THE LEGEND OF MT.

MAYON
By: Anastacio C. Canciller

          A long time ago when the Philippines was not yet separated by a wide stretch of water from the mainland of Asia, there was neither then
high mountain nor volcano in the region now known as Bikolandia or Kabikolan the old name given by the inhabitants to this place. There once
dwelt a distinct group of people composed of beautiful women and sturdy warriors. Many suitors from far away regions went to Kabikolan
purposely to court its maidens. They, however, returned home dejectedly because it was the unbroken code of that place that no strangers could
marry its daragas (maidens). So strict were the fathers with regard to the marriage of their daughters that tribal wars would frequently mar the
beauty of the village. The inhabitants, of course, were secure from the onslaught of the invaders from all of them were mostly experienced
warriors.

          Of all the women in Kabikolan, none was more winsome than Tiong Makusog’s daughter, Daragang Magayon, whose name literally
means woman beauteous. That was why in the whole region, she was the kabinibinihan (modest) of them all. Among the native who fell madly
in love with her, was the wealthy but selfish Paratuga. Thrice did this suitor thrust his spear near the stairs of Tiong Makusog’s house as a sign of
his love of Daragang Magayon, and thrice did he present valuable gift of pearls, diamonds and gold, only to be answered with firm words of
refusal. “He is not the man for me, father,” the

beautiful woman would say whenever she was enjoined by Tiong Makusog in behalf of the native lover. Since the old man was open-minded, he
could do no other but follow her wish.

          One midnight, while silence pervaded the place, Daragang Magayon unexpectedly confessed to her father of her love affair with a certain
man who lives beyond the border of Kabikolan. “Tatay”, she began tremulously,” it will mean eternal disgrace to our family if I am known to be
in love with a stranger who lives on the other side of Kabikolan (the boundary river that separates Kabikolan from Katagalogan, the region
inhabited by the tagalogs). To me he is the handsomest of all men I have ever seen. I owe my life to him, because he was the brave man who
saved me from the mad currents of Kabikolan, when one morning while I was bathing in the river, my feet unfortunately slipped on the rock I
stood upon”.

          Tiong Makusog became grief-stricken after learning that his only daughter had already chosen her life-partner without his knowledge.
Nevertheless, he controlled himself, and queried, although scarcely intelligible, who her strange sweetheart was.

          “That is it”, Daragang Magayon seemed to have trailed her father thoughts, “I am sure you don’t know his name because when you
arrived, I was already saved from drowning and he had immediately told me, “Namomotan Ta Ka”, (I love you) he told me one sunset when we
met again at the bank of the river. “Namomotan ta ka man,” (I love you too) I replied, whereupon, I felt his lips tenderly pressing on mine. What
shall we do father? I don’t love Paratuga. I prefer a thousand deaths than wed him!” She ended firmly.

           “I will help you to find the best way out, my daughter,” Tiong Makusog, albeit heavy was his heart, assured her.

          Unfortunately one morning, while Tiong Makusog was hunting in a nearby forest, several strong henchmen of Paratuga suddenly seized
him unawares. He was taken to the home of this treacherous suitor where he was demanded as ransom, the hand of his daughter, otherwise death
from the wounds of hundred arrows would be his punishment.

           That same day, a few hours after Tiong Makusog had been taken as captive, Linog, Paratuga’s chief messenger arrived at Daranga
Magayon’s house and delivered to her a letter written on a piece of white bamboo

          It contained a demand for her hand in marriage to Paratuga, or her refusal would mean immediate death of her father. Realizing the futility
of a further refusal, Daragang Magayon forgot her gentle Panganoron, the man who had saved her from drowning. She at once rushed down the
stairs and proceeded to Paratuga’s village to accept his terms to be his wife, to save her father.

          The date of the wedding of Daragang Magayon to the wealthy Paratuga was immediately announced. Pearls, diamonds, gold and other precious stones were
given lavishly to Tiong Makusog as gifts to the would-be bride. Messengers with swift heels were sent to al villages in Kabikolan purposely to broadcast the news and
to invite every one to attend the nuptials.

