MIDSUMMER Manuel E. Arguilla He pulled down his hat until the wide brim touched his shoulders.

He crouched lower under the cover of his cart and peered ahead. The road seemed to writhe under the lash of the noon-day heat; it swung from side to side, humped and bent itself like a fleeing serpent, and disappeared behind the spur of a low hill on which grew a scrawny thicket of bamboo. There was not a house in sight. Along the left side of the road ran the deep, dry gorge of a stream, the banks sparsely covered by sunburned cogon grass. In places, the rocky, waterless bed showed aridly. Father, beyond the shimmer of quivering heat waves rose ancient hills not less blue than the cloud-palisaded sky. On the right stretched a sandy waste of low rolling dunes. Scattered clamps of hardy ledda relieved the otherwise barren monotony of the landscape. Far away he could discern a thin indigo line that was the sea. The grating of the cartwheels on the pebbles of the road and the almost soundless shuffle of the weary bull but emphasized the stillness. Now and then came the dry rustling of falling earth as lumps from the cracked sides of the gorge rolled down to the bottom. He struck at the bull with the slack of the rope. The animal broke into a heavy trot. The dust stirred slumberously. The bull slowed down, threw up his head, and a glistening thread of saliva spun out into the dry air. The driving rays of the sun were reflected in the point of light on the wet heaving flanks. The man in the cart did not notice the woman until she had rounded the spur of land and stood unmoving beside the road watching the cart and its occupant come toward her. She was young, surprisingly sweet and fresh amidst her parched surroundings. A gailystriped kerchief covered her head, the ends tied at the nape of her neck. She wore a homespun bodice of light red cloth with small white checks. Her skirt was also homespun and showed a pattern of white checks with narrow stripes of yellow and red. With both hands she held by the mouth of a large, apparently empty, water jug, the cool red of which blended well with her dress. She was barefoot. She stood straight and still beside the road and regarded him with frank curiosity. Suddenly she turned

and disappeared into the dried gorge. Coming to where she had stood a few moments before, he pulled up the bull and got out of the cart. He saw where a narrow path had been cut into the bank and stood a while lost in thought, absently wiping the perspiration from his face. Then he unhitched his bull and for a few moments, with strong brown fingers, kneaded the hot neck of the beast. Driving the animal before him, he followed the path. It led up the dry bed of the stream; the sharp fragments of the unheated rock were like burning coals under his feet. There was no sign of the young woman. He came upon her beyond a bend in the gorge, where a big mango tree, which had partly fallen from the side of the ravine, casts its cool shade over a well. She had filled her jar and was rolling the kerchief around her hand into a flat coil where she placed on her head. Without glancing at him, where she had stopped some distance off, she sat down on her heels, gathering the folds of her skirt between her widespread knees. She tilted the brimful jar to remove part of the water. One hand in the rim, the other supporting the bottom, she began to raise it to her head. She knelt on one knee - resting, for a moment, the jar on the other while she brushed away drop of water from the sides. In one lithe movement she brought the jar onto her head, getting to her feet at the same time. But she staggered a little and water slashed down on her breast. The single bodice instantly clung to her bosom, molding the twin hillocks of her breasts, warmly brown through the wet cloth. One arm remained uplifted holding the jar, while the other shook the clinging cloth free of her drenched flesh. Then not once having raised her eyes, she passed by the young man, who stood mutely gazing beside his bull. The animal had found some grass along the path and was industriously gazing. He turned to watch the graceful figure beneath the jar until it vanished around a bend in the path leading to the road. Then he led the bull to the well, and tethered it to a root of the mango tree. "The underpart of her arm is while and smooth," he said to his blurred image on the waters of the well, as he leaned over before lowering the bucket made of half petroleum can. "And her hair is thick and black." The bucket struck with a rattling impact. It filled with one long gurgle. He threw his hat on the grass and

