RECOLLECTIONS OF FULL YEARS
Romblon, Masbate, Iloilo, Bacólod; each with its distinct problem, each with its own impassioned orators, and each offering boundless hospitality; we left them all in better condition, we hoped, than we found them and, certainly, we carried away from each in turn a feeling of great friendliness and gratitude for the courtesies they so enthusiastically extended.
From Bacólod, in oriental Negros, we set our course straight south to Jolo, to the Sulu Islands, to the realm of the comic opera sultan, and we woke up one brilliant morning to find ourselves in the prettiest harbour imaginable and in the midst of scenes which we could not believe belonged to the Philippine world. We were in Moroland. Straight before us, in the curve of the beautiful bay, lay a little white city, surrounded by bastioned walls which looked age-old, and backed by soft green hills and groves of tall cocoanut palms. A high white watch tower at the end of a long pier reminded one of piratical days and of Spain’s never-ending troubles with her Mohammedan subjects. Off to the right, against the farthest shore, was the strangest collection of habitations I had ever seen. To be told that the Moros live on the water is to imagine them living in boats, but these were houses built far out in the water, perched up on frail wooden stilts and joined together by crooked and rickety bamboo bridges.
The harbour was full of curious small craft; high prowed and beautifully carved war junks, long, graceful praos and slender canoes with bamboo outriggers, nearly all carrying sails of fantastic design and brilliant hues. Indeed, there was colour everywhere. Everything afloat was decorated in gaudy silks and pennants, the American flag predominating, while all the Moros who wore anything except a loin cloth were attired in costumes which were lively and strikingly original. These were made, for the most part,
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