The Washington herald., 1915-10-17
HEN the war between Spain and George
Dewey was over. went to the Philip

" DeWey was over, went 10 une fnlnp-
w pine Islands, There | remained as
bushwhacker correspondent for my paper un-
til its managing editor notified me that an eight
hundred-word cabegram describing the grief of
pet carabao over the death of an infant Moro
was not considered by the office to be war
news. So resigned and came home
On board the trading-vessel that brought me
back pondered much upon the strange things
lhad sensed in the weird archipelago of the yell
low-brown people. The maneuvers and skir-
mishings of the petty war interested me not:
| was spellbound by the outIandish and unread
able countenance of that race that had turned
its expressionless gaze upon us out of an I'M
guessable past.
Particularly during my stay in Mindanao had
been fascinated and attracted by that delight
fully original tribe of heather known as the
head-hunters Those grim. flinty. relentless lit
tie men, never seen. but chilling the warmest
MONDAY by the subtle terror of their concealed
presence. paralleling the trail of their prey
through unmapped forests. across perilous
mountain-tops. adown bottomless chasms. into
uninhabitable jungles. always near with the in
visible hand of death uplifted, betraying their
pursuit only by such signs as a beast or bird
or gliding serpent might make-a twig crack
ling in the awful. sweat-soaked night drench
of dew showering from the screening foliage of
giant tree. a whisper at even from the rushes
of water-level-a hint of death for every mile
and every hour-they amused me greatly, those
little fellows of one idea.
When you think of it. their method is beauti-
fully and almost hariously effective and simple.
You have your hut in which you live and carry
out the destiny that was decreed for you. Spiked
to the jamb of your bamboo doorway is a
basket made of green withes. plated. From
time to time, as vanity or ennul or love or
jealousy or ambition may move you. you creep
forth with your snickersnee and take up the
silent trail. Back from it you come. trium.
phant, bearing the severed, CORY head of your
victim. which you deposit with pardonable pride
in the basket at the side of your door. 1t may
be the head of your enemy. your friend. or a
stranger. according as competition, jealousy. or
simple sportiveness has been your incentive to
labor
In any case. your reward is certain. The
village men, IN passing. stop to congratulate
you. as your neighbor on weaker planes of life
stops to admire and praise the begonias in your
front yard. Your particular brown maid fingers.
with fluttering bosom. casting soft tigers eyes
beteI-nut and listen. content to the intermittent
soft drip from the ends of the severed neck
arteries. And you show your teeth and grunt
like a water r-buffalo-which is as near as you
can come to laughing the thought that the
cold, acephalous body of your door ornament is
being spotted by wheeling vultures in the Min
danaoan wllds.
Truly, the life of the merry head-hunter cap
tivated me- He had reduced art and philosophy
to a simple code To take your adversary's
head. to basket it at the portal of your castle.
to see it lying there. dead thing. with its cum
ming and stratagems and power gone Is there
better way to foil his plots. to refute his argu-
ments. to establish your superiority over his
skill and wisdom?
The ship that brought me home was cap
tanned by an erratic Swede. who changed his
course and deposited me. with genuine COM
passion. in a small town on the Pacific Coast of
one OF the Central American republics. few
hundred miles south of the port to which he
had engaged to convey me. But was wearied
of movement and exotic fancies; so leaped
contentedly upon the firm sands of the village
of Mojada, telling myself | should be sure to
find there the rest that craved. After all. far
better to linger there q thought). lulled by the
sedatve plash of the waves and the rusting
of palm-fronds. than to sit upon the horsehair
sofa of my parental home in the East. and there.
cast down by currant wine and cake. and
scourged by fatuous relatives. drivel into the
ears of gaping neighbors sad stories of the
death of colonial governors.
When first saw Chloe Greene she was stand
ing. all in white. in the doorway of her fathers
tile-roofed 'dobe house. She was polishing a
silver cup with a cloth. and she looked like a
pearl laid against black velvet. She turned on
me a flatterinely protracted but a witinqly dis