pulled the bucket up with both hands. The twisted bamboo rope bit into his hardened palms, and he thought how the same rope must hurt her. He placed the dripping bucket on a flat stone, and the bull drank. "Son of lightning!" he said, thumping the side of the bull after it had drunk the third bucketful, "you drink like the great Kabuntitiao!" A low, rich rumbling rolled through the cavernous body of the beast. He tied it again to the root, and the animal idly rubbed its horns against the wood. The sun had fallen from the perpendicular, and noticing that the bull stood partly exposed to the sun, he pushed it farther to the shade. He fanned himself with his hat. He whistled to entice the wind from the sea, but not a breeze stirred. After a while he put on his hat and hurriedly walked the short distance through the gorge up to the road where his cart stood. From inside he took a jute sack which he slung over on shoulder. With the other arm, he gathered part of the hay at the bottom of the cart. He returned to the well, strips of straw falling behind him as he picked his way from one tuft of grass to another, for the broken rocks of the path had grown exceedingly hot. He gave the hay into the bull. Its rump was again in the sun, and he had to push it back. "Fool, do you want to broil yourself alive?" he said good-humoredly, slapping the thick haunches. It switched its longhaired tail and fell into eating. The dry, sweet-smelling hay made harsh gritting sounds in the mouth of the hungry animal. Saliva rolled out from the corners, clung to the stiff hairs that fringed the thick lower lip, fell and gleamed and evaporated in the heated air. He took out of the jute sack a polished coconut shell. The top had been sawed off and holes bored at opposite sides, through which a string tied to the lower part of the shell passed in a loop. The smaller piece could thus be slipped up and down as a cover. The coconut shell contained cooked rice still a little warm. Buried on the top was an egg now boiled hard. He next brought out a bamboo tube of salt, a cake of brown sugar wrapped in banana leaf, and some dried shrimps. Then he spread the sack in what remained of the shade, placed his simple meal thereon, and prepared to eat his dinner. But first he drew a bucketful of water from the well, setting the bucket on a rock. He seated himself on another rock and ate with his fingers. From time to time he drank on the bucket. He

was half through with his meal when the girl came down the path once more. She had changed the wetted bodice. He watched her with lowered head as she approached, and felt a difficulty in continuing to eat, but went through the motions of filling his mouth nevertheless. He strained his eyes looking at the girl from beneath his eyebrows. How graceful she was! Her hips tapered smoothly down to rounded thighs and supple legs, showing against her skirt and moving straight and free. Her shoulders, small but firm, bore her shapely neck and head with shy pride. When she was very near, he ate more hurriedly, so that he almost choked. He did not look at her. She placed the jar between three stones. When she picked up the rope of the bucket, he came to himself. He looked up - straight to her face. He saw her eyes. They were brown and were regarding him gravely, without embarrassment; he forgot his own timidity. "Won't you join me, Ading?" he said simply. He remained seated. Her lips parted in a half smile and a little dimple appears high up on her right cheek. She shook her head and said: "God reward you, Manong." "Perhaps the poor food I have is not fit for you?" "No, no. it isn't that. How can you think of it? I should be ashamed. It is that I have just eaten myself. That is why I came to get water in the middle of the day - we ran out of it. I see you have eggs and shrimps and sugar. Why, we had nothing but rice and salt." "Salt? Surely you joke." "I would be ashamed. . ." "But what is the matter with salt? 'Salt . . . salt . . . Makes my baby stout'" He intoned. "My grandmother used to sing that to me when I complained of our food." They laughed and felt more at ease and regarded each other more openly. He took a long time fingering his rice before raising it to his mouth, the while he gazed up at her and smiled for no reason. She smiled back in turn and gave the rope which she held an absent-minded tug. The bucket came down from its perch of rock in a miniature flood. He leaped to his feet with a surprised yell, and the next instant the jute sack on which lay his meal was drenched. Only the rice inside the coconut shell and the bamboo tube of salt were saved from the water.

She was distressed, but he only laughed. "Forgive me, Manong," she insisted. "It was all my fault. Such a clumsy creature I am." "It was not your fault," he assured her. "I am to be blame for placing the bucket of water where I did." "I will draw you another bucketful," she said, beginning to coil the rope. "I will draw the water myself," he said. "I am stronger than you." "No, you must let me do it." But when he caught hold of the bucket and stretched forth a brawny arm for the coil of rope in her hands, she surrendered both to him quickly and drew back a step as though shy of his touch. He lowered the bucket with his back to her, and she had time to take in the tallness of him, the breadth of his shoulders, the sinewy length of his legs. Down below in the small of his back, two parallel ridges of rope-like muscle stuck out against the wet shirt. As he hauled up the bucket, muscles rippled all over his body. His hair, which was wavy, cut short behind but long in front, fell in a cluster over his forehead. "Let me hold the bucket while you drink," she offered. He flashed her a smile over his shoulders as he poured the water into her jar, and again lowered the bucket. "No, no, you must not do that." She hurried to his side and held one of his arms. "I couldn't let you, a stranger . . ." "Why not?" He smiled down at her, and notice a slight film of moisture clinging to the down on her upper lip and experienced a sudden desire to wipe it away with his forefinger. He continued to lowered the bucket while she had to stand by. "Hadn't you better to move over to the shade?" he suggested, as the bucket struck the water. "What shall I do there?" she asked sharply, as though the idea of seeking protection from the heat were contemptible to her. "You will get roasted standing here in the sun," he said, and began to haul up the bucket. But she remained beside him, catching the rope as it fell from his hands, combing it carefully. The jar was filled, with plenty to spare. Then he gave her the bucket and she held it up and told him to drink as she tilted the half-filled can until the water lapped the rim. He gulped a mouthful, gurgled noisily, spewed it out,