          As if aided by the wind, the news of Daragang Magayon’s proposed marriage speedily spread far and wide. It finally reached Panganoron’s ears whom upon
learning the strange happening, was moved with surprise. For did she not assure him of her love, whatever consequence might befall on her? Indeed, the real lover
could not believe what he heard. To him only force could make Daragang Magayon accept the marriage to that hated man. So with a bold determination to save his
sweetheart from an impending danger, the daring warrior, with his trusted guide, Amihan, gathered all his men in Katagalogan to invade Kabikolan.

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          Panganoron and his followers arrived in Kabikolan on the day of Magayon’s marriage with Paratuga. The invaders were determined to slay the unwanted
suitor and his people. Before the altar sat Tiong Makusog, with Daragang Magayon and Paratugaon each of his side. In front of them was the high priest who was
busily mumbling words of incantation prior to the formal proclamation of the two parties as husband and wife. To the thousand pairs of eyes that witnessed the
splendid ceremony, Daragang Magayon appeared immensely beautiful. Never before had they seen such a winsome woman. However, they could see that grief had
lodged on her lovely face.

          In the midst of the wedding ceremony, nevertheless, a sharp cry of “Tulisanes are coming!” from a villager outside suddenly put the scene into a medley of
shrieking voices. Men, women and children speed away for safety. Only Daragang Magayon, Paratuga and his warriors remained to await the invaders headed by
Panganoron. In a moment the battle was on. The sharp metallic clash of blade filled the air, and mounds of dying warriors gave a horrible sound in the fight.
Paratuga was the first to gall, at the hands of the bold Panganoron. Seeing her returned lover, Daragang Magayon at once rushed to him, but sadly enough, a stray
arrow fatally hit her. In his efforts to lift the weakening body of his sweetheart, Panganoron was unnoticeably attacked from behind. He reeled to the ground, bleeding
and breathless. His men, sensing that their leader was dead and realizing that they were outnumbered, took to their heels and left him lifeless to their enemy.

          The next day, all the natives of Kabikolan were sad. Daragang Magayon was dead. Tiong Makusog buried her beside the sea. In her grave, he laid all that she
had possessed, including the priceless gifts of Paratuga. A week, however, after the burial, all the inhabitants of that place were surprised to find the grave mound of
Daragang Magayon steadily rising into a hill. They were amazed, too, why sometimes a flock of white clouds floating over the hill would suddenly turn black and
burst into a cloud and heavy shower strangely enough, pouring particularly on the crest of the hill. At night the people would be awakened by strong earthquakes that
seemed to emanate from the grave of Daragang Magayon, followed by a thundering noise of rolling stones, along its steeply slope. This horrible occurrence
frightened the natives so that in a short period, the place had become deserted.

          During the countless years that followed that incident, the burial-hill of Darangang Magayon had kept on growing and growing until it was transformed into a
high mountain, with its top almost piercing the clouds.

          Nowadays the Albayanos, believed that the spirit of Paratuga is the cause of the occasional eruption of the mountain that was formerly the grave-mound of
Daragang Magayon. The legend tells us that in order to avenge his failure to wed the beautiful daughter of Tiong Makusog, the spirit of Paratuga, with the help of
Linog’s, is trying every once in a while to exhume her grave to emit all the pearls, diamonds and gold he had given to her as gifts. Instead of the gifts, however, large
masses of stones with heavy layers of ashes, are thrown out, as when a volcano erupts.

          The spirit of Panganoron, on the other hand, so the legend says, is wandering in the form of clouds above the peak of the mountain. These clouds usually visit
the burial-place of Daragang Magayon and never fail to kiss it. Apparently the spirit of Panganoron seems to be grieving over the death of his sweetheart, for
whenever clouds gather at the top, they usually disperse into volleys of raindrops, thus keeping the plant vegetating on the mountain slopes fresh all year round. The
people of Albay contend that these frequent visits of the spirit of Panganoron to the mountain of Daragang Magayon, in the form of clouds and rain may account for
its having a heavy rainfall every year.

