Wednesday, March 23, 2011


Module 7: The Beautiful Horse
Reported by: Cielo Jane Miake

Sources: and Philippine Literature of Development of Communication Arts and Humanities College of Arts and Sciences Southwestern University

The beautiful horse
By D. Paulo Dizon
ONE day my father brought home a beautiful horse. She was the most beautiful white horse anyone in our barrio of Pulong-Masle had ever laid eyes on. She had long and slender legs, a silky mane, and a flowing tail. She was, however, not the kind of horse anyone in our barrio would have any use for. She did not seem fit for pulling a rig. She was good only for the track, or for riding but races were held only during the town funeral, and even the rich bachelors in town did not ride horses anymore. They preferred the bicycle. What good was such a beautiful white horse in Pulong-Masle?
My father did not exactly bring the beautiful white horse home. She followed him. When my father would stop to pull a thorn out of his foot or to scratch a bite on his leg, the horse would stop, too, and swish her tail from side to side. When my father continued on his way, the horse too would come along. She had a grand way of walking, proud and confident.
“Why, Estong,” the people at the roadside or in the windows would say, “how did you come by such a beautiful horse?” But my father only smiled and stared straight ahead; he was as proud as the horse that was following him. He did not even notice my sister Victa and me. Victa and I walked behind among the other children.
The people we passed also wondered how my father had come by such a beautiful horse. He couldn’t have bought her because he did not have that much money; everybody knew he earned no more that what was needed, and sometimes less.
I overheard some of the people say that my father might have stolen the horse, and I felt angry with my father and with the people and at the horse, and I knew my sister Victa also felt the same way. When I looked at her, I saw tears in her eyes.
Father was suddenly a stranger to us. He did not seem to be our father at all, and for the moment we hated him. In the past when we met him on the road on his way home, he would hug us or lift Victa or me way up in the air. We used to be very happy when Father came home.
When we reached home, Father led the horse straight through the yard into the field. He sat down on a fallen bamboo and watched the horse beginning to graze. So absorbed was he in the sight of the beautiful horse, he didn’t notice Victa and me sitting beside him. For a long time we sat there watching the horse cropping the wild grass. We did not say anything to one another. It was getting dark.
“What a beauty!” Father said, sighing dreamily and gazing at the horse. “What beautiful legs!”
“They are not beautiful,” Victa said, curling her lower lip. “They are thin and weak.”
That was when Father perhaps first took notice of our presence. He turned his face toward Victa and all of a sudden there was anger in his dark eyes.
“Don’t say that,” Father said. “You know they are not thin and weak. They are slender and beautiful, are they not? Yes, they are. She is a beautiful horse.”
“Doesn’t she belong to us, Father?” I asked.
“She is such a beauty,” Father sighed again, staring admiringly at the horse. She kept on swishing her tail, which was long and flowing and silky, as if she were enjoying herself immensely.
I was beginning to suspect the people were right after all. I trembled at the thought of my father stealing a horse. He used to tell us how good it was to be honest and truthful and obedient, and now, I thought, he wasn’t any of those things he had told us to be.
Presently I heard my mother calling Victa and me, and then the chapel bells rang out the Angelus.
“Come up now, Victa, Marcos,” Mother shouted from the window.
Victa crossed the yard and climbed up the stairs. I sat, silent, beside Father, who seemed to be immersed in thought. Then, suddenly, my mother was with us.
“Where did you get that horse, Estong?” she asked.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Father asked, as though he were talking to nobody in particular. He didn’t even bother to turn his eyes away from the horse.
“Whose horse is that?” Mother asked again.
Without turning his face, father said, unconcerned, “I don’t know.”
“How come she is here in our own backyard?” Mother asked.
“She’s a beautiful horse,” Father said.
“Let us go in now,” Mother said. “Supper is ready.”
Father did not make the slightest move. He sat silent, his chin cupped in the hollow of his hand, his elbows resting on his thighs. He continued staring dreamily at the horse.
“Let us go in now,” Mother said. “Supper is ready.”
“Father did not make the slightest move. He sat silent, his chin cupped in the hollow of his hand, his elbows resting on his thighs. He continued staring dreamily at the horse.
“Let us go, Marcos,” Mother said, pulling me along.
We ate silently, for Mother was angry. We, Victa and I, knew better than to talk when Mother was in that mood. Finally she started mumbling, at first to herself, and then to us.
“I wonder where he got that horse,” she said.
“Ask him, Mother,” Victa said.
“The people on the road said he might have stolen it,” I put in.
“Just who was it who said that?” Mother asked, suddenly florid with anger. “Tell me, who was it who said that?”
“I do not know,” I said. “I just heard some people say it.”
