Project in Philippine
Literature
Submitted by:
Joseph Emmanuel F. Tamayo
Submitted to:
The Biography of Francisco Balagtas
Francisco Balagtas y de la Cruz, also known as Francisco Baltazar, was a prominent Filipino poet, and is widely considered as one of the greatest Filipino literature laureate for his impact on Filipino literature. The famous epic, Florante at Laura, is regarded as his defining work.
Francisco Balagtas was born on April 2, 1788, in Barrio Panginay, Bigaa, Bulacan as the youngest of the four children of Juan Balagtas, a blacksmith, and Juana de la Cruz. He studied in a parochial school in Bigaa and later in Manila. During his childhood years, Francisco later worked as callboy in Tondo, Manila. He worked as a callboy to earn for his tuition fee.
Balagtas learned to write poetry from José de la Cruz (Huseng Sisiw), one of the most famous poets of Tondo, in return of chicks. It was de la Cruz himself who personally challenged Balagtas to improve his writing. Balagtas swore he would overcome Huseng Sisiw as he would not ask anything in return as a poet.
In 1835, Balagtas moved to Pandacan, where he met María Asunción Rivera, who would effectively serve as the muse for his future works. She is referenced in Florante at Laura as 'Celia' and 'MAR'.
Balagtas' affections for Maria were challenged by the influential Mariano Capule. Capule won the battle for Mar when he used his wealth to get Balagtas imprisoned. It was here that he wrote Florante at Laura—In fact, the events of this poem were meant to parallel his own situation.
He wrote his poems in Tagalog, during an age when Filipino writing was predominantly written in Spanish.
Balagtas published Florante at Laura upon his release in 1838. He moved to Balanga, Bataan in 1840 where he served as the assistant to the Justice of the Peace. He was also appointed as translator of the court. He married Juana Tiambeng on July 22, 1842, in a ceremony officiated by Fr. Cayetano Arellano, uncle of future Philippine Supreme Court Chief Justice Cayetano Arellano. They had eleven children but only four survived to
adulthood. On November 21, 1849, Governor-General Narciso Clavería issued a decree that every Filipino native must adopt a Spanish surname. In 1856, he was appointed as the Major Lieutenant, but soon after was convicted and sent to prison again in Bataan under the accusation that he ordered a rich man's housemaid's head to be shaved.
He was again released from prison in 1860 and continued writing poetry, along with translating Spanish documents, but two years later, he died on February 20, 1862, at the age of 73. Upon his deathbed, he asked a
favor that none of his children become poets like him, who had suffered under his gift as well as under others. He even went as far as to tell them it would be better to cut their hands off than let them be writers.
Excerpt from Florante at Laura: Kabanata 1 – Pasimula
Sa isang madilim, gubat na mapanglaw, Ang mga hayop pang dito'y gumagala,
dawag na matinik ay walang pagitan, karamiha'y Sierpe't Basilisco'y madla,
halos naghihirap ang kay Febong silang Hiena't Tigreng ganid na nagsisisila
dumalaw sa loob ng lubhang masukal. ng buhay ng tao't daiging kapuwa.
Malalaking kahoy-ang ang inihahandog Ito'y gubat manding sa pinto'y malapit
pawang dalamhati, kahapisa't lungkot; ng Avernong Reyno ni Plutong masungit;
huni pa ng ibon ay nakalulunos ang nasasakupang lupa'y dinidilig
sa lalong matimpi't nagsasayang loob. ng Ilog Cocitong kamandag ang tubig.
Tanang mga baging namimilipit Sa may gitna nitong mapanglaw na gubat,
sa sanga ng kahoy ay balot ng tinik; may punong Higerang daho'y kulay pupas;
may bulo ang bunga't nagbibigay-sakit dito nagagapos ang kahabag-habag,
sa kanino pa mang sumagi't malapit. isang pinag-usig ng masamang palad.
Ang mga bulaklak ng nagtayong kahoy, Baguntaong basal na ang anyo't tindig,
pinakamaputing nag-uungos sa dahon; kahit natatali-kamay paa't liig,
pawang kulay luksa at nakikiayon kundi si Narciso'y tunay na Adonis,
sa nakaliliyong masangsang na amoy. mukhang sumisilang sa gitna ng sakit.
Karamiha'y Cipres at Higerang kutad Makinis ang balat at anaki'y burok
na ang lilim niyon ay nakasisindak; pilikmata'y kilay-mistulang balantok;
ito'y walang bunga't daho'y malalapad bagong sapong ginto ang kulay ng buhok,
na nakadidilim sa loob ng gubat. sangkap ng katawa'y pawang magkaayos.
The Biography of José Corazón de Jesús
José Corazón de Jesús, also known by his pen name Huseng Batute, was a Filipino poet who used Tagalog poetry to express the Filipinos' desire for independence during the American occupation of the Philippines, a period that lasted from 1901 to 1946. He is best known for being the lyricist of the Filipino song Bayan Ko.
Huseng Batute was born on November 22, 1896 in Santa Cruz, Manila to Vicente de Jesús, the first health bureau director of the American
occupation government, and Susana Pangilinan of Pampanga. He was
christened José Cecilio de Jesús but he later dropped Cecilio and replaced it with the Spanish name Corazón (heart) because he said it best described his character.
De Jesús spent his childhood in Santa Maria, Bulacan, his father's hometown. He completed his education at the defunct Liceo de Manila, where he graduated in 1916. His first published poem was Pangungulila, which was published in the defunct Ang Mithi in 1913 when he was 17 years old.
In 1920, de Jesús received his Bachelor of Laws degree from the defunct Academia de Leyes but he never practiced his legal profession because he was already busy writing a column in verse for the Tagalog newspaper Taliba. The column was called Buhay Maynila which he wrote under the pseudonym Huseng Batute. Through his column, he satirized society under the American colonizers and espoused independence for the Philippines which was then a commonwealth under the United States.
De Jesús published some 4,000 poems in his Buhay Maynila column. He also wrote about 800 columns under the title Ang Lagot na Bagting.
Although his favored pen name was Huseng Batute, he also wrote about 300 short poems and prose works under several pseudonyms, such as Pusong Hapis, Paruparu, Pepito Matimtiman, Mahirap, Dahong Kusa, Paruparong Luksa, Amado Viterbi, Elias, Anastacio Salagubang and Water Lily.
On March 28, 1924, de Jesús and other leading Tagalog writers met at a women's school in Tondo, Manila, under the auspices of Filipino educator Rosa Sevilla, to discuss how to celebrate the birth anniversary of Tagalog poet Francisco Balagtas on April 2. They decided to hold a traditional duplo, or a dramatic debate in verse that was in its waning days in the 1920s. They changed the format of the duplo and renamed it balagtasan in honor of Balagtas.
There were three pairs of poets who participated in the first balagtasan on April 6, 1924 at the defunct Instituto de Mujeres, founded by Sevilla, but
the audience was most impressed by de Jesús and another Filipino poet, Florentino Collantes.
The balagtasan was an instant hit; later becoming became a common feature in Manila's biggest and most expensive theaters until the 1950s. De Jesús and Collantes were pitted against each other in a contrived rivalry and a showdown was set for October 18, 1925 at the Olympic Stadium. De Jesús was acclaimed winner of the showdown and was dubbed "Hari ng
Kahit Saan
Kung sa mga daang nilalakaran mo, Kung ikaw’y magising sa dapit-umaga,
may puting bulaklak ang nagyukong damo isang paruparo ang iyong nakita
na nang dumaan ka ay biglang tumungo na sa masetas mong didiligin sana
tila nahihiyang tumunghay sa iyo. . . ang pakpak ay wasak at nanlalamig na. . .
Irog, iya’y ako! Iya’y ako, Sinta!
Kung may isang ibong tuwing takipsilim, Kung nagdarasal ka’t sa matang luhaan
nilalapitan ka at titingin-tingin, ng Kristo’y may isang luhang nakasungaw,
kung sa iyong silid masok na magiliw kundi mo mapahid sa panghihinayang
at ika’y awitan sa gabing malalim. . . at nalulungkot ka sa kapighatian. . .
Ako iyan, Giliw! Yao’y ako, Hirang!
Kung tumingala ka sa gabing payapa Ngunit kung ibig mong makita pa ako,
at sa langit nama’y may ulilang tala akong totohanang nagmahal sa iyo;
na sinasabugan ikaw sa bintana hindi kalayuan, ikaw ay tumungo
ng kanyang malungkot na sinag ng luha sa lumang libinga’t doon, asahan mong. . .
Iya’y ako, Mutya! magkikita tayo!
Bayan Ko
Ang bayan kong Pilipinas Lupain ng ginto't bulaklak Pag-ibig na sa kanyang palad
Nag-alay ng ganda't dilag. At sa kanyang yumi at ganda
Dayuhan ay nahalina Bayan ko, binihag ka
Nasadlak sa dusa.
Ibon mang may layang lumipad kulungin mo at umiiyak
Bayan pa kayang sakdal dilag Ang di magnasang makaalpas!
Pilipinas kong minumutya Pugad ng luha ko't dalita
Aking adhika,
The Biography of José de la Cruz
José de la Cruz, more popularly known as Huseng Sisiw, was one of the great Filipino writers during the Spanish regime. He is given the honor of Hari
ng mga Makata in the Philippines.
De la Cruz was born in Tondo, Manila on December 20, 1746.
His family was ill-fated and he could not afford to study. However, by his own efforts, he was able to learn Katon and Cartilla, Doctrina Christiana, Philosophy, Canon law, and Theology.