          Today the imposing mountain of Daragang Magayon still stands in Albay, perpetually clad with the green foliage of plants. Indeed, what a striking parallelism
to find this mountain, like the winsome lady of former Kabikolan, always a radiant symbol of hope, to honor and remember the memory of Daragang Magayon, the
mountain that marks her resting place is now called Mayon (short for Magayon) and the village by its slopes is at present a thriving town as Daraga (derived from
Daragang) which is still noted for its pretty women.□

The Legend of Sampaguita

A long time ago, there were neighboring Baranggays named Balintawak and Gagalangin. Between the
two baranggay, is a very sturdy fence made up of dried bamboo. Every five years, they destroy it and
build a new fence. Sometimes, the guardsmen from Balintawak watch over the fence, oftentimes the
guardsmen from Gagalangin. Everything is working according to the rules of each datu.

The datu of Barangay Balintawak has a daughter with incomparable beauty and kindness. Her name is
Rosita. Her mother died when she was young, however, she has four maids to assist her every need. There

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are a lot of handsome young men who admires her. But the only man who captured her heart is the son of
Gagalangin’s datu, whose name is Delfin.

The conflict between their parents did not stopped Delfin and Rosita from loving each other. At the end of
the bamboo fence lies there secret lair. Every night when the moon is bright, they meet at the end of the
fence and stroll along with Rosita’s maids. Their relationship is hidden from both of their datu parents.

One day, the datu of Gagalangin heard that the fence is being destroyed by the servants of datu
Balintawak so that they can build a new one. He asked one of his guards to watch at the said fence-
making. When the guard came back, he told the datu that the new fence was moved. He was mad because
the datu of Balintawak took five meters of their land. Immediately, he sent a man to the datu of the
neighboring baranggay.

”Tell the datu of Balintawak to put the fence back where it is supposed to be. They are being unlawful
and stealing one’s land is a crime!” said the datu of Gagalangin.

When the datu of Balintawak heard about it, he became furious and asked the servant to give a message to
their datu. “Tell your datu that I never stole anything from him. I just placed the bamboo fences at its
right place according to the documents that I discovered, written by my ancestors.”

Delfin’s father was very much displeased with the other datu’s response. This kind of conflicts usually
results bloodshed among the two baranggays.

The datu of Gagalangin prepared his unit for the upcoming battle. He needs to get their baranggay’s
stolen land even by violent means.When the news reached the datu of Balintawak, he eagerly prepared his
battle unit as well. The two leaders are now ready for a never-ending war.

A few days before Gagalangins planned to attack the Balintawak, the datu got sick. He became seriously
ill that lead him to his death. The responsibility was then handed to Delfin. He will be the one to lead the
battle troops of baranggay Gagalangin.

The female servants told Rosita what was about to happen and she started to become frightened. Delfin is
so young and does not have any experience when it comes to war. His father, on the other hand, had been
trained to fight since he was still a child. She worried too much. She wanted to talk to Delfin and ask him
to forfeit the war and simply talk to his father and settle the conflict peacefully. However, they do not
have time to converse anymore. Tomorrow is the start of an endless battle between the two baranggays.

Both parties lost so many lives. Delfin was badly hurt and shed a lot of blood. He started to be blurry. He
was half conscious when he fell to the ground. Before his last breath, he told one of his comrades to bury
him near the end of the fence where he and Rosita used to secretly see each other.

Nobody can ever tell what really happened to the young lovers or the result of the war. All they knew is
that Rosita became seriously ill when she knew that Delfin died in the battle. Her father called for so
many doctors to make her feel well but neither one of them can treat Rosita. When she was about to die,
Rosita told her father to bury her near Delfin, at the end of the bamboo fence. Though it is hard for the
datu to do, she still obeyed her daughter’s last wish.