“Let us go right now. Point them out to me and I will show them how to judge your father better. Let us go, Marcos. Right now. Come.” She took me by the arm, tugging me toward the stairs.
But just as we were to leave the house, we met father coming up.
“You and your beautiful white horse, with her long, slender legs!” Mother cried at Father.
“Now don’t say anything harsh against that horse, woman,” Father said. “Don’t say bad words about your cousin Barang.”
“Why, what has my dead cousin to do with that beast, Estong? Don’t you start invoking the dead, you . . . you . . . impious . . . .”
“That horse is the reincarnation of your cousin Barang,” Father declared solemnly. Father was a good jester, he loved to laugh, but this time he was dead serious, and his voice sounded sincere and stern.
Mother crossed herself three times, her eyes almost popping out. “What is the matter with you, Estong?”
“I knew it the first time I saw her, that horse,” Father said, walking past us, and then seating himself at the table. “The first time I saw her following me I knew she was somebody I used to know. Only, I couldn’t remember who. Now look at the eyes. Just look at those eyes tomorrow when the sun comes up. They are the eyes of your cousin Barang.”
Mother crossed herself again. “May she rest in peace,” she prayed, clasping her hands across her breast. “Please, Lord, forgive my erring husband. And may the soul of cousin Barang forgive these utterances!”
Father continued. “When I turned around and saw the horse’s face, I asked myself, ‘Where did I see this face before?’ It was very familiar. And then in the backyard while she was feeding, she wiggled her rump, and I remembered the way Barang used to wiggle her buttocks when she was feeling funny.”
“Ohhh! . . .” Mother cried. “Heaven forgive him, for he does not know what he is saying. He is touched in the head, my husband. Ohhh . . . What have we done to deserve this?”
“She is such a very beautiful horse, your cousin Barang is,” Father sighed.
“Where did you get that horse, Estong?” Mother wanted to know. “Tell me!” she pleaded. “How is it she is here in our own yard?”
“She followed me, don’t know from where. But she just followed me. I told her to go her way but she followed me just the same,” Father said.
“You did not sell this house and buy yourself that horse, Estong? Please tell us the truth.”
“I told you that she is your cousin Barang come to visit you,” Father said. “Now please let us eat. I am hungry.”
The next morning Victa woke me. She was very excited. “Come quick,” she said. “Quick!”
“What happened?” I asked.
“Look at our aunt Barang,” she said. “She is still there.”
“In the backyard. Under the tamarind tree.”
I remembered what my father had said about the souls of the dead coming back to life in another form. Father had been very fond of Aunt Barang. Many times he and my mother had quarreled on her account. My mother did not like Aunt Barang very much, and when she died she cried only during the funeral, but one could see how relieved she was afterward. And now here she was again. Only, she was in the form of a beautiful white horse, come back to life to torment my mother again. Why can’t the dead stay dead? I asked myself.
“Come, quick, Marcos,” Victa shouted. She had gone down the stairs again, so excited was she. “Look at the eyes. They are the eyes of our aunt Barang.”
Mother was in the kitchen, silently doing her chores. She was beginning to take it all with resignation. Poor old Mother. She must have felt very miserable.
I went downstairs into the yard and joined my sister. Father was sitting there on the fallen bamboo, watching the reincarnation of our aunt Barang feed on the grass, swishing her long tail from side to side.
“Look at her eyes,” Victa said to me.
True enough, they were the eyes of our Aunt Barang. Indeed, she couldn’t have been other than our Aunt Barang.
The men came to take Aunt Barang sometime before noon that day. They were a couple of strange-looking men in city clothes, a constabulary man, and some men from the barrio. One of the strange-looking men was short and had a mustache and long hair. The other was tall and carried a walking stick with a copper knob. The constabulary man said they were the owners of the circus which had been set up in the town.
When they saw the horse browsing peacefully on the sward beyond our back yard, the circus men rushed to her, stumbling over the bamboo trunk on which my father was sitting. They hugged the horse and kissed her on the face as if she were their sister.
“Oh, my Minda Mora, my beautiful Minda Mora,” the taller of the two strange-looking men said. “I missed you terribly. Terribly so. Oh, my beautiful Minda Mora.”
My father stood up. So bewildered was he by all this show of affection he could not utter a word.
The shorter one with the mustache and the funny nest of long hair was talking to the constabulary man. He was also very excited and very happy. Then the tall man took something out of his trousers pocket and handed it to my Father. A couple of silver coins.
“Thank you very much for keeping our dear Minda in your yard,” the short funny man said to my father. “We hope she did not give you too much trouble. Come to the circus in the town tonight, and don’t forget to bring the children along. It is the best show there is. And thanks again.”
For a long time after they left, we stood in the yard silently, sadly.
“I did not know Barang would turn out to be a circus lady,” Father said. 