One day when he was taking a bath on a river near their house, two Jesuits passed by and asked him for the right way. Because of de la Cruz' fondness of reading, he was able to understand their language, they were Spaniards, and was able to communicate with them. The Spaniards were amazed by his intelligence and his politeness that they were not able to go to their destination, but instead they just talked with him more to get to know him better. He was eight years old then.
When he was a teenager, he started to have a better understanding in Tagalog language, think bigger ideas, and possess writing skills that awakens the heart and soul of the people partly (or mostly) due to his constant
reading of the Bible.
Besides Spanish and Tagalog language, he also learned Latin and Greek. He can also manage to write plays in just a span of time. During a town feast in the province of Batangas one time, he was invited to stage one of his plays. The priest of the event told him to stage a play based on a
historical event instead. He was forced to write a story and teach the actors in one night, but the play was still a success. He could also simultaneously dictate poems into five different verses, all at the same time.
He was known for his ability to write poems well that many are asking him to teach them how to rhyme words. He was given the name Huseng Sisiw because if ever someone asks him to write a poem about love, he wants a sisiw to give him in return. In addition, he prefers eating younger ones, those that have not yet reached adulthood, even in vegetables and roasted pig.
He was also the mentor of Francisco Balagtas, another well-known poet who would later be known as the "Father of Tagalog Literature", in poetry.
Awa Sa Pag-Ibig
Oh! Kaawa-awang buhay ko sa iba Mula at sapol ay gumiliw-giliw na, Nguni’t magpangayon ang wakas ay di pa
Nagkamit ng tungkol pangalang ginhawa.
Ano’t ang ganti mong pagbayad sa akin, Ang ako’y umasa’t panasa-nasain, At inilagak mong sabing nahabilin, Sa langit ang awa saka ko na hintin!
Ang awa ng langit at awa mo naman Nagkakaisa na kaya kung so bagay? Banta ko’y hindi rin; sa awa mong tunay,
Iba ang sa langit na maibibigay.
Ano ang ganti mo sa taglay kong hirap, Sa langit na hintin ang magiging habag?
Napalungi namang patad yaring palad, Sa ibang suminta’t gumiliw ng tapat.
Singsing ng Pag-ibig
Ah! Sayang na sayang, sayang na pag-ibig, Sayang na singsing kong nahulog sa tubig;
Kung ikaw rin lamang ang makasasagip, Mahanga’y hintin kong kumati ang tubig!
Ang Dapat Mabatid ng mga Tagalog
Andres Bonifacio
Itong Katagalugan, na pinamamahalaan nang unang panahon ng ating tunay na mga kababayan niyaong hindi pa tumutulong sa mga lupaing ito ang mga Kastila, ay nabubuhay sa lubos na kasaganaan, at kaginhawaaan. Kasundo niya ang mga kapit-bayan at lalung-lalo na ang mga taga-Japon, sila’y kabilihan at kapalitan ng mga kalakal, malabis ang pagyabong ng lahat ng pinagkakakitaan, kaya’t dahil dito’y mayaman ang kaasalan ng lahat, bata’t matanda at sampung mga babae ay marunong bumasa at sumulat ng talagang pagsulat nating mga Tagalog. Dumating ang mga Kastila at
dumulog na nakipagkaibigan. Sa mabuti nilang hikayat na diumano, tayo’y aakayin sa lalong kagalingan at lalong imumulat ang ating kaisipan, ang nasabing nagsisipamahala ay nangyaring nalamuyot sa tamis ng kanilang dila sa paghibo. Gayon man sila’y ipinailalim sa talagang kaugaliang
pinagkayarian sa pamamagitan ng isang panunumpa na kumuha ng kaunting dugo sa kani-kanilang mga ugat, at yao’y inihalo’t ininom nila kapwa tanda ng tunay at lubos na pagtatapat na di magtataksil sa pinagkayarian. Ito’y siyang tinatawag na “Pacto de Sangre” ng haring Sikatuna at ni Legaspi na pinakakatawanan ng hari sa Espana.
Buhat nang ito’y mangyari ay bumubilang na ngayon sa tatlong daang taon mahigit na ang lahi ni Legaspi ay ating binubuhay sa lubos na
kasaganaan, ating pinagtatamasa at binubusog, kahit abutin natin ang kasalatan at kadayukdukan; iginugugol natin ang yaman, dugo at sampu ng tunay na mga kababayan na aayaw pumayag na sa kanila’y pasakop, at gayon din naman nakipagbaka tayo sa mga Insik at taga-Holandang nagbalang umagaw sa kanila nitong Katagalugan.
Ngayon sa lahat ng ito’y ano ang sa mga ginawa nating paggugugol ang nakikitang kaginhawahang ibinigay sa ating Bayan? Ano ang nakikita nating pagtupad sa kanilang kapangakuan na siyang naging dahil ng ating
paggugugol! Wala kudi pawang kataksilan ang ganti sa ating mga pagpapala at mga pagtupad sa kanilang ipinangakong tayo’y lalong gigisingin sa
kagalingan ay bagkus tayong binulag, inihawa tayo sa kanilang hamak na asal, pinilt na sinira ang mahal at magandang ugali ng ating Bayan; iminulat tayo sa isang maling pagsampalataya at isinadlak sa lubak ng kasamaan ang kapurihan ng ating Bayan; at kung tayo’y mangahas humingi ng kahit
gabahid na lingap, ang nagiging kasagutan ay ang tayo’y itapon at ilayo sa piling ng ating minamahal ng anak, aswa at matandang magulang. Ang bawat isang himutok na pumulas sa ating dibdib ay itinuturing na isang malaking pagkakasala at karakarakang nilalapatan ng sa hayop na kabangisan.
Ngayon wala nang maituturing na kapanatagan sa ating pamamayan; ngayon lagi nang gingambala ang ating katahimikan ng umaalingawngaw na daing at pananambitan, buntong-hininga at hinagpis ng makapal na ulila, bao’t mga magulang ng mga kababayang ipinanganyaya ng mga manlulupig na Kastila; ngayon tayo’y nalulunod na sa nagbabahang luha ng Ina sa nakitil na buhay ng anak, sa pananangis ng sanggol na pinangulila ng kalupitan na ang bawat patak ay katulad ng isang kumukulong tinga, na sumasalang sa mahapding sugat ng ating pusong nagdaramdam; ngayon lalo’t lalo tayong nabibiliran ng tanikalang nakalalait sa bawat lalaking may iniingatang kapurihan. Ano ang nararapat nating gawin? Ang araw ng katuwiran na sumisikat sa Silanganan, ay malinaw na itinuturo sa ating mga matang malaong nabulagan, ang landas na dapat nating tunguhin, ang liwanag niya’y tanaw sa ting mga mata, ang kukong nag-akma ng kamatayang alay sa atin ng mga ganid na asal. Itinuturo ng katuwiran, na wala tayong iba pang maaantay kundi lalo’t lalong kaalipinan. Itinuturo ng katuwiran, lalo’t lalong kaalipustaan at lalo’t lalong kaalipinan. Itinuturo ng katuwiran, na huwag nating sayangin ang panahon sa pag-asa sa ipinangakong
kaginhawahan na hindi darating at hindi mangyayari. Itinuturo ng katuwiran ang tayo’y umasa sa ating at huwag antayin sa iba ang ating kabuhayan. Itinuturo na katuwiran ang tayo’y magkaisang-loob, magkaisang isip at akala at nang tayo’y magkaisa na maihanap ng lunas ang naghaharing kasamaan sa ating Bayan.
Panahon na ngayong dapat na lumitaw ang liwanag ng katotohanan; panahon nang dapat nating ipakilala n tayo’y may sariling pagdaramdam, may puri, may hiya at pagdadamayan. Ngayon panahon nang dapat simulan ang pagsisiwalat ng mga mahal at dakilang ani na magwawasak sa
masinsing tabing na bumubulag sa ating kaisipan; panahon na ngayong dapat makilala ng mga Tagalog ang pinagbuhatan ng kanilang mga
kahirapan. Araw na itong dapat kilalanin na sa bawat isang hakbang natin y tumutuntong tayo at nabibingit sa malalim na hukay ng kamatayan na sa ati’y inuumang ng mga kaaway.
Kaya, O mga kababayan, ating idila ang bulag na kaisipan at kusang igugol sa kagalingan ang atin glakas sa tunay at lubos na pag-asa na magtagumpay sa nilalayong kaginhawahan ng bayan tinubuan.
The Biography of Leona Florentino
Leona Florentino was a Filipino poetess in the Spanish and Ilocano languages. She is considered as the “mother of Philippine women’s literature” and the “bridge from oral to literary tradition”.
Born to a wealthy and prominent family in Vigan, Ilocos Sur, Florentino began to write her first verses in Ilocano at a young age. Despite her
potential, she was not allowed to receive a university education because of her gender. Florentino was instead tutored by her mother, and then a series of private teachers. An educated Ilocano priest taught her advanced Spanish and encouraged her to develop her voice in poetry.
Florentino married a politician named Elias de los Reyes at the age of 14. They had five children together. Their son Isabelo de los Reyes later became a Filipino writer, activist and senator. Due to the feminist nature of her writings, Florentino was shunned by her husband and son; she lived alone in exile and separately from her family. She died at the age of 35.
Naunsyaming Pag-asa
Pupos ng ligaya't katiwasayan Susubukan ko sanang magtapat
Silang may minamahal, Ngunit ako'y nauumid,
Dahil mayroon silang karamay Dahil maliwanag namang
Sa lahat ng hinaing sa buhay. Mabibigo lamang ako.