then commenced to drink in earnest. He took long, deep droughts of the sweetish water, for he was more thirsty than he had thought. A chuckling sound persisted in forming inside his throat at every shallow. It made him self-conscious. He was breathless when though, and red in the face. "I don't know why it makes that sound," he said, fingering his throat and laughed shamefacedly. "Father also makes that sound when he drinks, and Mother laughs at him," she said. She untied the handkerchief over her hair and started to roll it. The sun had descended considerably and there was now hardly any shade under the tree. The bull was gathering with his tongue stray slips of straw. He untied the animal to lead it to the other side of the gorge, where the high bank was beginning to throw some shade, when the girl spoke: "Manong, why don't you come to our house and bring your animal with you? There is shade and you can sleep, though our house is very poor." She had already placed the jar on her head and stood, half-turned toward him, waiting for his answer. "It would be troubling you, Ading." "No. You come. I have told Mother about it." She turned and went down the path. He sent the bull after her with a smart slap on its side. Then he quickly gathered the remains of his meal, put them inside the jute sack which had almost dried, and himself followed. Then seeing that the bull stopped the nibble the tufts of grass that dotted the bottom of the gorge, he picked up the dragging rope and urged the animal on into a trot. They caught up with the girl near the cart. She had stopped to wait. "Our house is just beyond that point," she said, indicating the spur of land topped by the sickly bamboo. "We have no neighbors." He did not volunteer a word. He walked a step behind, the bull lumbering in front. More than ever he was conscious of her person. She carried the jar on her head without holding it. Her hands swung to her even steps. He threw back his square shoulders, lifted his chin, and sniffed the motionless air. There was a flourish in the way he flicked the rump of the bull with rope on his hand. He felt strong. He felt that he could follow the slender, lithe figure ahead of him to the ends of the world.

THE VISITATION OF THE GODS Gilda Cordero-Fernando The letter announcing the visitation (a yearly descent upon the school by the superintendent, the district supervisors and the division supervisors for "purposes of inspection and evaluation") had been delivered in the morning by a sleepy janitor to the principal. The party was, the attached circular revealed a hurried glance, now at Pagkabuhay, would be in Mapili by lunchtime, and barring typhoons, floods, volcanic eruptions and other acts of God, would be upon Pugad Lawin by afternoon. Consequently, after the first period, all the morning classes were dismissed. The Home Economics building, where the fourteen visiting school officials were to be housed, became the hub of a general cleaning. Long-handled brooms ravished the homes of peaceful spiders from cross beams and transoms, the capiz of the windows were scrubbed to an eggshell whiteness, and the floors became mirrors after assiduous bouts with husk and candlewax. Open wood boxes of Coronas largas were scattered within convenient reach of the carved sofa, the Vienna chairs and the stag-horn hat rack. The sink, too, had been repaired and the spent bulbs replaced; a block of ice with patches of sawdust rested in the hollow of the small unpainted icebox. There was a brief discussion on whether the French soap poster behind the kitchen door was to go or stay: it depicted a trio of languorous nymphs in various stages of deshabille reclining upon a scroll bearing the legend Parfumerie et Savonerie but the woodworking instructor remembered that it had been put there to cover a rotting jagged hole - and the nymphs had stayed. The base of the flagpole, too, had been cemented and the old gate given a whitewash. The bare grounds were, within the remarkable space of two hours, transformed into a riotous bougainvillea garden. Potted blooms were still coming in through the gate by wheelbarrow and bicycle. Buried deep in the secret earth, what supervisor could tell that such gorgeous specimens were potted, or that they had merely been borrowed from the neighboring houses for the visitation? Every school in the province had its special point of pride - a bed of giant squashes, an enclosure or white king pigeons, a washroom constructed by the

PTA. Yearly, Pugad Lawin High School had made capital of its topography: rooted on the firm ledge of a hill, the schoolhouse was accessible by a series of stone steps carved on the hard face of the rocks; its west windows looked out on the misty grandeur of a mountain chain shaped like a sleeping woman. Marvelous, but the supervisors were expecting something tangible, and so this year there was the bougainvillea. The teaching staff and the student body had been divided into four working groups. The first group, composed of Mrs. Divinagracia, the harassed Home Economics instructor, and some of the less attractive lady teachers, were banished to the kitchen to prepare the menu: it consisted of a 14-lb. suckling pig, macaroni soup, embutido, chicken salad, baked lapulapu, morcon, leche flan and ice cream, the total cost of which had already been deducted from the teachers' pay envelopes. Far be it to be said that Pugad Lawin was lacking in generosity, charm or good tango dancers! Visitation was, after all, 99% impression - and Mr. Olbes, the principal, had promised to remember the teachers' cooperation in that regard in the efficiency reports. The teachers of Group Two had been assigned to procure the beddings and the dishes to be used for the supper. In true bureaucratic fashion they had relegated the assignment to their students, who in turn had denuded their neighbors' homes of cots, pillows, and sleeping mats. The only bed properly belonging to the Home Economics Building was a fourposter with a canopy and the superintendent was to be given the honor of slumbering upon it. Hence it was endowed with the grandest of the sleeping mats, two sizes large, but interwoven with a detailed map of the archipelago. Nestling against the headboard was a quartet of the principal's wife's heart-shaped pillows two hard ones and two soft ones - Group Two being uncertain of the sleeping preferences of division heads. "Structuring the Rooms" was the responsibility of the third group. It consisted in the construction (hurriedly) of graphs, charts, and other visual aids. There was a scurrying to complete unfinished lesson plans and correct neglected theme books; precipitate trips from bookstand to broom closet in a last desperate attempt to keep out of sight the dirty