 Background Information:
 D. Paulo Dizon was born in Santa Rita, Pampanga in 1915. His teachers, parents, and he himself decided that he was 'hopeless case" as far as schooling was concerned. He could not make the grade in biology, history, algebra, and English composition. He worked as a carpenter's apprentice, amateur plumber, newsboy, busboy, dishwasher, waiter, pharmacy clerk, and short story writer. After the war he worked on the editorial staff of the Sunday Times Magazine. He then joined the Sunday Post Magazine. He was a writer in the public relations department of the Philippine National Red Cross before he became news editor of the United Sates Information Service in Manila. Dizon then traveled widely in America and Europe. His stories reveal originality, humor, and realism.

Confirmation of Learning:
 1. What is the purpose of the opening paragraph?
  2. Describe the horse. What is good for?
  3. Why was father suddenly a stranger to the children?
  4. How is the wife's  attitude toward her husband revealed?
  5. What does father think of the horse?Who does it remind him of? Why? 


Module 5:Wedding Dance
Reported by: Cielo Jane M. Miake
Sources: and Philippine Literature of Development of Communication Arts and Humanities College of Arts and Sciences Southwestern University

Wedding Dance
By Amador Daguio

Awiyao reached for the upper horizontal log which served as the edge of the headhigh threshold.  Clinging to the log, he lifted himself with one bound that carried him across to the narrow door. He slid back the cover, stepped inside, then pushed the cover back in place. After some moments during which he seemed to wait, he talked to the listening darkness.
"I'm sorry this had to be done. I am really sorry. But neither of us can help it."
The sound of the gangsas beat through the walls of the dark house like muffled roars of falling waters. The woman who had moved with a start when the sliding door opened had been hearing the gangsas for she did not know how long. There was a sudden rush of fire in her. She gave no sign that she heard Awiyao, but continued to sit unmoving in the darkness.
But Awiyao knew that she heard him and his heart pitied her. He crawled on all fours to the middle of the room; he knew exactly where the stove was. With bare fingers he stirred the covered smoldering embers, and blew into the stove. When the coals began to glow, Awiyao put pieces of pine on them, then full round logs as his arms. The room brightened.
"Why don't you go out," he said, "and join the dancing women?" He felt a pang inside him, because what he said was really not the right thing to say and because the woman did not stir. "You should join the dancers," he said, "as if--as if nothing had happened." He looked at the woman huddled in a corner of the room, leaning against the wall. The stove fire played with strange moving shadows and lights
upon her face. She was partly sullen, but her sullenness was not because of anger or hate.
"Go out--go out and dance. If you really don't hate me for this separation, go out and dance. One of the men will see you dance well; he will like your dancing, he will marry you. Who knows but that, with him, you will be luckier than you were with me."
"I don't want any man," she said sharply. "I don't want any other man."
He felt relieved that at least she talked: "You know very well that I won't want any other woman either. You know that, don't you? Lumnay, you know it, don't you?"
She did not answer him.
"You know it Lumnay, don't you?" he repeated.
"Yes, I know," she said weakly.
"It is not my fault," he said, feeling relieved. "You cannot blame me; I have been a good husband to you."
"Neither can you blame me," she said. She seemed about to cry.
"No, you have been very good to me. You have been a good wife. I have nothing to say against you." He set some of the burning wood in place. "It's only that a man must have a child. Seven harvests is just too long to wait. Yes, we have waited too long. We should have another chance before it is too late for both of us."
This time the woman stirred, stretched her right leg out and bent her left leg in. She wound the blanket more snugly around herself.
"You know that I have done my best," she said. "I have prayed to Kabunyan much. I have sacrificed many chickens in my prayers."