Ang aba kong kapalaran Ngunit sapat na ang ligayang
madarama
Tila walang kapantay Kung malaman mo ang aking
pagsinta:
Ang sinasabi ko'y isang katiyakan Nangangako ako at sumusumpa
Dahil ako ngayo'y nagdurusa. Ikaw lamang ang mamahalin
hanggang kamatayan. Ako'y nagmamahal Sa isang sintas hiyas Ngunit hindi ko matiyak Kung ako'y karapatdapat. Isinusunpa ko ang oras Ng aking kapanganakan,
Libong ulit sanang higit na mainam Kung namatay ako nang ako'y isinilang.
The Biography of Isabelo de los Reyes
Isabelo de los Reyes, Sr. y Florentino, also known as Don Belong, was a prominent Filipino politician, writer, and labor activist in the 19th and 20th
centuries. He was the original founder of the Aglipayan Church, an
independent Christian Protestant church in the catholic tradition. Due to his widespread Anti-Catholic writings and activism with labor unions, he is sometimes dubbed as the "Father of Filipino Socialism".
Isabelo de los Reyes was born to Elias de los Reyes and Leona
Florentino in Vigan, Ilocos Sur. His mother, of Spanish and Filipina descent, was recognized as the first woman poet of the Philippines. She wrote in both Spanish and Ilocano.
Due to their troubled marriage, Elias entrusted his 6-year-old son Isabelo to the care of Don Mena Crisologo, a wealthy relative and Ilocano writer. The boy was enrolled in a grammar school attached to the local
seminary run by Augustinians; their harsh discipline made him a critic of the friars all his life. In 1880 at age 16, de los Reyes went to Manila, where he finished the Bachiller en Artes at the Colegio de San Juan de Letran. After that, he studied law, history and palaeography at the Pontifical University of Santo Tomas.
In 1887, at the age of 23, de los Reyes won a silver medal at the Exposición Filipina in Madrid for his Spanish-language book entitled El
folk-lore Filipino (Filipino Folkfolk-lore). It was the same year that the Filipino writer
José Rizal published his first novel, Noli Me Tangere in Berlin. As a teenager, de los Reyes had been intrigued by the growing interest in the "new science" of el saber popular (folklore). Manila's Spanish newspaper La Oceania
Española asked readers to contribute articles on el folk-lore and offered directions on how to collect material.
Two months later, de los Reyes set to work on the folklore of Ilocos, Malabon, and Zambales, what he called El folk-lore Filipino. It became one of the greatest passions of his life. By 1886, as the French were starting serious study of folklore in relation to their own native traditions, de los Reyes at the age of 22 was completing a manuscript for publication.
After his father died when Isabelo was 18, the young man had to earn money to supplement an allowance from his mother. He pursued his passion for writing, contributing articles to most of Manila's newspapers. In 1889 he founded El Ilocano, said to be the first newspaper written solely in a
Philippine vernacular. It was short-lived but influential. He continued to write and research extensively on Philippine history and culture, and was
As a journalist, de los Reyes almost faced the firing squad for attracting the ire of Spanish authorities in highlighting Spanish church and
governmental abuses during the movement for independence. He criticized the large haciendas of the friars while so many peasants were landless. In January 1897 he was arrested and held in Bilibid Prison for his part in the revolution. During this period, the writer José Rizal was among those executed. A change in governors won de los Reyes a measure of leniency, and in April, General Fernando Primo de Rivera ordered him deported to Spain and imprisoned in Barcelona.
In 1898, de los Reyes was released and given a job in the Spanish government, as Counselor of the Ministry of the Colonies, which he held until 1901. While in Madrid, he published articles critical of the United States when they occupied the Philippines. He also published a biweekly
newspaper, Filipinas ante Europa, which had the editorial logo: Contra
Norte-America, no; contra el imperialismo, sí, hasta la muerte! It ran for 36 issues
between October 25, 1899 and June 10, 1901. After closing (probably due to trouble with the authorities), it briefly reappeared as El Defensor de Filipinas, which ran monthly from July 1 to October 1, 1901.
Don Belong was not only a journalist, as he did much religious writing during his life, starting when he was first imprisoned. He helped to translate the Bible into the Ilocano vernacular. He became one of the few convicts to translate the Scriptures.
On July 1, 1901, the Spanish government permitted de los Reyes to return to the Philippines. He brought many books with him, among which were those written by Karl Marx, Friedrich Engels, Victor Hugo, Pierre Joseph Proudhon, Mikhail Bakunin, and other socialists of Europe. These books inspired him to introduce socialism to the Philippines, where he became known as the first Filipino Marxist.
After returning, de los Reyes was jailed for inciting labor strikes against American business firms. Influenced by anarchism and Marxism during his imprisonment in Barcelona, in 1902 de los Reyes founded the first labor union in the country, the Unión Obrera Democrática. He wanted to protect Filipinos against what he perceived as the exploitation of labor by American capitalist institutions. In the same year, he and other UNO members
launched the Philippine Independent Church, to create a national church independent of the Pope and the Catholic Church. He chose his fellow Ilocano compatriot, Gregorio Aglipay, as its first bishop.
In 1912 at the age of 48, de los Reyes was elected a councilor of the City of Manila, and began his political career. Winning re-election, he served as councilor until 1919.
Beginning his campaign for the senate in 1922, in 1923, de los Reyes won a Senate seat in an election against Elpidio Quirino to represent the Ilocos region.
After his term and the death of his third wife in childbirth, Don Belong returned to private life in the 1920s. He dedicated the remainder of his life to religious writings for the Aglipayan Church, in which he was made honorary bishop. He wrote many sermons and other Christian literature, including basic materials for the Aglipayan Church.
Excerpt from Ang Singsing ng Dalagang Marmol: Kabanata 1
Matapus ang kasindáksindák na labanáng nangyari sa m~ga tagalog at americano sa Kin~gwá, lalawigan n~g Bulakán, n~g iká 23 n~g Abril n~g 1899, na siyáng ikinápatáy kay Coronel Stotsenburg, sa Capitán at ibá pang m~ga kawal americano, kamíng m~ga tagalog naman ay nagsiurong sa Sibul, at sa isáng bahay-gamutan n~g aming m~ga kawal ay nátagpuán ko ang isáng matapang na pinunòng tagalog na bahagyâ náng makagaláw at makapagsalitâ dahil sa marami niyáng súgat. Malakí ang awà sa kanyá n~g lahát n~g táong nan~garoroón at siyá na lamang ang napagúusapan at lubós nápupuri dahil sa kanyáng kabihasnán sa pakikilaban at sa kapusukan sa m~ga pakikipagsagupà; at sa katotohanan kahit mamámatáy na lamang ay pilit pa niyáng napaúrong ang malalakas naming m~ga kaaway.
Nang aking matantô ang labis na paglilingkód n~g bayaning itó sa ating Bayan, ay pinagsikapan kong siyá'y alagàan, bagamán walâ akóng pananalig na siyá'y maáari pang mabúhay.
N~guni't aywan kun sa kabagsikan n~g bisà n~g tubig sa Sibul, ang
pinunong itó na Pusò ang pan~galan, isang araw ay idinilat ang m~ga matá at nagsalitâ n~g ganitó:
--Sino ka man pô, maawàíng kapatid na nag-áalagà sa akin, kayó'y pinasásalamatan ko, at ipinamamanhik sa inyó na huwág mo na pong lubhâng pagsikapang akó'y agawin sa m~ga kukó n~g kamatayan, pagkâ't batíd kong dî akó mabubúhay dahil sa aking m~ga súgat, at lalòng-lalò pa dahil sa kainitan n~g lupàing itó. N~guni't nápakatamis sa akin ang
mamatáy sa paglilingkód sa kapús-palad nating Bayan.
Akó na kaylán ma'y di nakababatid kun paano ang pag-iyák ay kusang tumulò ang luhà ko't niyakap ang bayaning halos ay naghihingalô at aní ko:
--Huwág ka pông man~gambá matapang na pinunò pagka't nagsísimulâ na kayó sa isáng panggaling.
--¿Man~gambá ang sinabi ninyó--ang sagót ni Pusò--Di ko nakikilala ang pan~gambá ni ang tákot n~guni, kun inyóng mababatíd giliw na kaibigan ang lihim n~g luntáy-luntáy kong pusò, marahil kayó rin ang tutúlong dalá n~g inyóng pagkahabág, upang madalîín ang pagkamatáy ko.
At n~g masábi ang ganitó'y itinuro ang kanyáng singsing sa daliri at bago nagpatuloy:
--Kaibiga't kapatid; ipinamámanhik ko sa inyóng mangyaring pag-in~gatan ang singsing na itó pagkamatáy ko, n~g di maalís sa aking bangkáy at málibing na kasama ko. ¡Ay katoto! Kun inyóng málalaman ang
pinanggalin~gan n~g singsíng na itó....
Hindi itinulóy n~g pinunò ang pagsasalitâ pagkâ't di napigilan ang kanyáng luhà sa pagkáalala n~g m~ga kapaitang kanyáng linálasáp. Inalagatâ kong siyá'y kusàng liban~gin at pasiglahin ang loób bago nagkunwa akóng
tumatawa:
--¡Ha, ha, ha! Tila ba dî kayó--aní ko--sanáy sa m~ga pakikitunggali, palibhasà lubhâ na kayóng nalulunos dahil lamang sa isáng babai. Aking ipinaáalala sa inyó, mahál na pinunô, na sa gitnà n~g malakíng sakunâ n~g ating bayan ay di dapat isagunitâ ang bagay na kasalawahang loób n~g m~ga babai kahit silá'y sakdál n~g gándá.
