As soon as we were safe, my brother said:

“Do you believe it is a rooster now?”

“Yes,” I answered.

I was glad the whole argument was over.

Just then the chicken began to quiver. It stood up in my arms and cackled with laughter. Something warm and round dropped into my hand. It was an egg.


i read this story way back in Highschool. 'twas included in my English textbook. the author never cease to amaze me. he's got wit and humor in every story he wrote. I still love reading this short story over and over again and that " We Filipinos are mild drinkers" short story as well.

Anybody who has " We Filipinos are mild drinkers" copy, please post it here ,too.
i couldn't find my textbook. must be rotten with age ( my am i old!) . i got "Brother's Peculiar Chicken" in a certain website that doesn't exist anymore.

"We Filipinos are mild drinkers. We drink for only three good reasons. We drink when we're happy. We drink when we're sad. And... we drink for any other reason." - Alejandro Roces