"Yes, I know."
"You remember how angry you were once when you came home from your work in the terrace because I butchered one of our pigs without your permission? I did it to appease Kabunyan, because, like you, I wanted to have a child. But what could I do?"
"Kabunyan does not see fit for us to have a child," he said. He stirred the fire. The spark rose through the crackles of the flames. The smoke and soot went up the ceiling.
Lumnay looked down and unconsciously started to pull at the rattan that kept the split bamboo flooring in place. She tugged at the rattan flooring. Each time she did this the split bamboo went up and came down with a slight rattle. The gong of the dancers clamorously called in her care through the walls.
Awiyao went to the corner where Lumnay sat, paused before her, looked at her bronzed and sturdy face, then turned to where the jars of water stood piled one over the other. Awiyao took a coconut cup and dipped it in the top jar and drank. Lumnay had filled the jars from the mountain creek early that evening.
"I came home," he said. "Because I did not find you among the dancers. Of course, I am not forcing you to come, if you don't want to join my wedding ceremony. I came to tell you that Madulimay, although I am marrying her, can never become as good as you are. She is not as strong in planting beans, not as fast in cleaning water jars, not as good keeping a house clean. You are one of the best wives in the
whole village."
"That has not done me any good, has it?" She said. She looked at him lovingly. She almost seemed to smile.
He put the coconut cup aside on the floor and came closer to her. He held her face between his hands and looked longingly at her beauty. But her eyes looked away. Never again would he hold her face.  The next day she would not be his any more. She would go back to her parents. He let go of her face, and she bent to the floor again and looked at her fingers as they tugged softly at the split bamboo floor.
"This house is yours," he said. "I built it for you. Make it your own, live in it as long as you wish. I will build another house for Madulimay."
"I have no need for a house," she said slowly. "I'll go to my own house. My parents are old. They will need help in the planting of the beans, in the pounding of the rice."
"I will give you the field that I dug out of the mountains during the first year of our marriage," he said. "You know I did it for you. You helped me to make it for the two of us."
"I have no use for any field," she said.
He looked at her, then turned away, and became silent. They were silent for a time.
"Go back to the dance," she said finally. "It is not right for you to be here. They will wonder where you are, and Madulimay will not feel good. Go back to the dance."
"I would feel better if you could come, and dance---for the last time. The gangsas are playing."
"You know that I cannot."
"Lumnay," he said tenderly. "Lumnay, if I did this it is because of my need for a child. You know that life is not worth living without a child. The man have mocked me behind my back. You know that."
"I know it," he said. "I will pray that Kabunyan will bless you and Madulimay."
She bit her lips now, then shook her head wildly, and sobbed.
She thought of the seven harvests that had passed, the high hopes they had in the beginning of their new life, the day he took her away from her parents across the roaring river, on the other side of the mountain, the trip up the trail which they had to climb, the steep canyon which they had to cross. The waters boiled in her mind in forms of white and jade and roaring silver; the waters tolled and growled,
resounded in thunderous echoes through the walls of the stiff cliffs; they were far away now from somewhere on the tops of the other ranges, and they had looked carefully at the buttresses of rocks they had to step on---a slip would have meant death.
They both drank of the water then rested on the other bank before they made the final climb to the other side of the mountain.
She looked at his face with the fire playing upon his features---hard and strong, and kind. He had a sense of lightness in his way of saying things which often made her and the village people laugh. How proud she had been of his humor. The muscles where taut and firm, bronze and compact in their hold upon his skull---how frank his bright eyes were. She looked at his body the carved out of the mountains