--Mapalad ka pò, katoto, na sa masíd ay di pa naka lalasáp n~g libong kapaitan at m~ga lasong natatagò sa pusò n~g isáng babai.
--¡Oh, ginoó! Sa kanilá'y mayroóng masamá at may mabuti rin namán. At ang tuntunin ko'y náuuwî sa: Madaling pag-ilag sa m~ga may tagláy na kapintasan at manatili akó sa m~ga mairugin at dî salawahan.
--¿Anó ang sabi ninyó? Sa lagay, mayroón kayâng isáng babai man lamang na dî balibát ang ulo at dî salawahan?
--Mayroón pô at dî ang lahát ay pawàng kirí ó manglilipad....
--¿Túnay kayà? Kun sa ganáng akin, lagì na akóng nagíng kapús-palad sa dî pagkakatagpô n~g isáng babaing may ganáp na pagkukurò at íibig n~g tapát sa akin.
¿Alam mo pô ba kun bakit ang singsíng na itó'y lubhâ kong mimámahál?
--Huwág na ninyóng ipabatíd pagkâ't iyá'y isusukal lamang n~g iyó pong kalooban.
--Mabuti n~gâ, katoto, na umagos ang aking luhà at sa gayó'y maawasán n~g bigá't yaríng dibdib. Makiníg ka pô at isisiwalat ko sa inyó ang lihim n~g aking pusò.
Sa kaunti kong kabatirán tungkól sa pagkasalawahan n~g m~ga babai, lalò ang magagandáng maraming nan~gin~gibig, ay dî ko pinaháhalagaháng gasino mulâ pa sa aking pagkabatà ang ganyáng ásal; at ang palakad kong itó'y nagíng makabuluhán sa akin, palibhasà, kun lumalayô ang isáng lalaki ay silá an~g nagsisilapit, at kun ang lalaki'y nagpapakita n~g katamlayang loób at napagiin~gatang katabayin ang pag-iisip sa m~ga dahilanin n~g pagibig, ay madalîng makatagpô; n~gunì, kung ang lalaki'y maging mairugín ay agád kang hihiluhin n~g m~ga babai at pahihirapang lábis n~g walà muntî mang awà.
--Gayón, palá't batíd mo pô ang lahát n~g iyán, ¿bakit kayó napasilò?
--Akin nan~gâng sinabi, katoto, na kaylán ma'y di akó umibig sa kanilá; n~guní dalá yatà n~g aking malungkót na kapalaran, isáng araw ay
nápaparito akó sa lalawigang itó n~g KABULAKLAKÁN ó Bulakán—sa m~ga kastilàng dî mátumpák bumigkás n~g máayos--at sa isáng maligayang halamanan ay nakita ko si Liwayway na sa kagandahan ay higít n~g malakí sa balitàng Helena, na dahil sa pagkatakas sa kanyá sa Paris ay siyáng
pinanggalin~gan n~g kasíndák-sindák na patayan n~g m~ga panahón n~g kabayanihan.
Ang binibining itó'y túnay na tila isáng _Dalagang Mármol_, dî lamang sa pagkakahawig sa larawan ni _Venus_ na aking nákita sa Museo n~g Louvre sa París, kundî pagkâ't tila dî nakaráramdam kun minsan.
--Sinabi ko ná sa inyó, na ang kagandahan nilá ay siyáng nakapagbibigáy n~g kayaban~gan at kakirihán. Masisirà, sa wakás, ang inyóng isip pag-isasaloób ang libolibo niláng pang-aaglahi.
--N~guni, ¿dî ba dayà ikararagdág pa sa halagá n~g kaniláng m~ga
kagandahang lantád, kun silá'y umibig n~g matibay at huwág parang isáng babaing nápalungî, na sa kanyáng malabis na karálitâán ay napipilit itakal ang m~ga pinaghunusan n~g kanyáng kahihiyán sa bala nang mákaibig?
--Sana n~gâ pô; n~guni't ang babai'y talagáng siyáng _demonio_ na ating kaaway, at úpang huwág nating mákilala ang kaniláng kasukabán ay
ipinamámasid sa atin ang dati niláng mukhâ noóng silá'y isáng _angél_ pa, at sakà nagsosoót n~g barò't sáya.
Si Pusò'y nán~gitî n~g márinig ang masayá kong birò at bago nagsalitâ:
--Hindî, katoto; si Liwayway ko'y dî mangyayaring magíng isáng _demoniong_ may baró't sáya, kundî isáng diwatàng nagliliwanag sa kanyang dikit at kahinhinan, Gayón man, ¡oh, pusò! gaánon~g hapdî n~g súgat na sa iyó'y ipinagkaloób n~g malupít na diwatàng iyan!...
Magtanim Ay ‘Di Biro
Magtanim ay di biro Maghapong nakayuko
Di naman makatayo Di naman makaupo Bisig ko'y namamanhid Baywang ko'y nangangawit.
Binti ko'y namimintig Sa pagkababad sa tubig.
Kay-pagkasawing-palad Ng inianak sa hirap, Ang bisig kung di iunat,
Di kumita ng pilak. Sa umagang pagkagising
Lahat ay iisipin Kung saan may patanim May masarap na pagkain. Halina, halina, mga kaliyag, Tayo'y magsipag-unat-unat. Magpanibago tayo ng lakas
Para sa araw ng bukas Braso ko'y namamanhid Baywang ko'y nangangawit.
Binti ko'y namimintig Sa pagkababad sa tubig.
Paruparong Bukid
Paruparong bukid na lilipad-lipad Sa gitna ng daan papaga-pagaspas
Isang bara ang tapis Isang dangkal ang manggas
Ang sayang de kola Isang piyesa ang sayad
May payneta pa siya — uy! May suklay pa man din — uy! Nagwas de-ohetes ang palalabasin
Haharap sa altar at mananalamin At saka lalakad nang pakendeng-kendeng.
Sitsiritsit, Alibangbang
Sitsiritsit, alibangbang Salaginto at salagubang Ang babae sa lansangan Kung gumiri'y parang tandang
Santo Niño sa Pandakan Putoseko sa tindahan Kung ayaw mong magpautang
Uubusin ka ng langgam Mama, mama, namamangka
Pasakayin yaring bata. Pagdating sa Maynila
Ipagpalit ng manika.
Ale, ale, namamayong Pasukubin yaring sanggol.
Pagdating sa Malabon Ipagpalit ng bagoong.
Ambo
Wilfredo Pa. Virtusio
Dati-rati, alas-singko pa lamang ay gising na si Ambo, nakabihis na, nakainom na ng malabnaw at matabang na kape at naglalakad na—
naglalakad lamang—patungo sa opisina ng sangay na iyon ng gobyerno sa may Port Area. Ngunit ngayong umaga, kalong na ng sarisaring ingay ang kalapit nilang mga kuwarto ay nakababad pa rin siya sa kuwarto.
“Bakit, ha, Ambo?” tanong ng kabiyak niyang si Marta.
Walang kibong ibinaling ni Ambo ang tingin sa katabing asawa. Tumiim sa kanya ang butuhan at marak na mukha nito.
“Di ka ba papasok ngayon, ha, Ambo?”
“Parang tinatamad na ‘kong pumasok,” sabi ni Ambo. “Pasok ‘ko nang pasok, e, ‘ala namang nangyayari.”
“Konting tiyaga.”
“Parang gusto ko na talagang mainis, Marta,” at bahagyang tumigas ang boses ni Ambo. “Sa araw-araw na ginawa ng D’yos, nakikiusap,
nagmamakaawa, halos maglumuhod ka sa mga ‘yon. At kung iisiping pinagtrabahuhan mo naman ang kinukuha mo . . .”
“Konti pang tiis . . . Pasasaan ba’t bibigay rin nila ‘yon.” “Kelan pa, Marta?”
“Me awa ang D’yos.”
Natahimik si Ambo. Me awa ang Diyos. Bukambibig ni Marta iyon at ngayon, naitanong niya sa sarili kung kalian pa kaya darating ang awa ng Diyos. Napagmasdan niya ang nakahilatang mga anak sa kabuuan ng munting kuwartong iyon at naisip niyang kailangang ilawit na ng Diyos na iyon ang Kanyang habag kung mayroon nga iyong habag sa mga taong tulad niya. Mayamaya’y dinalahit si Marta ng tuyot, sunod-sunod na pag-ubo. Yumaning ang yayat na balikat ni Marta at ang galit ni Ambo’y nahalinhinan ng
pagkaawa sa asawa, na pagkatapos ay humangga sa labis na pagkabahala nang tumiim sa kanyang isipan na may sakit si Marta, may tuberkulosis at hindi makapaglalabada pa.
Si Marta’y may TB, patuloy na dumaro sa kanyang utak, at muli, natingnan niya ang nakahigang mga anak, pito, at natutulog ang mga iyon at
mayamaya pa, magigising ang mga iyon at hihingi ng pagkain at
niyang muling lumabas ng bahay nang umagang iyon; hindi, hindi niya matitiis na makitang nananangis ang mga anak dahil sa gutom.
Humupa na ang pag-ubo ni Marta. Bumangon si Ambo at hinakbang ang pinakakusina ng kuwartong iyong inuupahan nila ng treinta pesos kada
buwan. Nasa harapan ng kalan ang panganay nilang si Sonia. Sampung taon si Sonia, payat at maiksi ang kaliwang paa.
