But ah, those stars of thine!
Are none like yours, Bonita,
Beyond the ocean brine.”
And then I seem to see the big captain—“Foxy grandpa”—beating the bass drum like that extraordinary man that Mark Twain tells about, “who hadn’t a tooth in his whole head.” I can remember how Don Julian, the crusty Spaniard, animated with the spirit of old Capulet, stood on the chair and shouted, “Viva los Americanos!”—and the palm-grove, like a room of many pillars, lighted by Chinese lanterns.
It was a time of magic moonlight, when the sea broke on the sands in phosphorescent lines in front of the kiosko. Far out on the horizon lights of fishing-boats would glimmer, and the dusky shores of Siquijor or the volcanic isle of Camaguin loomed in the distance. Here there were little cities as completely isolated though they were parts of another planet, where the “other” people worked and played, and promenaded to the strumming of guitars. And in the background rose the triple range of mountains, cold, mysterious, and blue in the transfiguring moonlight.
The little army girl, like some fair goddess of the night, monopolized the masculine attention at the ball. When she appeared upon the floor, all others, as by mutual consent, retired, and left the field to her alone. The “Pearls of Lobuc,” who refused to come until a carriage was sent after them, appeared in delicate gauze dresses, creamy stockings, and white slippers. And “The Princess of the Philippines,” Diega, with her saucy pompadour, forgot that it was time to drop your hand at the conclusion of the dance. Our noble Ichabod was there in a tight-fitting suit of black and narrow trousers, fervently discussing with the French constabulary man whether a frock was a Prince Albert. Paradies capered mincingly to the quick music of the waltz, and the old maid, unable to restrain herself, kept begging the doctor—who did not know how to dance—only to try a two-step with her, please. And the poor doctor, in his agony, had sweated out another clean white uniform. I had almost forgotten Maraquita and the zapatillas with the pearl rosettes. She was a little queen in pink-and-white, and ere the night was over she had given me her “sing sing” (ring) and fan, and told me that I could “ask papa” if I wanted to. The next day she was just as pretty in light-blue and green, and with her hair unbound. She poked her toes into a pair of gold-embroidered sandals, and seemed very much embarrassed at my presence. This was explained when, later in the day, her uncle asked me for Miss Maraquita’s ring.
Although the cook and the muchachos ate the greater part of the refreshments, and a heart or two was broken incidentally, the Oroquieta ball passed into history as being the most brilliant function of its kind that ever had been witnessed at the post.
The winter passed with an occasional plunge in the cool river, and the surf-bath every morning before breakfast. In the evening we would ride to Lobuc, racing the ponies back to town in a white cloud of dust. Dinner was always served for any number, for we frequently had visitors,—field officers on hunting leave, commercial drummers from Cebu, the circuit judge, the captain of the Delapaon. The doctor had been threatening for some time, now, to give Vivan a necessary whipping, which he did one morning to that Chesterfield’s astonishment. Calling the servant “Usted,” or “Your honor,” he applied the strap, and old Vivan was shaking so with laughter that he hardly felt the blows. But after that, he tumbled over himself with eagerness to fill our orders. We had found the coolest places in the town,—the beach at Lobuc, under a wide-spreading tree, and the thatched bridge where the wind swept up and down the river, where the women beat their washing on the rounded stones, and carabaos dreamed in the shade of the bamboo. The cable used to steady the bridge connected with the shore, the doctor explained to the old maid, was the Manila cable over which the messages were sent.
The clamor of bells one morning reminded us that the fiesta week was on, and old Vivan came running in excitedly with the intelligence that seven bancas were already anchored at the river’s mouth, and there were twenty more in sight. Then he went breathlessly around the town to circulate the news. We rode about in Flora’s pony cart, and sometimes went to visit “Foxy Grandpa,” wife, and “Arizona Babe.” “Old Tom,” the convict on parole for murder, waited on the table, serving the pies that Mrs. G. had taught the cook to make, and the canned peaches with evaporated cream. Then, on adjourning to the parlor, with its pillars and white walls, the “Babe” would play “Old Kentucky Home” on the piano till the china shepherdesses danced with the vibrations, and the genial captain, growing reminiscent, would recall the story of the man he had arrested in old Mexico, or even condescend to do a new trick with a handkerchief. There was a curious picture from Japan in a gilt frame that had the place of honor over the piano. It was painted on a plaque of china, robin’s-egg blue, inlaid with bits of pearl,—which represented boats or something on the Inland Sea, while figures of men and small boys, enthusiastically waving Japanese flags, all cut out of paper, had been pasted on. There was an arched bridge over the blue water, and a sampan sculled by a boatman in a brown kimono. There was a house with paper windows and a thatched roof.