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Many years had passed and the existence of baranggays gradually disappeared. Spaniards came and the
city of Manila was established. Balintawak and Gagalangin became populated. But all the people living in
these two places were having a mysterious experience. During the month of May, especially when the
moon is bright, they hear a mystical sweet voice of a lady saying “Sumpa kita! ... Sumpa kita!” (I
swear, I swear) but nobody can see from whom it is coming from. It seems as if it comes from the
bushes where little white flowers grow. Although the flowers are so tiny, it bursts out a different kind
of scent that everybody loves to smell. That’s what usually happens every month of May, each year.

Because everyone was so curious about the voice, they all decided to dig up the spot and uncover the
mystery behind it. To their surprise, they found the roots of the bushes where the lovely flower grows,
comes from the mouth of the two bodies buried not so far from each other. The elders remembered the
memoir of the two lovers – Delfin and Rosita.

The story spread fast. The words “Sumpa kita” evolved as “Sampaguita” that signifies an everlasting love
of Delfin and Rosita.

"I Am A Filipino"  
by Carlos P. Romulo

I am a Filipino – inheritor of a glorious past, hostage to the uncertain future.  As such, I must
prove equal to a two-fold task – the task of meeting my responsibility to the past, and the task of
performing my obligation to the future.

I am sprung from a hardy race – child many generations removed of ancient Malayan pioneers.  Across
the centuries, the memory comes rushing back to me: of brown-skinned men putting out to sea in ships
that were as frail as their hearts were stout.  Over the sea I see them come, borne upon the billowing wave
and the whistling wind, carried upon the mighty swell of hope – hope in the free abundance of the new
land that was to be their home and their children’s forever.

This is the land they sought and found.  Every inch of shore that their eyes first set upon, every hill and
mountain that beckoned to them with a green and purple invitation, every mile of rolling plain that their
view encompassed, every river and lake that promised a plentiful living and the fruitfulness of commerce,
is a hollowed spot to me.

By the strength of their hearts and hands, by every right of law, human and divine, this land and all the
appurtenances thereof – the black and fertile soil, the seas and lakes and rivers teeming with fish, the
forests with their inexhaustible wealth in wild and timber, the mountains with their bowels swollen with
minerals – the whole of this rich and happy land has been for centuries without number, the land of my
fathers.  This land I received in trust from them, and in trust will pass it to my children, and so on until the
world is no more.

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I am a Filipino. In my blood runs the immortal seed of heroes – seed that flowered down the centuries in
deeds of courage and defiance.  In my veins yet pulses the same hot blood that sent Lapulapu to battle
against the alien foe, that drove Diego Silang and Dagohoy into rebellion against the foreign oppressor,

That seed is immortal.  It is the self-same seed that flowered in the heart of Jose Rizal that morning in
Bagumbayan when a volley of shots put an end to all that was mortal of him and made his spirit deathless
forever; the same that flowered in the hearts of Bonifacio in Balintawak, of Gregorio del Pilar at Tirad
Pass, of Antonio Luna at Calumpit, that bloomed in flowers of frustration in the sad heart of Emilio
Aguinaldo at Palanan, and yet burst forth royally again in the proud heart of Manuel L. Quezon when he
stood at

the vision of democracy, and I shall not rest until my land and my people shall have been blessed by these, beyond
the power of any man or nation to subvert or destroy. last on the threshold of ancient Malacanang Palace, in the
symbolic act of possession and racial vindication.

The seed I bear within me is an immortal seed.  It is the mark of my manhood, the symbol of my dignity as a human
being.  Like the seeds that were once buried in the tomb of Tutankhamen many thousands of years ago, it shall grow
and flower and bear fruit again.  It is the insigne  of my race, and my generation is but a stage in the unending search
of my people for freedom and happiness.