“’Tay, ‘sang linggo na ‘tong latak na pinakukuluan ko,” sabi ni Sonia. Walang kibo niyang tinungo ang hugasan ng plato. Walang sabon sa habonera. Naghihilamos siyang hindi gumagamit ng sabon.
Gising na ang tatlo sa kanyang mga anak. Nilalaro ni Roma, otso anyos at sumunod kay Sonia, ang bunso nilang mag-iisang taon. Kinikiliti ni Roma ang sanggol, anaki’y gustong patawanin pero hindi tumatawa ang sanggol.
“Ta . . . Tata . . . Ta . . .”
Nakalahad ang butuhang kamay na lumalapit sa kanya si Nida. Pitong taon si Nida, ngunit sa edad na iyo’y wala pa itong alam na gawin kundi magtatata at ilahad ang yayat na mga kamay. Humihingi sa kanya ng singko sentimos— singko sentimos—ang kahabag-habag na batang iyon at siya, siyang ama’y walang singko sentimos na maibigay.
Dali-dali niyang isinuot ang sulsihang pantalon at T-shirt. Mahaba ang T-shirt at bahagyang natatakpan niyon ang sulsi sa likuran ng kanyang pantalon. “Siguro nama’y di magtatagal ‘tong lagnat ko,” narinig niyang sabi ni Marta. “Makakapaglaba na ‘ko uli.”
Di karaniwang lagnat ‘yan, ibig sabihin ni Ambo, ngunit hindi na siya nagsalita pa.
“Magkape ka muna,” sabi ni Marta nang mapansing bihis na siya. “Di na,” tinungo niya ang pinto.
“Pagbutihin mo’ng pakiusap sa kanila, Ambo,” pahabol na bilin ng asawa. Mabilis, walang imik siyang lumabas ng kuwartong iyon.
Matindi ang sikat ng araw at waring ibig tupukin niyon ang anit ni Ambo. May isa’t kalahating kilometro ang layo ng opisina ng sangay na iyon ng
gobyernong pinaglilingkuran niya mula sa kalyeng tinitirhan nila at nilalakad lamang ni Ambo ang distansyang iyon. Nilalakad sapagkat ang treinta
sentimos niyang ipamamasahe (kung mapalad siyang magkaroon ng halagang iyon) ay malaking bagay ang magagawa sa kanila. Maibibili niya ang halagang iyon ng diyes na tuyo, diyes na asukal, at ang diyes—hindi singko lamang—ay maibibigay niya kay Nida.
Ngunit ngayo’y wala siyang ni isang kusing sa bulsa.
Pagbutihin mong pakiusap sa kanila. Naglalaro sa utak niya ang biling iyon ni
Marta. Nakadama siya ng sikad ng paghihimagsik sa dibdib. Bakit siya dapat makiusap? Ang kinukuha naman niya’y suweldo niya, ang karapatang bayad ng gobyerno sa paglilingkod niya. Ano ang dapat niyang ipakiusap?
A, pero dapat siyang makiusap, pagkuwa’y naipasya niya. Hindi niya
madadaan sa init ng ulo ang hepe niyang si Mr. Reyes. Kailangang makiusap pa siya, maglumuhod kung maaari. Ang voucher niya’y matagal na sa mesa ni Mr. Reyes ngunit hindi pa rin napipirmahan niyon. Laging abala sa trabaho o kaya’y mamaya na o bukas na kaya, hanggang sabihin niyon ang tunay na dahilan kung bakit hindi niyon mapirmahan ang voucher.
“’Alang pondo ang gobyerno,” sabi ni Mr. Reyes. “Gaya ng siguro’y alam mo na, malaking anomalya ang ginawa ng mga tao rito ng nakaraang
administration. Kelan nga lang, e, may natanggap kaming sirkular buhat sa
Malakanyang na nagsasabi na magbawas kami ng mga kaswal dito. Pero di naman namin magagawa karaka. Malalakas na pulitiko rin ang me
rekomenda sa marami sa mga kaswal dito.”
“Gusto nyong sabihin, e, alang pag-asang makuha pa’ng suweldo ko?” “Ilang b’wan ka na bang di sumasahod?”
“Tatlo na ho.”
Napakamot sa batok si Mr. Reyes. “Titingnan natin,” pagkuway sabi nito. Magdadalawang buwan na ang pakikipag-usap niyang iyon kay Mr. Reyes at hanggang ngayon ay hindi pa rin napipirmahan niyon ang voucher niya. Bale limang buwan na siyang hindi sumasahod. Sumahod pa nga kaya siya,
naitanong niya sa sarili. Noong isang Linggo lamang ay dalawang kaswal ang tinanggal sa trabaho nang hindi na nakasahod. Matiwalag rin kaya siya sa trabaho?
Napabilis ang paghakbang niya. Nahigingan niya, ang nagrekomenda sa dalawang iyon ay hindi gaanong malakas kaya natanggal. Si Mr. Maique na nagrekomenda sa kanya’y hindi isang representante o senador kaya. Naging amo niya si Mr. Maique sa huling pribadong kompanyang pinagtratrabuhan at minsang masalubong niya ito sa Avenida matapos ang ilang taong maalis sa opisinang iyon (“pinagbakasyon” siya nang matuklasan sa taunang
physical examination na may ganggaholeng butas ang dalawa niyang baga) ay nabanggit niya ritong tila hindi na siya makasumpong pang muli sa
trabaho (kahit na sa posisyong dyanitor). Maraming higit na mas batang aplikante sa kanya (siya’y sobra nang kuwarenta), at mas maraming may pinag-aralan kaysa kanya (grade 1 lang ang naabot niya).
Nagdalang-habag, inilapit siya ni Mr. Maique sa kumpare nitong hepe ng isang dibisyon sa opisina ng sangay na iyon ng gobyerno. A, hindi nga malakas ang nagrekomenda sa kanya at hindi malayong maalis rin siya sa gawain.
Ngunit hindi niya dapat pag-aksayahan ng panahon at isip kung matatanggal siya sa trabaho o hindi. Ang dapat niyang pagkaabalahan ay kung paano makukuha ang suweldo niya. Iyon ang kailangan niya, ngayon. May sakit si Marta at hindi makapaglalabada. Nagugutom ang kanyang mga anak. Hanggang kailan tatagal ang mga ito?
Nagpatuloy siya ng paglakad, nag-iisip. Naisip niya, ang binanggit na dahilan ni Mr. Reyes kung bakit hindi sila nasusuwelduhan. Walang pondo ang
gobyerno. Ayon kina Sandoval, isang kawani sa accounting division, kung ilang milyon daw ang ninakaw ng mga tao ng nakaraang administrasyon sa sangay na iyon ng pamahalaan. Sampu, labindalawang milyong piso. Over-pricing ng mga makinarya. Mga ghost delivery. Pang-uumit ng mga piyesa sa bodega. Wala pa raw dalawampung katao ang naghati-hati. Hindi pa raw nakakalaboso ang mga suwerte, sabi ni Sandoval. Pag talagang malakas ang kapit mo, naaalala niya ang sinabing iyon ni Sandoval, kahit ano pa mang kawalanghiyaan ang gawin mo’y ligtas ka. Maiisip niyang para ngang totoo iyon. Kung may pull ka, ayos lahat ang lakarin mo sa gobyerno. May kilala siyang mga kaswal rin sa opisinang iyon na regular na sumasahod. A, kaipala’y di siya sumusuweldo sapagkat wala siyang malakas na kapit. Pasado alas-nuwebe na nang matapos ni Ambo ang paglilinis sa tokang gusali. Nagsisimula pa lamang magdatingan ang karamihan sa mga empleyado. Sina Sandoval at mga kasama sa accounting division ay alas-diyes na nang dumating. Nangaupo ang mga iyon sa kani-kanilang mesa, ngunit hindi ang trabaho ang inatupag. May nagbabasa ng dyaryo, may naghinuko, may tumunghay sa dalang libro. Mayamaya’y pinalibutan ng mga kasamahan ang noo’y nagbasa-ng-dyaryong si Sandoval.
“Milyon, mga pare ko, milyon,” sabi ni Sandoval at ibinaba niya ang
tinutunghayang dyaryo. “Ito na’ng pinakamarangyang handaang nabalitaan ko. Imported ang pagkain, ang orchestra, ang mga entertainer. At ang mga panauhin, mga pare ko, mga duke, prinsesa’t prinsipe at kung sinu-sino pang kabilang sa dugong-bughaw.”
“Umabot daw sa dalawang milyon ang nagastos,” sabad naman ni Javier. “Iba na talaga’ng makuwarta, ano, ha?”
Dalawang milyon . . . dalawang milyon . . . Nagsumiksik sa utak ni Ambo ang halagang iyon. Dalawang milyon ang ginastos sa isang anibersaryo ng kasal. A, tama na sa kanya ang kung ilang daang piso. Sapat na sa kanya ang kaunting halagang makatitighaw sa gutom ng kanyang pamilya at maipambabayad sa pagpapagamot ni Marta.
Bahagya pa siyang nagulat nang maalala si Mr. Reyes. Maaaring nasa kuwarto na niya si Mr. Reyes. Kaninang linisin niya ang kuwarto niyo’y wala pa iyon ni ang sekretarya nito.
Bilang puno ng general services ay may sariling silid si Mr. Reyes.
Air-conditioned, de alpombra, at makabago ang interior decoration. Napasukan na ni Ambo sa loob si Dory, ang sekretarya ni Mr. Reyes. Bata pa si Dory, marahil labingwalo, ngunit taglay na ng mga mata nito ang lamlam, panglaw ng isang babaeng ganap nang nakakakilala sa buhay. Hindi na lihim sa
opisina ang relasyon nito sa may asawang si Mr. Reyes. “Nand’yan na ba’ng Boss?”