spelling booklets of a preceding generation, unfinished projects and assorted rags - the key later conveniently "lost" among the folds of Mrs. Olbes' (the principal's wife) balloon skirt. All year round the classroom walls had been unperturbably blank. Now they were, like the grounds, miraculously abloom - with cartolina illustrations of Parsing, Amitosis Cell Division and the Evolution of the Filipina Dress - thanks to the Group Two leader, Mr. Buenaflor (Industrial Arts) who, forsaken, sat hunched over a rainfall graph. The distaff side of Group Two were either practicing tango steps or clustered around a vacationing teacher who had taken advantage of her paid maternity leave to make a mysterious trip to Hongkong and had now returned with a provocative array of goods for sale. The rowdiest freshman boys composed the fourth and discriminated group. Under the stewardship of Miss Noel (English), they had, for the past two days been "Landscaping the Premises," as assignment which, true to its appellation, consisted in the removal of all unsightly objects from the landscape. That the dirty assignment had not fallen on the hefty Mr. de Dios (Physics) or the crafty Mr. Baz (National Language), both of whom were now hanging curtains, did not surprise Miss Noel. She had long been at odds with the principal, or rather, the principal's wife - ever since the plump Mrs. Olbes had come to school in a fashionable sack dress and caught on Miss Noel's mouth a half-effaced smile. "We are such a fashionable group," Miss Noel had joked once at a faculty meeting. "If only our reading could also be in fashion!" -- which statement obtained for her the ire of the only two teachers left talking to her. That Miss Noel spent her vacations taking a summer course for teachers in Manila made matters even worse - for Mr. Olbes believed that the English teacher attended these courses for the sole purpose of showing them up. And Miss Noel's latest wrinkle, the Integration Method, gave Mr. Olbes a pain where he sat. Miss Noel, on the other hand, thought utterly unbecoming and disgusting the manner in which the principal's wife praised a teacher's new purse of shawl. ("It's so pretty, where can I get one exactly like it?" - a heavy-handed and graceless hint) or the way she had of announcing, well in advance, birthdays and

baptisms in her family (in other words, "Prepare!"). The lady teachers were, moreover, for lack of household help, "invited" to the principal's house to make a special salad, stuff a chicken or clean the silverware. But this certainly was much less than expected of the vocational staff - the Woodworking instructor who was detailed to do all the painting and repair work on the principal's house, the Poultry instructor whose stock of leghorns was depleted after every party of the Olbeses, and the Automotive instructor who was forever being detailed behind the wheel of the principal's jeep - and Miss Noel had come to take it in stride as one of the hazards of the profession. But today, accidentally meeting in the lavatory, a distressed Mrs. Olbes had appealed to Miss Noel for help with her placket zipper, after which she brought out a bottle of lotion and proceeded to douse the English teacher gratefully with it. Fresh from the trash pits, Miss Noel, with supreme effort, resisted from making an untoward observation - and friendship was restored on the amicable note of a stuck zipper. At 1:30, the superintendent's car and the weapons carrier containing the supervisors drove through the town arch of Pugad Lawin. A runner, posted at the town gate since morning, came panting down the road but was outdistanced by the vehicles. The principal still in undershirt and drawers, shaving his jowls by the window, first sighted the approaching party. Instantly, the room was in a hustle. Grimy socks, Form 137's and a half bottle of beer found their way into Mr. Olbes' desk drawer. A sophomore breezed down the corridor holding aloft a newly-pressed barong on a wire hanger. Behind the closed door, Mrs. Olbes wriggled determinedly into her corset. The welcoming committee was waiting on the stone steps when the visitors alighted. It being Flag Day, the male instructors were attired in barong, the women in red, white or blue dresses in obedience to the principal's circular. The Social Studies teacher, hurrying down the steps to present the sampaguita garlands, tripped upon an unexpected pot of borrowed bougainvillea. Peeping from an upstairs window, the kitchen group noted that there were only twelve arrivals. Later it was brought out that the National Language Supervisor had gotten a severe stomach cramp and had to be left at the Health Center; that

