The Washington herald., 1920-07-25
IAIHEN the war between Spain

Dusn-WhackeF correspondent tor
my paper until its managing edi-
tor notified me that an soo-word
eablegram describing the grief Of
a pet carabao over the death Of
an infant Moro was not consider
ed by the ONCE to be war news.
So I resigned and came home.
On board the trading vessel that
brought me back pondered much
upon the strange things ] had
sensed in the weird archipelago
Of the yellow-brown people. The
maneuversl and skirmishings of
the petty war interested me not;
I was speIibound by the outland-
ish and unreliable countenances
Of that race that had turned its
expressionless gaze upon us out
of an unguessable past.
Particularly during my stay in
Mindanao had been fascinated
by that delightfully."- original tribe
OF heather known as the head
hunters. Those grim, hinty, re-
lentless little men, never seen, but
chilling the warmest MONDAY by
the subtle terror OF their con-
cealed presence, palalleiing the
trail Of their prey through un-
mapped forests, across perilous
mountsin-tops, adown bottomless
chasms. into uninhs bitable jun
giles, always near with the invis-
ible hand of death uplifted, be-
traying their pursuit only by such
signs as a beast or a bird or
gliding serpent might make
twig cracking in the awful sweat
soaked night, a drench OF dew
showering from the screening TO-
haEe OF a giant tree, a whisper
at even from the rushes Of wa
ter-level-a hint OF death for
every mile and every hour-they
amused me greatly, these little
fellows Of one idea.
When you think OF it, their
method is beautifully 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 door
way is a basket made OF green
withes, plated. From time to
time as vanity or ennui or love
or jealousy or ambition may move
tel Si1ANf rail
Back from IL you come, triumph
ant, bearing the severed, cory
head of your victim, which you
deposit with pardonsble pride in
the basket at the side OF your
door. II may be the head OF your
enemy, your friend, or a stranger,
according as competition, jealousy
or simple sportiyeness has been
your incentive to labor.
In any case, your reward is
certain. The village men, in pass
ing. stop 20 congratulate you, as
your neighbor on weaker planes
of life Stops to admire and praise
the begonlas in your front yard.
Your Particular brown maid lin
gers. With hutteFing bosom. cast
ing soft tigers eyes at the evil
dence Of your love for her. You
chew beteInut and listen, content
to the Intermittent soft drip from
the ends Of the severed neck ar
teries. And you show your teeth
and grunt like a water-buffalo-
which is as near as you can come
to laughing-at the thought that
the cold, acephalous body of your
. door ornament is being spotted
by wheeling vultures in the Min
danaoan wilds.
Truly. the life of the merry
head hunter captivated me. He
had reduced art and philosophy
to a simple code. To take your
adyersary's head, to basket il at
the portal OF your castle, to see
IT lying there, a dead thing, with
its cunning and stratagems and
power gone Is there a better
way to foil his plots, to refute
his arguments, to establish your
superiority over his skill and wis
dom?
The ship that brought me home
was captained by an erratic
Swede, who changed his course
and deposited me, with genuine
rOmpassion, in small town on
the Pacific coast of one OF the
Central American republics, rev
hundred miles south of the port
to which he had engaged to con-
yey me. But 1 was wearied OF
movement and exotic fancies, so
leaped contentedly upon the
Nrm sands of the village of Mo-
jada. telling myself I should be
sure to hnd there the rest that
craved After all. far better 20
Iinger there Il thoughD, lulled
by the sedative plRsh of the waves
and the rustlinE 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. anu
scourged by fatuous relatives.
drivel into the ears of gaping
neighbors sad stories Of the death
Of colonial governors
When first I saw Chloe Greene
she was standing. all in white, IN
the doorway OF her fathers tile
rooted 'dobe house. She was pol
f-hinE a silver cup with a cloth.
and she looked like a pearl laid
against black velvet, She turned
on me a hatterinsly protracted
but a willingly disapproving gaze
and then went inside, humming a
light song to indicate the value
she placed upon my existence.
Small wonder: for DR.. Stam-
ford Cthe most disreputable pro-
fessionaI man between Juneau
and Valparaiso) and l were zig
Tagging along the turfy street,
tun.lessIy singing the words of
"Auld Lang Syre" to the air of
''Muzzer's Little Coal Black
Coon" We had come from the
ice factory, which was Mojada's
palace Of wickedness, where we
had been playing billiards and