“Nandito na pero mainit ang ulo,” sabi ni Dory.
Mainit ang ulo ni Mr. Reyes. A, siguro’y talunan na naman sa sugal. Bulong nina Sandoval ay nagmamadyong, nagpopoker, nagkakarera si Mr. Reyes. Nambubulyaw si Mr. Reyes, nagmumura kung mainit ang ulo. A, pero kailangan niyang lapitan ito, makausap.
“Me bilin s’yang h’wag iistorbohin,” sabi ni Dory. “Pero kelangang-kelangan ko s’yang makausap.”
“Kung mapilit ka’y ikaw na lang ang pumasok,” at muling hianrap ng sekretarya ang kanyang pagmamakinilya.
Kinabahan siya, tulad ng dati tuwing makakaharap si Mr. Reyes. Huminga muna siya nang malalim bago pinasok ang divider na nagkukubli kay Mr. Reyes.
Nakataas sa ibabaw ng mesa ang mga paa ni Mr. Reyes, natatakpan ng binabasang diyaryo ang mukha.
“Mr. Reyes . . .” tawag ni Ambo at lumapit sa mesa ng hepe.
Biglang bumaba ang diyaryo at natambad ang malapad at kunot-noong mukha ni Mr. Reyes.
“O, anong kelangan mo?” Dama niya karaka ang suya sa boses nito. “Y-yon hong v-voucher ko . . .” nasabi niya sa wakas.
“Ilang beses ko bang sasabihin sa ‘yong di ko pa napipirmahan ‘yon?”
Kumikitib ang magkabilang ugat sa pilipisan ni Mr. Reyes. “Ke kulit-kulit mo.” “Kelangang-kelangan ko hong pera,” Banayad at nakikiusap ang boses niya. “A, wala akong magagawa! Sige, makakalabas ka na.”
“Ako ba’y talagang ginagalit mo, ha?” “Para n’yo nang awa, Mr. Reyes . . .”
“A, kabron kang talaga!” At sa pagkainis, muli nitong itinaas ang mga paa sa mesa at itinuloy ang pagbabasa.
“Mr. Reyes . . .”
Hindi siya pinansin ni Mr. Reyes at unti-unti’y may namuong galit sa kanyang dibdib, pero bago sumiklab iyo’y nagawa niyang pigilan ang sarili. A,
kailangang maging mahinahon siya. Babalikan na lamang niya si Mr. Reyes, baka mayamaya lamang ay lipas na ang init ng ulo.
Dinadamuhan ni Ambo ang tagiliran ng gusali nang ipatawag siya ng
guwardiya sa gate. Malayo pa siya sa tarangkaha’y nakita na niyang paika-ikang sumasalubong sa kanya si Sonia.
“A-ang Nanay . . . sumuka ng dugo . . .”
Pahablot niyang hinawakan sa kamay si Sonia at mabilis silang lumabas ng gate. Sa himpapawid, nakalutang ang kumukulong init-araw. Wari’y patay ang hangin at ang nalalanghap ay ang amoy-usok na buga ng mga dyip, kotse, trak, bus. Naniningkit ang mga mata ni Ambo, tilim na tilim ang mga bagang. May paghihimagsik na nagsimulang magbangon sa kanyang dibdib. Napapikit siya, at sa pakiwari niya, ang paligid ay nag-uumikot na pula-itim na daigdig at sa pag-inog niyo’y kasama siyang nadadala, natatangay. May kalahating oras na silang naglalakad, siya at ang iika-ikang si Sonia, at ang gutom at pagod at pagkabahala’y nagtulong-tulong upang ang kimkim na himagsik sa loob ni Ambo’y mag-ulol, mag-alimpuyo. Silang mag-ama’y naglalakad sa ilalim ng matalisik na init ng araw sapagkat wala sila ni treinta sentimos na ipamamasahe, at doon sa kuwartong inuupahan, maaaring naghihingalo o patay na si Marta. Patuloy na humahagibis ang mga
sasakyan, ang balanang nasasalabat nila’y nagwawalang-bahala, at naisip niya sina Sandoval, Javier, Roncal, Dory, at Mr. Reyes. Maaaring sa mga sandaling ito’y nanananghalian na ang mga iyon o namamahinga o kaya’y naglalaro ng ahedres o kaya’y nagpupusoy. Naisip niya ang mayamang pulitiko’t negosyanteng gumasta ng dalawang milyon sa isang handaan at ang iba pang katulad niyon. Nasaan sila sa mga sandaling iyon? A, sila’y nasa kani-kanilang magagarang tahanan, nasa pang-araw na mga naitklab, nasa mga pasugalan, nasa mga otel at motel na kaulayaw ng kanilang mga kerida, o nasa kani-kanilang mga opisina’t pinapaputok ang isip kung paano lalong magkakamal ng salapi, samantalang siya’y naritong naglalakad sa ilalim ng nakatutupok na sikat ng araw kasama ang iika-ikang anak.
Naratnan niyang nakalupasay si Marta, yumayanig ang yayat na balikat sa di-masawatang pag-ubo habang hagud-hagod sa likod ni Roma. Nagkalat ang
buu-buong dugo sa banig. Ang sanggol ay walang damdaming nakatingin sa ina, matiim na nakatinging animo’y isang matandang bantad na sa
kalagiman ng buhay. Nagpapalahaw ang iba pa niyang anak, at mababatid niyang umiiyak ang mga iyon hindi dahil sa nangyayari sa kundi dahil sa nagugutom ang mga iyon. May naramdaman siyang yumayapos sa mga binti, kumalabit.
“’Tay, gutom kami, ‘Tay. Gutom kami.”
Sabay-sabay na nagpalahaw ang iba pa niyang mga anak at ang dumaraing, nakalulunos na panaghoy ng mga iyon, gutom kami, ‘Tay, ‘ingi pagkain, ‘Tay, ay sumasaliw sa putul-putol, tuyot na uh, uh, uh, uh, uh ni Marta. Napapikit siya’t wari niya’y umiikot ang paligid, umiinog na pula-itim na daigdig, at nang imulat niya ang paningi’y gumagalaw, sa simula’y mabagal,
pagkatapos ay mabilis, mabilis na mabilis ang bawat tamaan ng kanyang tingin, ang bangkito, ang dingding, ang pinto, ang sanggol, ang ibang mga anak, si Marta . . .
“Ta . . . Tata . . . Ta . . .”
Hindi ganap na magkahugis sa kaniyang paningin ang anyo ni Nida, ngunit ang tatata ay malinaw na nakaabot sa pandinig niya. Humihingi ng singko sentimos si Nida at siya’y wala ni isang kusing na maibigay. Nagugutom ang kaniyang mga anak, at siya, siyang ama’y walang pagkaing maibigay. May sakit si Marta, at siya, siyang asawa’y walang magawa.
Ta . . . Tata . . . Ta . . .
Isang malabong anino ang nakatanghod sa kanyang si Nida, at sa biglang igkas ng silakbo’y binigwasan niya iyon ng sampal sa mukha. At sa iglap ding iyo’y nagsalimbayang pula-itim ang paligid, isang walang-katuturang daigdig na kalong ng nakakukulili, nakabibinging-ingay—tili, iyak, ubo, daing—at supil ng matinding kahibanga’y dinaluhong niya ang nagpapalahaw na mga aninong iyon, sinampal, sinuntok, sinipa, pinagtatadyakan, ngunit sa halip na tumigil ay lalong nag-ibayo ang pag-iyak at pagtili at pagtangis, at nang hindi na niya matagalan ang matinding kaingayang iyo’y nagtatakbo siyang palabas, sapu-sapo ng dalawang kamay sa ulo.
Ngayon, muli siyang naglalakad sa matinding sikat ng araw. Ang lunsod ay isa pa ring umiinog na pula-itim na daigdig. Walang kaisahan ang mga isiping gumigitaw sa kanyang utak. Si Marta, si Nida, ang mga anak niya. Si
Sandoval, si Javier, si Dory. Si Mr. Reyes. Ang mayamang pulitiko at negosyanteng iyon. Ang voucher niya.
“Hoy, nagpapakamatay ka ba?”
Tuloy siya sa paglalakad. Pasuray-suray, animo’y lasing. “Hoy, talaga bang nagpapakamatay ka?”
Ipinilig niya ang ulo, at saglit, bumagal ang pag-inog ng pula-itim na daigdig at namalayan niyang nakatindig sa gitna ng kalye, siyang dahilan ng
pagkakabuhol ng trapiko. Di-magkamayaw ang businahan ng mga sasakyan, at mula paa hanggang ulong pinagmumura siya ng nagmamaneho.
“Gago!” Nakaabot sa kanyang pandinig.
“Mga gago rin kayo!” sigaw niya at hinarap ang mga sasakyan, nanlilisik ang mga mata.
Nagtutungayaw, iniurong ng nagmamaneho ng nasa unahan ang kotse, ikinambiyo’t inilagang mahagip si Ambo. Sumunod ang iba pang sasakyan, at mayamaya pa’y nag-iisa sa gitna ng lansangan si Ambo.