five fields for her; his wide and supple torso heaved as if a slab of shining lumber were heaving; his arms and legs flowed down in fluent muscles--he was strong and for that she had lost him.
She flung herself upon his knees and clung to them. "Awiyao, Awiyao, my husband," she cried. "I did everything to have a child," she said passionately in a hoarse whisper. "Look at me," she cried. "Look at my body. Then it was full of promise. It could dance; it could work fast in the fields; it could climb the mountains fast. Even now it is firm, full. But, Awiyao, I am useless. I must die."
"It will not be right to die," he said, gathering her in his arms. Her whole warm naked naked breast quivered against his own; she clung now to his neck, and her hand lay upon his right shoulder; her hair flowed down in cascades of gleaming darkness.
"I don't care about the fields," she said. "I don't care about the house. I don't care for anything but you. I'll have no other man."
"Then you'll always be fruitless."
"I'll go back to my father, I'll die."
"Then you hate me," he said. "If you die it means you hate me. You do not want me to have a child. You do not want my name to live on in our tribe."
She was silent.
"If I do not try a second time," he explained, "it means I'll die. Nobody will get the fields I have carved out of the mountains; nobody will come after me."
"If you fail--if you fail this second time--" she said thoughtfully. The voice was a shudder. "No--no, I don't want you to fail."
"If I fail," he said, "I'll come back to you. Then both of us will die together. Both of us will vanish from the life of our tribe."
The gongs thundered through the walls of their house, sonorous and faraway.
"I'll keep my beads," she said. "Awiyao, let me keep my beads," she half-whispered.
"You will keep the beads. They come from far-off times. My grandmother said they come from up North, from the slant-eyed people across the sea. You keep them, Lumnay. They are worth twenty fields."
"I'll keep them because they stand for the love you have for me," she said. "I love you. I love you and have nothing to give."
She took herself away from him, for a voice was calling out to him from outside. "Awiyao! Awiyao! O Awiyao! They are looking for you at the dance!"
"I am not in hurry."
"The elders will scold you. You had better go."
"Not until you tell me that it is all right with you."
"It is all right with me."
He clasped her hands. "I do this for the sake of the tribe," he said.
"I know," she said.
He went to the door.
He stopped as if suddenly hit by a spear. In pain he turned to her. Her face was in agony. It pained him to leave. She had been wonderful to him. What was it that made a man wish for a child? What was it in life, in the work in the field, in the planting and harvest, in the silence of the night, in the communing with husband and wife, in the whole life of the tribe itself that made man wish for the laughter and speech of a child? Suppose he changed his mind? Why did the unwritten law demand, anyway, that a man, to be a man, must have a child to come after him? And if he was fruitless--but he loved Lumnay. It was like taking away of his life to leave her like this.
"Awiyao," she said, and her eyes seemed to smile in the light. "The beads!" He turned back and walked to the farthest corner of their room, to the trunk where they kept their worldly possession---his battle-ax and his spear points, her betel nut box and her beads. He dug out from the darkness the beads which had been given to him by his grandmother to give to Lumnay on the beads on, and tied them in place. The white and jade and deep orange obsidians shone in the firelight. She suddenly clung to him, clung to his neck as if she would never let him go.
"Awiyao! Awiyao, it is hard!" She gasped, and she closed her eyes and huried her face in his neck.
The call for him from the outside repeated; her grip loosened, and he buried out into the night.
Lumnay sat for some time in the darkness. Then she went to the door and opened it. The moonlight struck her face; the moonlight spilled itself on the whole village.
