"No, no," I cried, "I must have it all."
For a long time the quarrel grew worse and worse until it finally became a fight. Then a sad thing occurred. Pedro rushed toward me and snatched at the nest, but I pushed him away. Then Juan came with the same intention. Seeing that I was in danger, I laid the nest on the floor and grasped Juan by the neck. As he tried to throw me, I pushed him out of the door. Down, down he went as fast as an arrow. Now all of us thought that he would be dashed to pieces, but when, by scrambling and sliding, we at last reached the bottom of the long, dark, winding stairs, we found him swelling with pride and boasting of himself as a brave boy.
—Gregorio Farrales.
A Narrow Escape from a Wild Carabao
In 1903 I narrowly escaped being killed by a wild carabao. There were many of us pursuing this animal, but, after seeing that the buffalo was very fierce, all of my companions got so afraid that they withdrew. Since I had the best horse, I continued following the wild beast. My ambition to distinguish myself both in horseback riding and in catching wild cattle was great. So, at the time when we were pursuing the animal, I had in mind that if I alone could succeed in catching the wild carabao, it would surely be an honor to me. So I followed the animal closely. When I was just a few feet behind it it suddenly turned back and fell upon my pony. I also tried to turn back, but in vain; the carabao overcame us. At this time I was entirely hopeless of my life. The sharp horn of the cruel beast stuck deeply into the thighs of my poor pony. I did not know what to do then, for the cruel beast would surely pursue me if I should dismount. So I grasped my saddle with all my might. But after a while my poor pet languished and fell. Then I did my best to get away from danger. The carabao would have pursued me at once, but its horns stuck tight into the muscles of my horse, and consequently it was delayed a little. Meanwhile I got into a cell of a big rock, and exactly at the very moment I squeezed in the mad buffalo struck the opening with its horns. Fortunately, the aperture was too small for the head of the animal to enter. But still the sharp points of its horns could reach me and I received a wound at the back of my neck. Luckily, I had a bolo with me, and reaching out bravely, I stabbed the nose of the cruel beast. It surely received a severe wound. But, instead of running away, the animal became angrier than before and butted again and again at the opening. My eyes were nearly struck by the sharp pointed horns. In order to save myself from further injury I stabbed this time one of the glowing eyes of the buffalo. Blood gushed out at me. When the wild beast felt the pains of the wounds it began to move away with regret. After the carabao had gone I bemoaned the death of my favorite pony. I decided to take revenge upon the beast. In order to accomplish this I first went home. When I told my parents about the accident they at once consented to my taking their gun. So the next morning I set out with many companions. We easily found the same wild carabao roaming in the broad forest. It was still very mad, for it began to chase us immediately, coming swiftly towards us, looking sidewise with its one eye. Without hesitation I let my bullet go and the beast fell dead.
—José M. Cariño.
V. The Traveler's Sketch
A traveler's sketch is an orderly and extended account of the incidents of a journey—the sights, sounds, experiences, impressions and conclusions of the writer. Incidents and anecdotes may be given by the narrator in the first or third person; but a traveler's sketch is always first person. There may be the other forms included, together with descriptions and historical references; but what makes a traveler's sketch a traveler's sketch is the personal flavor. The question the reader always asks is, not what kind of city is Lisbon, but what impression did it make on Fielding.
Great travel books
There have been only a few great travel books written. Perhaps, because the people that are worth while are not gadabouts; perhaps, because only a few men are generous enough or idle enough to give themselves over completely to impressions; surely, because not every one who travels has the ability to see what ought to be seen or to express himself entertainingly after he has seen it. The narrator needs an eye made quiet, that looks into the heart of things. He needs also wit and a wide humanity. If he stalks his way through a place as an Englishman only, or if he buys it through lavishly as an American, he will have nothing to tell that we care to listen to. The public is not won by a string of foreign names merely. A little trip from New York to Boston would furnish a Smollet or a Sterne with more observations than a journey around the world would a dull-minded pedant. George Borrow could tell of distributing Bibles in Spain, and yet give us one of the best travel books in any language. Henry Fielding could be on his death journey, as he was on his voyage to Lisbon, and well know it, as he did, and yet he could write with such an 'indomitable gallantry of spirit, such an irrepressible joy of life, such an insatiably curious eye for humanity,' such a new relish for every fresh face, that the reader could easily imagine that the laughing, genial, ironic, but altogether compassionate and broad-minded, manly fellow had not a care in the world.