Itinuloy niya ang paglalakad. Lakad. Lakad. Bumibilis ang pag-inog ng paligid, tulad ng pagdagsa ng putul-putol at walang kaisahang mga gunita. Ang voucher niya. Ayaw pirmahan ni Mr. Reyes ang voucher niya. Ayaw ibigay ng gobyerno ang suweldo niya. May sakit si Marta. Nagugutom ang kanyang mga anak. Nagtatapon ng milyun-milyong piso ang
pulitiko-negosyanteng iyon. Walang-puso ang gobyerno, may tinitingnan, walang-malasakit sa mga tulad niya. Si Nida at ang iba pang mga anak niya. Si Marta . . .
Nang humakbang siyang muli, ang bahid ng itim sa umiikot na paligid ay naglaho; ngayon, isang umiinog na bolang pula ang daigdig. Isang
nagbabagang pula ang darang init na lunsod.
Nasumpungan niya ang sarili sa harap ng kongkretong gusaling iyon. Humuhulas sa pawis ang buo niyang katawan, ngunit wala siyang
nararamdamang pagod, gutom. Bumagal nang bahagya ang pag-inog ng paligid subalit ngayo’y naglalagablab na bolang apoy iyon.
Nasa loob si Mr. Reyes. Ayaw pirmahan ni Mr. Reyes ang voucher niya. Ayaw ibigay ng gobyerno ang suweldo niya . . .
Lumapit siya sa guardpost. Nakayukayok ang guwardiya. A, natutulog ang tanod ng gobyerno. Bigla, inagaw niya ang baril na hawak ng tanod.
Napatayo ang guwardiya, at napaurong siyang nakaumang ang dulo ng baril sa katawan nito. Napangiti ang tanog nang wari’y makilala siya,
dahan-dahang lumapit sa kanya. A, nakangisi ang tanod, iniinsulto siya, iniinsulto. Dumiin ang daliri niya sa gatilyo at halos kaalinsabay ng dumagundong na putok ay nakita niyang bumagsak ang guwardiya, unti-unting nahandusay, ang naninirik na mga mata’y nakatuon sa kanya, wari’y nagtatanong kung ano—at bakit—iyon nangyari.
Mayamaya’y tumigil sa pagkisay ang nakalugmok na katawan. Napatay niya ang tanod. Napatay niya! May saya anaki’y kaligayahang sumuno sa dibdib niya. At bigla-biglang bumilis ang pag-inog ng bolang pula, mabilis na
mabilis. Nakaliliyo, nagsasalimbayang kulay-dugo na daigdig, at patakbo niyang sinugod ang pinto ng kongkretong gusali.
Nagpulasan ang malalabong anino. May tumalon sa bintana, may nagtago sa ilalim ng mesa. May naulinigan siyang mga tinig ng tumatawag sa pangalan niya, ngunit waring napakalayo ang pinagmumulan ng mga tinig. Muling dumiin ang daliri niya sa gatilyo, at isang malabong anino ang nahandusay. Inulit niya ang pagkalabit, at isa pang malabong anino ang bumagsak. Minsan pa at isa uling malabong anino ang nalugmok.
Pinid ang pintong iyon. Sumisigaw siya, labas ka d’yan! Labas d’yan!, ngunit nanatiling nakasara ang pinto. Pinagtatadyakan niya ang dahon ng pinto, pinukpok ng puluhan ng baril, subalit namalaging manhid ang pinto.
“Labas d’yan! Ayaw niyong pirmahan ang voucher ko! Ayaw n’yong ibigay ang suweldo ko!”
Tinugon siya ng paikpik na katahimikan, at siya’y nakadama ng biglang pagkapagal. Humihingal siya at wari’y ibig siyang madala ng mabilis na pag-ikot ng paligid. Nangangalog ang kanyang tuhod, nangangapos ang hininga. Napasandal siya sa pinto, humihingal at pinagpapawisan ng malamig.
Unti-unting bumanayad ang pag-ikot ng paligid, unti-unting pumupusyaw ang kuloy-dugong bahid niyon. Ang lumulukob ngayo’y dilim, isang
papakapal na karimlang nagdudulot sa damdamin niya ng lungkot, panglaw, ng isang uri ng napakatinding pangungulilang humahangga sa kirot, sa pumipiga at lumuluray na sakit.
Si Marta . . . si Nida . . . ang mga anak niya . . .
Pagkuwan, humahangos na pumasok ang unipormado at armadong mga pulis, nakatutok ang tangang mga baril sa kanya, subalit siya’y hindi man lang nagpamalas ng kahit anong kilos ng paglaban; napatutok lamang ang blangko niyang paningin sa nagsasalibayang malalabong aninong iyon. Bumuka ang labi niya, ngunit sa iglap ding iyon, umangil ang sandata ng mga pulis at isa, dalawa, tatlo, apat, lima, marami, di-mabilang na mga tingga ang bumistay sa katawan niya at siya’y nalugmok at sa nagdidilim, nagliliwanag niyang isipa’y sumalingit ang mapusyaw na larawan ng
kanyang mag-anak, at sa pagkakasubsob sa nagdadanak-sa-sariling-dugong baldosang sahig, pinilit niyang makatihaya, pilit na itinutok ang nagwawatig na tingin sa nagsasalimbayang malalabong aninong iyon, pilit na pinanulay sa nanlalabong paningin ang pakiusap, hinaing na hindi na mabigkas ng mga labi—si Marta, si Nida, ang mga anak niya. Subalit muling bumuga ang
sandata ng mga pulis, malupit, walang awang tumadtad sa katawan niya at sa papatakas nang malay, bumabanayad ang nakaliliyong pag-inog ng itim na daigdig, bumabanayad at dumidilim hanggang sa mayamaya’y kalungin ng sakdal-dilim na karimlan ang kaganapan ng lahat.
The Biography of Bienvenido Santos
Bienvenido N. Santos was a Filipino-American fiction, poetry and nonfiction writer. He was born and raised in Tondo, Manila. His family roots are originally from Lubao, Pampanga, Philippines. He lived in the United States for many years where he is widely credited as a pioneering Asian-American writer.
Santos received his Bachelor of Arts degree from the University of the Philippines where he first studied creative writing under Paz Marquez
Benitez. In 1941, Santos was a government pensionado (scholar) to the United States at the University of Illinois, Columbia University, and Harvard University. During World War II, he served with the Philippine government in exile under President Manuel L. Quezon in Washington, D.C., together with the playwright Severino Montano and Philippine National Artist Jose Garcia Villa.
In 1967, he returned to the United States to become a teacher and university administrator. He received a Rockefeller fellowship at the Writers Workshop of the University of Iowa where he later taught as a Fulbright exchange professor. Santos has also received a Guggenheim Foundation fellowship, a Republic Cultural Heritage Award in Literature as well as several Palanca Awards for his short stories. Scent of Apples won a 1980 American Book Award from the Before Columbus Foundation.
Santos received an honorary doctorate degree in humanities and letters from the University of the Philippines, and Bicol University (Legazpi City, Albay) in 1981. He was also a Professor of Creative Writing and
Distinguished Writer in Residence at the Wichita State University from 1973 to 1982, at which time the university awarded him an honorary doctorate degree in humane letters. After his retirement, Santos became Visiting Writer and Artist at De La Salle University in Manila; the university honored Santos by renaming its creative writing center after him.
The Scent of Apples by Bienvenido Santos
When I arrived in Kalamazoo it was October and the war was still on. Gold and silver stars hung on pennants above silent windows of white and brick-red cottages. In a backyard an old man burned leaves and twigs while a gray-haired woman sat on the porch, her red hands quiet on her lap,
watching the smoke rising above the elms, both of them thinking the same thought perhaps, about a tall, grinning boy with his blue eyes and flying hair, who went out to war: where could he be now this month when leaves were turning into gold and the fragrance of gathered apples was in the wind?
It was a cold night when I left my room at the hotel for a usual speaking engagement. I walked but a little way. A heavy wind coming up from Lake Michigan was icy on the face. If felt like winter straying early in the northern woodlands. Under the lampposts the leaves shone like bronze. And they rolled on the pavements like the ghost feet of a thousand autumns long dead, long before the boys left for faraway lands without great icy winds and promise of winter early in the air, lands without apple trees, the singing and the gold!
It was the same night I met Celestino Fabia, "just a Filipino farmer" as he called himself, who had a farm about thirty miles east of Kalamazoo.
"You came all that way on a night like this just to hear me talk?"
"I've seen no Filipino for so many years now," he answered quickly. "So when I saw your name in the papers where it says you come from the Islands and that you're going to talk, I come right away."
Earlier that night I had addressed a college crowd, mostly women. It appeared they wanted me to talk about my country, they wanted me to tell them things about it because my country had become a lost country.
Everywhere in the land the enemy stalked. Over it a great silence hung, and their boys were there, unheard from, or they were on their way to some little known island on the Pacific, young boys all, hardly men, thinking of harvest moons and the smell of forest fire.
It was not hard talking about our own people. I knew them well and I loved them. And they seemed so far away during those terrible years that I must have spoken of them with a little fervor, a little nostalgia.
In the open forum that followed, the audience wanted to know whether there was much difference between our women and the American women. I tried to answer the question as best I could, saying, among other things, that I did not know that much about American women, except that they looked friendly, but differences or similarities in inner qualities such as naturally belonged to the heart or to the mind, I could only speak about with
While I was trying to explain away the fact that it was not easy to make comparisons, a man rose from the rear of the hall, wanting to say something. In the distance, he looked slight and old and very brown. Even before he spoke, I knew that he was, like me, a Filipino.
"I'm a Filipino," he began, loud and clear, in a voice that seemed used to wide open spaces, "I'm just a Filipino farmer out in the country." He waved his hand toward the door. "I left the Philippines more than twenty years ago and have never been back. Never will perhaps. I want to find out, sir, are our Filipino women the same like they were twenty years ago?"