She could hear the throbbing of the gangsas coming to her through the caverns of the other houses. She knew that all the houses were empty that the whole tribe was at the dance. Only she was absent. And yet was she not the best dancer of the village? Did she not have the most lightness and grace? Could she not, alone among all women, dance like a bird tripping for grains on the ground, beautifully
timed to the beat of the gangsas? Did not the men praise her supple body, and the women envy the way she stretched her hands like the wings of the mountain eagle now and then as she danced? How long ago did she dance at her own wedding? Tonight, all the women who counted, who once danced in her honor, were dancing now in honor of another whose only claim was that perhaps she could give her
husband a child.
"It is not right. It is not right!" she cried. "How does she know? How can anybody know? It is not right," she said.
Suddenly she found courage. She would go to the dance. She would go to the chief of the village, to the elders, to tell them it was not right. Awiyao was hers; nobody could take him away from her. Let her be the first woman to complain, to denounce the unwritten rule that a man may take another woman. She would tell Awiyao to come back to her. He surely would relent. Was not their love as strong as the
She made for the other side of the village where the dancing was. There was a flaming glow over the whole place; a great bonfire was burning. The gangsas clamored more loudly now, and it seemed they were calling to her. She was near at last. She could see the dancers clearly now. The man leaped lightly with their gangsas as they circled the dancing women decked in feast garments and beads, tripping on the ground like graceful birds, following their men. Her heart warmed to the flaming call of the dance; strange heat in her blood welled up, and she started to run. But the gleaming brightness of the bonfire commanded her to stop. Did anybody see her approach?
She stopped. What if somebody had seen her coming? The flames of the bonfire leaped in countless sparks which spread and rose like yellow points and died out in the night. The blaze reached out to her like a spreading radiance. She did not have the courage to break into the wedding feast.
Lumnay walked away from the dancing ground, away from the village. She thought of the new clearing of beans which Awiyao and she had started to make only four moons before. She followed the trail above the village.
When she came to the mountain stream she crossed it carefully. Nobody held her hand, and the stream water was very cold. The trail went up again, and she was in the moonlight shadows among the trees and shrubs. Slowly she climbed the mountain.
When Lumnay reached the clearing, she cold see from where she stood the blazing bonfire at the edge of the village, where the wedding was. She could hear the far-off clamor of the gongs, still rich in their sonorousness, echoing from mountain to mountain. The sound did not mock her; they seemed to call far to her, to speak to her in the language of unspeaking love. She felt the pull of their gratitude for her
sacrifice. Her heartbeat began to sound to her like many gangsas.
Lumnay though of Awiyao as the Awiyao she had known long ago-- a strong, muscular boy carrying his heavy loads of fuel logs down the mountains to his home. She had met him one day as she was on her way to fill her clay jars with water. He had stopped at the spring to drink and rest; and she had made him drink the cool mountain water from her coconut shell. After that it did not take him long to decide to throw his spear on the stairs of her father's house in token on his desire to marry her.
The mountain clearing was cold in the freezing moonlight. The wind began to stir the leaves of the bean plants. Lumnay looked for a big rock on which to sit down. The bean plants now surrounded her, and she was lost among them.
A few more weeks, a few more months, a few more harvests---what did it matter? She would be holding the bean flowers, soft in the texture, silken almost, but moist where the dew got into them, silver to look at, silver on the light blue, blooming whiteness, when the morning comes. The stretching of the bean pods full length from the hearts of the wilting petals would go on.
Lumnay's fingers moved a long, long time among the growing bean pods.