Miss Santos (PE) and Mr. del Rosario (Military Tactics) had eloped at dawn. Four pairs of hands fought for the singular honor of wrenching open the car door, and Mr. Alava emerged into the sunlight. He was brown as a sampaloc seed. Mr. Alava gazed with satisfaction upon the patriotic faculty and belched his approval in cigar smoke upon the landscape. The principal, rivaling a total eclipse, strode towards Mr. Alava minus a cuff link. "Compaero!" boomed the superintendent with outstretched arms. "Compaero!" echoed Mr. Olbes. They embraced darkly. There was a great to-do in the weapons carrier. The academic supervisor's pabaon of live crabs from Mapili had gotten entangled with the kalamay in the Home Economics supervisor's basket. The district supervisor had mislaid his left shoe among the squawking chickens and someone had stepped on the puto seco. There were overnight bags and reed baskets to unload, bundles of perishable and unperishable going-away gifts. (The Home Economics staff's dilemma: sans ice box, how to preserve all the food till the next morning). A safari of Pugad Lawin instructors lent their shoulders gallantly to the occasion. Vainly, Miss Noel searched in the crowd for the old Language Arts supervisor. All the years she had been in Pugad Lawin, Mr. Ampil had come: in him there was no sickening bureaucracy, none of the selfimportance and pettiness that often characterized the small public official . He was dedicated to the service of education, had grown old in it. He was about the finest man Miss Noel had ever known. How often had the temporary teachers had to court the favor of their supervisors with lavish gifts of sweets, de hilo, portfolios and what-not, hoping that they would be given a favorable recommendation! A permanent position for the highest bidder. But Miss Noel herself had never experienced this rigmarole -she had passed her exams and had been recommended to the first vacancy by Mr. Ampil without having uttered a word of flattery or given a single gift. It was ironic that even in education, you found the highest and the meanest forms of men. Through the crowd came a tall unfamiliar figure in a loose coat, a triad of pens leaking in his

pocket. Under the brave nose, the chin had receded like a gray hermit crab upon the coming of a great wave. "Miss Noel, I presume?" said the stranger. The English teacher nodded. "I am the new English supervisor - Sawit is the name." The tall man shook her hand warmly. "Did you have a good trip, Sir?" Mr. Sawit made a face. "Terrible!" Miss Noel laughed. "Shall I show you to your quarters? You must be tired." "Yes, indeed," said Mr. Sawit. "I'd like to freshen up. And do see that someone takes care of my orchids, or my wife will skin me alive." The new English supervisor gathered his portfolios and Miss Noel picked up the heavy load of orchids. Silently, they walked down the corridor of the Home Economics building, hunter and laden Indian guide. "I trust nothing's the matter with Mr. Ampil, Sir?" "Then you haven't heard? The old fool broke a collar bone. He's dead." "Oh." "You see, he insisted on doing all the duties expected of him - he'd be ahead of us in the school we were visiting if he felt we were dallying on the road. He'd go by horseback, or carabao sled to the distant ones where the road was inaccessible by bus - and at his age! Then, on our visitation to barrio Tungkod - you know that place, don't you?" Miss Noel nodded. "On the way to the godforsaken island, that muddy hellhole, he slipped on the banca - and well, that's it." "How terrible." "Funny thing is - they had to pass the hat around to buy him a coffin. It turned out the fellow was as poor as a churchmouse. You'd think, why this old fool had been thirty-three years in the service. Never a day absent. Never a day late. Never told a lie. You'd think at least he'd get a decent burial - but he hadn't reached 65 and wasn't going to get a cent he wasn't working for. Well, anyway, that's a thorn off your side." Miss Noel wrinkled her brow, puzzled. "I thought all teachers hated strict supervisors." Mr. Sawit elucidated. "Didn't you all quake for your life when Mr. Ampil was there waiting at

the door of the classroom even before you opened it with your key?" "Feared him, yes," said Miss Noel. "But also respected and admired him for what he stood for." Mr. Sawit shook his head smiling. "So that's how the wind blows," he said, scratching a speck of dust off his earlobe. Miss Noel deposited the supervisor's orchids in the corridor. They had reached the reconverted classroom that Mr. Sawit was to occupy with two others. "You must be kind to us poor supervisors," said Mr. Sawit as Miss Noel took a cake of soap and a towel from the press. "The things we go through!" Meticulously, Mr. Sawit peeled back his shirt sleeves to expose his pale hairless wrists. "At Pagkabuhay, Miss What's-her-name, the grammar teacher, held a demonstration class under the mango trees. Quite impressive, and modern; but the class had been so well rehearsed that they were reciting like machine guns. I think it's some kind of a code they have, like if the student knows the answer he is to raise his left hand, and if he doesn't he is to raise his right, something to that effect." Mr. Sawit reached for the towel hanging on Miss NOel's arm. "What I mean to say is, hell, what's the use of going through all that palabas? As I always say," Mr. Sawit raised his arm and pumped it vigorously in the air, "let's get to the heart of what matters." Miss Noel looked up with interest. "You mean get into the root of the problem?" "Hell no!" the English supervisor said, "I mean the dance! I always believe there's no school problem that a good round of tango will not solve!" Mr. Sawit groped blindly for the towel to wipe his dripping face and came up to find Miss Noel smiling. "Come, girl," he said lamely. "I was really only joking." As soon as the bell rang, Miss Noel entered I-B followed by Mr. Sawit. The students were nervous. You could see their hands twitching under the desks. Once in a while they glanced apprehensively behind to where Mr. Sawit sat on a cane chair, straight as a bamboo. But as the class began, the nervousness vanished and the boys launched into the recitation with