As he sat down, the hall filled with voices, hushed and intrigued. I weighed my answer carefully. I did not want to tell a lie yet I did not want to say anything that would seem platitudinous, insincere. But more important than these considerations, it seemed to me that moment as I looked towards my countryman, I must give him an answer that would not make him so unhappy. Surely, all these years, he must have held on to certain ideals, certain beliefs, even illusions peculiar to the exile.
"First," I said as the voices gradually died down and every eye seemed upon me, "First, tell me what our women were like twenty years ago."
The man stood to answer. "Yes," he said, "you're too young . . . Twenty years ago our women were nice, they were modest, they wore their hair long, they dressed proper and went for no monkey business. They were natural, they went to church regular, and they were faithful." He had spoken slowly, and now in what seemed like an afterthought, added, "It's the men who ain't."
Now I knew what I was going to say.
"Well," I began, "it will interest you to know that our women have changed--but definitely! The change, however, has been on the outside only. Inside, here," pointing to the heart, "they are the same as they were twenty years ago. God-fearing, faithful, modest, and nice."
The man was visibly moved. "I'm very happy, sir," he said, in the
manner of one who, having stakes on the land, had found no cause to regret one's sentimental investment.
After this, everything that was said and done in that hall that night seemed like an anti-climax, and later, as we walked outside, he gave me his name and told me of his farm thirty miles east of the city.
We had stopped at the main entrance to the hotel lobby. We had not talked very much on the way. As a matter of fact, we were never alone. Kindly American friends talked to us, asked us questions, said goodnight. So now I asked him whether he cared to step into the lobby with me and talk.
"No, thank you," he said, "you are tired. And I don't want to stay out too late."
"Yes, you live very far."
"I got a car," he said, "besides . . . "
Now he smiled, he truly smiled. All night I had been watching his face and I wondered when he was going to smile.
"Will you do me a favor, please," he continued smiling almost sweetly. "I want you to have dinner with my family out in the country. I'd call for you tomorrow afternoon, then drive you back. Will that be alright?"
"Of course," I said. "I'd love to meet your family." I was leaving Kalamazoo for Muncie, Indiana, in two days. There was plenty of time.
"You will make my wife very happy," he said. "You flatter me."
"Honest. She'll be very happy. Ruth is a country girl and hasn't met many Filipinos. I mean Filipinos younger than I, cleaner looking. We're just poor farmer folk, you know, and we don't get to town very often. Roger, that's my boy, he goes to school in town. A bus takes him early in the morning and he's back in the afternoon. He's nice boy."
"I bet he is," I agreed. "I've seen the children of some of the boys by their American wives and the boys are tall, taller than their father, and very good looking."
"Roger, he'd be tall. You'll like him."
Then he said goodbye and I waved to him as he disappeared in the darkness.
The next day he came, at about three in the afternoon. There was a mild, ineffectual sun shining, and it was not too cold. He was wearing an old brown tweed jacket and worsted trousers to match. His shoes were polished, and although the green of his tie seemed faded, a colored shirt hardly
accentuated it. He looked younger than he appeared the night before now that he was clean shaven and seemed ready to go to a party. He was grinning as we met.
"Oh, Ruth can't believe it," he kept repeating as he led me to his car--a nondescript thing in faded black that had known better days and many
hands. "I says to her, I'm bringing you a first class Filipino, and she says, aw, go away, quit kidding, there's no such thing as first class Filipino. But Roger, that's my boy, he believed me immediately. What's he like, daddy, he asks. Oh, you will see, I says, he's first class. Like you daddy? No, no, I laugh at
him, your daddy ain't first class. Aw, but you are, daddy, he says. So you can see what a nice boy he is, so innocent. Then Ruth starts griping about the house, but the house is a mess, she says. True it's a mess, it's always a mess, but you don't mind, do you? We're poor folks, you know.
The trip seemed interminable. We passed through narrow lanes and disappeared into thickets, and came out on barren land overgrown with weeds in places. All around were dead leaves and dry earth. In the distance were apple trees.
"Aren't those apple trees?" I asked wanting to be sure.
"Yes, those are apple trees," he replied. "Do you like apples? I got lots of 'em. I got an apple orchard, I'll show you."
All the beauty of the afternoon seemed in the distance, on the hills, in the dull soft sky.
"Those trees are beautiful on the hills," I said.
"Autumn's a lovely season. The trees are getting ready to die, and they show their colors, proud-like."
"No such thing in our own country," I said.
That remark seemed unkind, I realized later. It touched him off on a long deserted tangent, but ever there perhaps. How many times did lonely mind take unpleasant detours away from the familiar winding lanes towards home for fear of this, the remembered hurt, the long lost youth, the grim shadows of the years; how many times indeed, only the exile knows.
It was a rugged road we were traveling and the car made so much noise that I could not hear everything he said, but I understood him. He was telling his story for the first time in many years. He was remembering his own youth. He was thinking of home. In these odd moments there seemed no cause for fear no cause at all, no pain. That would come later. In the night perhaps. Or lonely on the farm under the apple trees.
In this old Visayan town, the streets are narrow and dirty and strewn with coral shells. You have been there? You could not have missed our house, it was the biggest in town, one of the oldest, ours was a big family. The house stood right on the edge of the street. A door opened heavily and you enter a dark hall leading to the stairs. There is the smell of chickens roosting on the low-topped walls, there is the familiar sound they make and you grope your way up a massive staircase, the bannisters smooth upon the trembling hand. Such nights, they are no better than the days, windows are closed against the sun; they close heavily.
Mother sits in her corner looking very white and sick. This was her world, her domain. In all these years, I cannot remember the sound of her voice. Father was different. He moved about. He shouted. He ranted. He lived in the past and talked of honor as though it were the only thing.
I was born in that house. I grew up there into a pampered brat. I was mean. One day I broke their hearts. I saw mother cry wordlessly as father heaped his curses upon me and drove me out of the house, the gate closing heavily after me. And my brothers and sisters took up my father's hate for me and multiplied it numberless times in their own broken hearts. I was no good.
But sometimes, you know, I miss that house, the roosting chickens on the low-topped walls. I miss my brothers and sisters, Mother sitting in her chair, looking like a pale ghost in a corner of the room. I would remember the great live posts, massive tree trunks from the forests. Leafy plants grew on the sides, buds pointing downwards, wilted and died before they could
become flowers. As they fell on the floor, father bent to pick them and throw them out into the coral streets. His hands were strong. I have kissed these hands . . . many times, many times.
Finally we rounded a deep curve and suddenly came upon a shanty, all but ready to crumble in a heap on the ground, its plastered walls were rotting away, the floor was hardly a foot from the ground. I thought of the cottages of the poor colored folk in the south, the hovels of the poor everywhere in the land. This one stood all by itself as though by common consent all the folk that used to live here had decided to say away, despising it, ashamed of it. Even the lovely season could not color it with beauty.
A dog barked loudly as we approached. A fat blonde woman stood at the door with a little boy by her side. Roger seemed newly scrubbed. He hardly took his eyes off me. Ruth had a clean apron around her shapeless waist. Now as she shook my hands in sincere delight I noticed shamefacedly (that I should notice) how rough her hands were, how coarse and red with labor, how ugly! She was no longer young and her smile was pathetic.
As we stepped inside and the door closed behind us, immediately I was aware of the familiar scent of apples. The room was bare except for a few ancient pieces of second-hand furniture. In the middle of the room stood a stove to keep the family warm in winter. The walls were bare. Over the dining table hung a lamp yet unlighted.
Ruth got busy with the drinks. She kept coming in and out of a rear room that must have been the kitchen and soon the table was heavy with food, fried chicken legs and rice, and green peas and corn on the ear. Even as we ate, Ruth kept standing, and going to the kitchen for more food. Roger ate like a little gentleman.
"Isn't he nice looking?" his father asked. "You are a handsome boy, Roger," I said.
The boy smiled at me. You look like Daddy," he said.
Afterwards I noticed an old picture leaning on the top of a dresser and stood to pick it up. It was yellow and soiled with many fingerings. The faded figure of a woman in Philippine dress could yet be distinguished although the face had become a blur.
"Your . . . " I began.
"I don't know who she is," Fabia hastened to say. "I picked that picture many years ago in a room on La Salle street in Chicago. I have often
wondered who she is."
"The face wasn't a blur in the beginning?" "Oh, no. It was a young face and good." Ruth came with a plate full of apples.
"Ah," I cried, picking out a ripe one. "I've been thinking where all the scent of apples came from. The room is full of it."
"I'll show you," said Fabia.
He showed me a backroom, not very big. It was half-full of apples. "Every day," he explained, "I take some of them to town to sell to the groceries. Prices have been low. I've been losing on the trips."
"These apples will spoil," I said. "We'll feed them to the pigs."
Then he showed me around the farm. It was twilight now and the apple trees stood bare against a glowing western sky. In apple blossom time it must be lovely here. But what about wintertime?
One day, according to Fabia, a few years ago, before Roger was born, he had an attack of acute appendicitis. It was deep winter. The snow lay heavy everywhere. Ruth was pregnant and none too well herself. At first she did not know what to do. She bundled him in warm clothing and put him on a cot near the stove. She shoveled the snow from their front door and
practically carried the suffering man on her shoulders, dragging him through the newly made path towards the road where they waited for the U.S. Mail car to pass. Meanwhile snowflakes poured all over them and she kept rubbing the man's arms and legs as she herself nearly froze to death.
