RECOLLECTIONS OF FULL YEARS
kept to the inside, and where we were told to let go of our inner stirrups so, in case a horse went over the edge of the precipice its rider would have a chance of falling clear on the terra-firma side instead of being hurled out into open space. There are a great many people who have to be taken over such trails blind-folded, but there were no dizzy-heads among us, and as each turn of the way revealed to us different and more wonderful views, we filled the day with exclamation points.
Here and there we met bands of Igorrotes, marching “Indian file,” carrying great bundles of rice up short-cut mountain trails, which wound through the rice terraces and were “as steep as the side of a house.” All the men had long, murderous-looking spears, while the women were evidently the burden-bearers. Along the main trail we came, now and then, upon a company of men leading home a whimpering and pitiful little pack of very thin dogs. We knew these were to be killed and eaten and, naturally, the thought was sickening, but in the Igorrote country the dog-loving white man has to get used to this. Some day, perhaps, it will be different, but not until herds and flocks have been substituted and entirely new ideas have patiently been instilled into the minds of these people. For the time being dog flesh is their most cherished article of diet.
I wish it were known just where these curious wild tribes came from; just what their race history is. They are as unlike Filipinos as American Indians are unlike Englishmen. They have but one thing in common with the Filipinos, and that is their colour, which is a soft, dark brown. There is hardly an American who has ever lived among them for any length of time who has not a real admiration and affection for them and yet, to all intents and purposes, they are naked savages. They are most amenable to civilising influences. They take to education eagerly. They are, in their physical development, beautiful to look upon—when
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