aplomb. Confidently, Miss Noel sailed through a sea of prepositions, using the Oral Approach Method: "I live in a barrio." "I live in a town." "I live in Pugad Lawin." "I live on a street." "I live on Calle Real" Mr. Sawit scribbled busily on his pad. Triumphantly, Miss Noel ended the period with a trip to the back of the building where the students had constructed a home-made printing press and were putting out their first school paper. The inspection of the rest of the building took exactly half an hour. It was characterized by a steering away from the less presentable parts of the school (except for the Industrial Arts supervisor who, unwatched, had come upon and stood gaping at the French soap poster). The twenty-three strains of bougainvillea received such a chorus of praise and requests for cutting that the poor teachers were nonplussed on how to meet them without endangering life and limb from their rightful owners. The Academic supervisor commented upon the surprisingly fresh appearance of the Amitosis chart and this was of course followed by a ripple of nervous laughter. Mr. Sawit inquired softly of Miss Noel what the town's cottage industry was, upon instructions of his uncle, the supervisor. "Buntal hats," said Miss Noel. The tour ended upon the sound of the dinner bell and at 7 o'clock the guests sat down to supper. The table, lorded over by a stuffed Bontoc eagle, was indeed an impressive sight. The flowered soup plates borrowed from Mrs. Valenton vied with Mrs. De los Santos' bone china. Mrs. Alejandro's willoware server rivalled but could not quite outshine the soup tureens of Mrs. Cruz. Pink paper napkins blossomed grandly in a water glass. The superintendent took the place of honor at the head of the table with Mr. Olbes at his right. And the feast began. Everyone partook heavily of the elaborate dishes; there were second helpings and many requests for toothpicks. On either side of Mr. Alava, during the course of the meal, stood Miss Rosales and Mrs. Olbes, the former fanning him, the latter boning the lapu-lapu on his plate. The rest of the Pugad Lawin teachers, previously fed on hopia and

coke, acted as waiteresses. Never was a beer glass empty, never a napkin out of reach, and the supervisors, with murmured apologies, belched approvingly. Towards the end of the meal, Mr. Alava inquired casually of the principal where he could purchase some buntal hats. Elated, the latter replied that it was the cottage industry right here in Pugad Lawin. They were, however, the principal said, not for sale to colleagues. The Superintendent shook his head and said he insisted on paying, and brought out his wallet, upon which the principal was so offended he would not continue eating. At last the superintendent said, all right, compaero, give me one or two hats, but the principal shook his head and ordered his alarmed teachers to round up fifty; and the ice cream was served. Close upon the wings of the dinner tripped the Social Hour. The hosts and the guests repaired to the sala where a rondalla of high school boys were playing an animated rendition of "Merry Widow" behind the hat rack. There was a concerted reaching for open cigar boxes and presently the room was clouded with acrid black smoke. Mr. Olbes took Miss Noel firmly by the elbow and steered her towards Mr. Alava who, deep in a cigar, sat wide-legged on the carved sofa. "Mr. Superintendent," said the principal. "This is Miss Noel, our English teacher. She would be greatly honored if you open the dance with her." "Compaero," twinkled the superintendent. "I did not know Pugad Lawin grew such exquisite flowers." Miss Noel smiled thinly. Mr. Alava's terpsichorean knowledge had never advanced beyond a bumbling waltz. They rocked, gyrated, stumbled, recovered, rolled back into the center, amid a wave of teasing and applause. To each of the supervisors, in turn, the principal presented a pretty instructor, while the rest, unattractive or painfully shy, and therefore unfit offering to the gods, were left to fend for themselves. The first number was followed by others in three-quarter time and Miss Noel danced most of them with Mr. Sawit. At ten o'clock, the district supervisor suggested that they all drive to the next town where the fiesta was being celebrated with a big dance in the plaza. All the prettier lady teachers were drafted and the automotive instructor was ordered behind the