I am a Filipino, child of the marriage of the East and the West.  The East, with its languor and mysticism, its
passivity and endurance, was my mother, and my sire was the West that came thundering across the seas with the
Cross and Sword and the Machine.  I  am of the East, an eager participant in its struggles for liberation from the
imperialist yoke.  But I know also that the East must awake from its centuried sleep, shake off the lethargy that has
bound its limbs, and start moving where destiny awaits.

For I, too, am of the West, and the vigorous peoples of the West have destroyed forever the peace and quiet that
once were ours.  I can  no longer live, a being apart from those whose world now trembles to the roar of bomb and
cannon shot.  For no man and no nation is an island, but a part of the main, and there is no longer any East and West
– only individuals and nations making those momentous choices that are the hinges upon which history revolves.

At the vanguard of progress in this part of the world I stand – a forlorn figure in the eyes of some, but not one
defeated and lost.  For through the thick, interlacing branches of habit and custom above me I have seen the light of
the sun, and I know that it is good.  I have seen the light of justice and equality and freedom, my heart has been
lifted by

I am a Filipino, and this is my inheritance.  What pledge shall I give that I may prove worthy of my inheritance?  I
shall give the pledge that has come ringing down the corridors of the centuries, and its hall be compounded of the
joyous cries of my Malayan forebears when they first saw the contours of this land loom before their eyes, of the
battle cries that have resounded in every field of combat from Mactan to Tirad Pass, of the voices of my people
when they sing:

 Out of the lush green of these seven thousand isles, out of the heart-strings of sixteen million people all vibrating to
one song, I shall weave the mighty fabric of my pledge.  Out  of the songs of the farmers at sunrise when they go to
labor in the fields; out the sweat of the hard-bitten pioneers in Mal-ig and Koronadal; out of the silent endurance of
stevedores at the piers and the ominous grumbling of peasants in Pampanga; out of the first cries of babies newly
born and the lullabies that mothers sing; out of crashing of gears and the whine of turbines in the factories; out of the
crunch of ploughs upturning the earth; out of the limitless patience of teachers in the classrooms and doctors in the

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clinics; out of the tramp of soldiers marching, I shall make the pattern of my pledge:I am a Filipino born of freedom,
and I shall not rest until

The Song of Maria Clara

Sweet the hours in the native country,

where friendly shines the sun above!
Life is the breeze that sweeps the meadows;
tranquil is death; most tender, love.

Warm kisses on the lips are playing

as we awake to mother's face:
the arms are seeking to embrace her,
the eyes are smiling as they gaze.

How sweet to die for the native country,

where friendly shines the sun above!
Death is the breeze for him who has
no country, no mother, and no love!

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 Ballad of a Mother's Heart
The night was dark,
For the moon was young,
And the Stars were asleep and rare,
The clouds were thick,
Yet Youth went out,
To see his Maiden fair.

Dear one,
he pleaded as he knelt before her feet in tears.
My love is true,
Why you have kept me waiting all this years?
The maiden looked at him.
Unmoved it seemed,
And whispered low.

Persistent Youth,
You have to prove by deeds,
Your love is true.
"There's not a thing
I haven't do for you,Beloved" said he.
"Then, go." said she. "To your mother dear,
And bring her heart to me.

Without another word,

Youth left and went to his mother dear.
He opened her breast and took her HEART!
But he did not shed a tear.

Then back to his Maiden fair,

He run unmindful of the rain.
But his feet slipped, And he fell down,
And load, he groan with pain!

And then, he held the prize,

That would win his Maiden's hands.
But he thought of his mother dear,
So kind,so sweet,so fond

But then,
he heard a voice!
Not from his lips,
But all apart!

"Get up" it said.

"Are you hurt,Child?"
It was his mother's heart
The ballad of a Mother's heart.

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It is a poignant poem from Jose Villa Panganiban. I was near to tears when I happen to see this wonderful poem.I
remember my mother. Yes, I have been a thorn on my mother's heart. I have caused misery and pain to her due to
my stubbornness. Oh! How repented. This poem is really inspirational. You can see how a mother's love is worth.

