Part 3 (2/2)

said sunny little Filippa, who herself was as beautiful as a flower, and as soft to touch as a fruit.

”Tell about our indigo,” suggested her brother Fil.

Filippa looked very wise, pointed to her indigo skirt, and continued: ”You get your dyes from the benzene of coal tar, but they do not stand was.h.i.+ng or sunlight, as well as our bright and strong vegetable dyes. We take our indigo plant, and steep the leaves in water for twelve hours, in a stone tank. Then Fil drains off the yellow liquor. This soon turns green. Then blue sediment settles in Nature's wonderful chemical way, under the strong sunlight. We drain off the water, and cut the indigo cakes into cubes.”

”Very well told,” remarked Filippa's mother. ”This is a dye which will not fade. It lasts as long as the gown. Now, Moro, I would like you to tell about mangoes and guavas and durians; for you are always eating them.”

Moro laughed, and began to throw sticks up into a tall tree.

”What are you doing? Why don't you answer?” I inquired.

”I'm trying to knock down a custard, one foot long and half a foot deep,” he replied.

”Such nonsense. Custards in my country are made out of eggs and are baked in ovens,” I said.

”Not this better kind,” replied Moro, who brought down a huge fruit, all covered with sharp spurs and spikes, sharper and harder than rose-thorns.

”Nature has kept her rich custard guarded by spikes and by an awful odor,” remarked Fil's father, as he broke open the thick skin with an ax.

”But it's worth the trouble,” said Moro, who pointed out the heart of the fruit, which truly was one solid, delicious natural custard, one foot long,--enough for a whole Filipino family.

”The monkeys know how to open the spiked fruit better than you do,”

said Fil. ”They throw them from the high branches. The fruit breaks open on the ground. Then the wild monkeys race down the tree, and eat up the custard durian. Who said that a monkey does not think?”

Everybody laughed at this odd but true tale of the remarkable Philippines.

”I know something about guava, for I eat guava jelly with my turkey and venison at home, but I never knew that it came from the far-away Philippine Islands. Is it a root or a seed?” I inquired.

”Oh, no!” replied Moro. ”It's a fruit taken from that low tree over there. The flowers are white. The fruit, shaped like a pear, is yellow.”

”What makes the delightful jelly red?” I inquired.

”Perhaps the cooking, or the sugar that is added,” suggested Fil's mother.

”You have not yet told about mangoes. Please hand our friend one,”

said Filippa.

Moro climbed up and up a dizzy height, into an evergreen tree sixty feet high. He brought down in his pockets, several fruits as large as cuc.u.mbers, only the colors were red and yellow.

”Eat one. They are the most delicious and juicy fruit known in the whole world,--just like wine,” said Moro.

I bit eagerly into one, and at once threw it far away. Everybody laughed at my strange action.

”Why, it's turpentine; it's paint,” I said. ”I didn't think you'd do this to me, Moro.”

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