wheel of the weapons carrier. Miss Noel remained behind together with Mrs. Divinagracia and the Home Economics staff, pleading a headache. Graciously, Mr. Sawit also remained behind. As Miss Noel repaired to the kitchen, Mr. Sawit followed her. "The principal tells me you are quite headstrong, Miss Noel," he said. "But then I don't put much stock by what principals say." Miss Noel emptied the ashtrays in the trash can. "If he meant why I refused to dance with Mr. Lucban" "No, just things in general," said Mr. Sawit. "The visitation, for instance. What do you think of it?" Miss Noel looked into Mr. Sawit's eyes steadily. "Do you want my frank opinion, Sir?" "Yes, of course." "Well, I think it's all a farce." "That's what I've heard - what makes you think that?" "isn't it obvious? You announce a whole month ahead that you're visiting. We clean the schoolhouse, tuck the trash in the drawers, bring out our best manners. As you said before, we rehearse our classes. Then we roll out the red carpet - and you believe you observe us in our everyday surrounding, in our everyday comportment?" "Oh, we know that." "That's what I mean - we know that you know. And you know that we know that you know." Mr. Sawit gave out an embarrassed laugh. "Come now, isn't that putting it a trifle strongly?" "No," replied Miss Noel. "In fact, I overheard one of your own companions say just a while ago that if your lechon were crisper than that of the preceding school, if our pabaon were more lavish, we would get a higher efficiency rating." "Of course he was merely joking. I see what Mr. Olbes meant about your being stubborn." "And what about one supervisor, an acquaintance of yours, I know, who used to come just before the town fiesta and assign us the following items: 6 chickens, 150 eggs, 2 goats, 12 leche flans. I know the list by heart - I was assigned the checker." "There are a few miserable exceptions" "What about the sweepstakes agent supervisor who makes a ticket of the teacher's

clearance for the withdrawal of his pay? How do you explain him?" Mr. Sawit shook his head as if to clear it. "Sir, during the five years that I've taught, I've done my best to live up to my ideals. Yet I please nobody. It's the same old narrow conformism and favor-currying. What matters is not how well one teaches but how well one has learned the art of pleasing the powers-that-be and it's the same all the way up." Mr. Sawit threw his cigar out of the window in an arc. "So you want to change the world. I've been in the service a long time, Miss Noel. Seventeen years. This bald spot on my head caused mostly by new teachers like you who want to set the world on fire. In my younger days I wouldn't hesitate to recommend you for expulsion for your rash opinions. But I've grown old and mellow - I recognize spunk and am willing to give it credit. But spunk is only hard-headedness when not directed towards the proper channels. But you're young enough and you'll learn, the hard way, singed here and there - but you'll learn." "How are you so sure?" asked Miss Noel narrowly. "They all do. There are thousands of teachers. They're mostly disillusioned but they go on teaching - it's the only place for a woman to go." "There will be a reclassification next month," continued Mr. Sawit. "Mr. Olbes is out to get you - he can, too, on grounds of insubordination, you know that. But I'm willing to stick my neck out for you if you stop being such an idealistic fool and henceforth express no more personal opinions. Let sleeping dogs lie, Miss Noel. I shall give you a good rating after this visitation because you remind me of my younger sister, if for no other reason. Then after a year, when I find that you learned to curb your tongue, I will recommend you for a post in Manila where your talents will not be wasted. I am related to Mr. Alava, you know." Miss Noel bit her lip in stunned silence. Is this what she had been wasting her years on? She had worked, she had slaved - with a sting of tears she remembered all the parties missed ("Can't wake up early tomorrow, Clem"), alliances forgone ("Really, I haven't got the time, maybe some other year?") the chances by-passed ("Why, she's become a spinster!") - then to come face to face with what one has worked

for - a boor like Mr. Sawit! How did one explain him away? What syllogisms could one invent to rub him out of the public school system? Below the window, Miss Noel heard a giggle as one of the Pugad Lawin teachers was pursued by a mischievous supervisor in the playground. "You see," the voice continued, "education is not so much a matter of brains as getting along with one's fellowmen, else how could I have risen to my present position?" Mr. Sawit laughed harshly. "All the fools I started out with are still head-teachers in godforsaken barrios, and how can one be idealistic in a mudhole? Goodnight, my dear." Mr. Sawit's hot trembling hand (the same mighty hand that fathered the 8-A's that made or broke English teachers) found its way swiftly around her waist, and hot on her forehead Miss Noel endured the supreme insult of a wet, fatherly kiss. Give up your teaching, she heard her aunt say again for the hundredth time, and in a couple of months you might be the head. We need someone educated because we plan to export. Oh, to be able to lie in a hammock on the top of the hill and not have to worry about the next lesson plan! To have time to meet people, to party, to write. She remembered Clem coming into the house (after the first troubled months of teaching) and persuading her to come to Manila because his boss was in need of a secretary. Typing! Filing! Shorthand! She had spat the words contemptuously back at him. I was given a head so I could think! Pride goeth Miss Noel bowed her head in silence. Could anyone in the big, lighted offices of the city possibly find use for a stubborn, cranky, BSE major? As Miss Noel impaled the coffee cups upon the spokes of the drainboard, she heard the door open and the student named Leon come in for the case of beer empties. "Pandemonium over, Ma'am?" he asked. Miss Noel smile dimly. Dear perceptive Leon. He wanted to become a lawyer. Pugad Lawin's first. What kind of a piker was she to betray a dream like that? What would happen to him if she wasn't there to teach him his p's and f's? Deep in the night and the silence outside flickered an occasional gaslight in a hut on the mountain shaped like a sleeping woman. Was Porfirio deep in a Physics book? (Oh, but he mustn't blow up