Siesta
This article is about the short nap. For other uses, see Siesta (disambiguation).

A painting of a young woman taking a siesta. (The hammock, Gustave Courbet (1844).)

A siesta (Spanish pronunciation: [ˈsjesta]) is a short nap taken in the early afternoon, often after the
midday meal. Such a period of sleep is a common tradition in some countries, particularly those
where the weather is warm. The word siesta is Spanish, from the Latin hora sexta – "the sixth
hour" (counting from dawn, therefore noon, hence "midday rest").

The siesta is the traditional daytime sleep of Spain, and through Spanish influence, of many
Latin American countries.

Factors explaining the geographical distribution are mainly high temperatures and heavy to very
heavy intake of food at the midday meal. Combined, these two factors contribute to the feeling of
post-lunch drowsiness. Afternoon sleep is also a common practice in Albania, Azores,
Bangladesh, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Brazil, China, Croatia, Cyprus, France,[citation needed] Greece,
India, Iran, Iraq, Italy (southern), Malta, Mauritania, Montenegro, North Africa, Pakistan, the
Philippines, Serbia, Taiwan, Vietnam, El Salvador and Dominican Republic.[citation needed] In these
countries, the heat can be unbearable in the early afternoon, making a midday break at home
ideal. In many areas with this habit, it is common to have the largest meal of the day in the very
early afternoon, as is practical and common in cultures dominated by agriculture.[citation needed]

The original concept of a siesta seems to have been merely that of a midday break intended to
allow people to spend time with their friends and family. It has been suggested that the long
length of the modern siesta dates back to the Spanish Civil War, when poverty resulted in many
Spaniards working multiple jobs at irregular hours, pushing back meals to later in the afternoon
and evening.[1] However, this hypothesis sounds unlikely, considering that the siesta tradition
was very common in Latin America and other countries with Hispanic influence, much before
the Spanish Civil War.

New Yorker In Tondo

Gerard Nolst Trenité - The Chaos (1922)
Dearest creature in creation
Studying English pronunciation,

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    I will teach you in my verse
   Sounds like corpse, corps, horse and worse.
I will keep you, Susy, busy,
Make your head with heat grow dizzy;
   Tear in eye, your dress you'll tear;
   Queer, fair seer, hear my prayer.
Pray, console your loving poet,
Make my coat look new, dear, sew it!
   Just compare heart, hear and heard,
   Dies and diet, lord and word.
Sword and sward, retain and Britain
(Mind the latter how it's written).
   Made has not the sound of bade,
   Say-said, pay-paid, laid but plaid.
Now I surely will not plague you
With such words as vague and ague,
   But be careful how you speak,
   Say: gush, bush, steak, streak, break, bleak ,
Previous, precious, fuchsia, via
Recipe, pipe, studding-sail, choir;
   Woven, oven, how and low,
   Script, receipt, shoe, poem, toe.
Say, expecting fraud and trickery:
Daughter, laughter and Terpsichore,
   Bran ranch, measles, topsails, aisles,
   Missiles, similes, reviles.
Wholly, holly, signal, signing,
Same, examining, but mining,
   Scholar, vicar, and cigar,
   Solar, mica, war and far.
From "desire": desirable-admirable from "admire",
Lumber, plumber, bier, but brier,
   Topsham, brougham, renown, but known,
   Knowledge, done, lone, gone, none, tone,
One, anemone, Balmoral,
Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel.
   Gertrude, German, wind and wind,
   Beau, kind, kindred, queue, mankind,
Tortoise, turquoise, chamois-leather,
Reading, Reading, heathen, heather.
   This phonetic labyrinth
   Gives moss, gross, brook, brooch, ninth, plinth.
Have you ever yet endeavoured
To pronounce revered and severed,
   Demon, lemon, ghoul, foul, soul,
   Peter, petrol and patrol?
Billet does not end like ballet;
Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.
   Blood and flood are not like food,
   Nor is mould like should and would.
Banquet is not nearly parquet,
Which exactly rhymes...