any more pigshed.) What was Juanita composing tonight? (An ode on starlight on the trunk of a banana tree?) Leon walked swiftly under the window: in Miss Noel's eyes he had already won a case. Why do I have to be such a darn missionary? Unafraid, the boy Leon stepped into the night, the burden of bottles light on his back. After breakfast the next morning, the supervisors packed their belongings and were soon ready. Mr. Buenaflor fetched a camera and they all posed on the sunny steps for a souvenir photo: the superintendent with Mr. and Mrs. Olbes on either side of him and the minor gods in descending order on the Home Economics stairs. Miss Noel was late - but she ran to take her place with pride and humility on the lowest rung of the school's hierarchy. Midsummer SUMMARY: The heat of the sun made the stranger stop. It is about time for him to rest and take his lunch under the shade of a tree beside the lake. His attention was immediately caught by the sight of a lovely lady standing by the lake. Her presence made him very uneasy but it did not prevent him from being friendly towards the lady when he finally got the courage of starting a conversation with her. The accident with the stranger's lunch eventually led him to be invited in her house where an instant attraction could possibly flourish into love. The Boy who ate stars SUMMARY: How a little boy who had a craving to eat all the stars he could learned to appreciate having stars in the heavens is told cleverly along with a parallel tale about deforestation by outsiders to the community, which the villagers recognize only too late as wrong and harmful. When no stars and no trees are left, a stranger visits the village, giving the people a tree to begin reestablishing their forest and the boy wisdom to reverse his error. The Visitation of the Gods SUMMARY: The short story is about the reality of the process of death of Filipino idealism in the administration of public schools. It shows the difficulties of sustaining ones interest and motivation in improving the standards of education in the country. It highlights the visitation of the officers who act as assessors of the efficiency ratings of the teachers and the schools. The setting is in the

provinces where the bureaucracy in the education system is very evident. The importance of obtaining a high efficiency rating by the school, its faculty and students has compromised the principles of most of its administrators. It not only affects the efficiency of the schools and their faculty but it also contributes to the decline in the actual performance of students. The story also shows how the activity can be turned into an opportunity to punish insubordination by assigning the most problematic and difficult tasks to the most not-liked teachers and students. The story also exposes the Filipinos mentality towards competition. Sometimes ones pursuit for personal and professional growth can be mistaken a threat to another mans job or authority. More likely, it would be interpreted as showing-off. Unfortunately, the conflict between different interests not only affects those involved but usually extends to all the faculty, which in turn causes polarization in the workplace. A visitation announced a month in advance defeats the purpose for such an activity, as was clearly shown in the story. It gives the school administrators the opportunity to prepare and hide the infirmities of their respective schools. The results are usually not reflective of the true status and situation of the schools because only the good things are highlighted while the bad things are hidden. Sometimes overnight makeovers are resorted to so that there will be the appearance of compliance with the educational standards. The whole activity boils down to making an impression and satisfying a group of assessors, who are treated like gods by flattery and gift-giving. The irony of this is that the death of idealism starts from the school, which is supposed to be its cradle. Students are exposed to the practice of conformism and favor-currying by their teachers. The school is supposed to protect the students from such corrupt practices. Due to this kind of bureaucratic practice in the public schools, the standard of education is lowered. The true progress of our educational system can not be assessed. Teachers are not promoted based on efficiency, competence, professionalism and other criterion used in the merit system. The story is a microcosm of the corruption existing in our country. Apparently, corruption is already in the grass roots. It would seem that the only way a person can climb the bureaucratic ladder is to allow himself to

be eaten by the system. Good people in the government are usually punished for doing their jobs, while bad people are rewarded for doing things other than their jobs. Indirectly, the story shows the direct proportionality between success in the government and the ability of one to compromise his principles, values and character. The more one compromises his principles, values and character, the more likely he will succeed. Justice is indeed hard to find in the Philippines. Those who sacrifice and dedicate their lives for the good of the country usually end up getting nothing and having nothing. In the end, its always the children who will suffer. They are the ones who will taste the products of the mistakes of their fathers. Ironic though because fathers usually resort to these malpractices to ensure a good future for their children.