Background Information:
Amador T. Daguio was born 1912 in Laog, Ilocos Norte and lived in the mountain province which became the setting for most of his stories. He studied at University of the Philippines and won various prizes in college and in national magazines for his fiction and poetry. He took up a graduate course at Stanford University, specializing in creative writing. For his master's thesis, he translated a Kalinga epic, the Hudhud and Aliguyon. He has published two volumes of poetry "Bataan Harvest" and "The Flaming Lyre."His poems have been included in many anthologies. He taught English at the University  of  the East. "Wedding Dance" is a sensitively written story bringing out the tragedy inherent in native traditions.

Confirmation of Learning:
1. Why does Awiyao consider Lumnay the best woman in the village?
2. How does Ifugao man express his intention to marry a woman/
3. Why must Awiyao have to have a child?
4. Is Awiyao relly in love with Madulimay? Support your answer.
5. If you were to end the story, how would you end it?

Tuesday, March 15, 2011


Module 2:Filipino Riddles
Reported by: Cielo Jane M. Miake

Bugtungan Tayo!

  1. Nagtago si Pedro, labas ang ulo. (Pedro hides but you can still see his head. )

  2. Hindi pari, hindi hari, nagdadamit ng sari-sari. (Not a priest, not a king but wears different kinds of clothes.)

  3. Bugtong-pala-bugtong, kadenang umuugong. (Riddle me, riddle me, here comes a roaring chain).

  4. Heto na si Kaka, bubuka-bukaka. (Here comes Kaka, walking with an open leg.)

  5. Buhok ni Adan, hindi mabilang. (Adam's hair, you can't count.)

  6. Bibingka ng hari, hindi mo mahati. (Rice cake of the king, that you cannot divide.)

  7. Sa araw ay bungbong, sa gabi ay dahon. (Roll in the morning, leaf in the afternoon).

  8. Iisa ang pasukan, tatlo ang labasan. (It has one entrance, but has three exit. )

  9. Malaking supot ni Mang Jacob, kung sisidlan ay pataob. (Big Square Bag of Mr Jacob, to use it, you have to turn it upside down)

  10. Dalawang pipit nag titimbangan sa isang siit. (Two birds, trying to balance in one twig.)

  11. Hayan na, hayan na di mo pa makita. (It's here, its here, but you can not see)

  12. Baka ko sa Maynila, hanggang dito, dinig ang unga. (My cow in Manila, you can hear his moo).

  13. Nagdaan si Kabo Negro, namatay na lahat ang tao. (General Negro pass by and eveybody die.)

  14. Ako ay may kaibigan, kasama ko kahit saan. (I have a friend and he is with me everywhere I go).

  15. Ang alaga kong hugis bilog, barya-barya ang laman-loob. ( I have a pet, his body is full of coins).

  16. Sa liwanag ay hindi mo makita. Sa dilim ay maliwanag sila. (I can't see it in the light but I can see it in the dark.)

  17. Palda ni Santa Maria. Ang kulay ay iba-iba. (Maria's skirt, in different colours.)

  18. Kaisa-isang plato, kita sa buong Mundo. ( One plate, can be seen around the world).

  19. Nagsaing si Hudas, kinuha ang tubig itinapon ang bigas. (Judas cooked the rice, he took the water and throw the rice.)

  20. Bahay ni Tinyente nag-iisa ang poste. (House of the Lieutenant,with only one post.)

  21. May isang prinsesa, nakaupo sa tasa. (A princess sitting in a cup)

  22. Ate mo, ate ko, Ate ng lahat ng tao. (My sister, your sister, everyone's sister)

  23. Hiyas na puso, kulay ginto, mabango kung amuyin, masarap kung kainin. (Shape like a heart, gold in color, sweet to smell and good to eat.)

  24. Butong binalot ng bakal, bakal na binalot ng kristal. (Seed that is wrap in steel, steel that is wrap in crystal).

  25. Nag tapis nang nag tapis nakalitaw ang bulbolis. (She wears a skirt, but you can still what is inside).

  26. Aling pagkain sa mundo, ang nakalabas ang buto? (What fruit in the world that the seed is out?)

  27. Heto na si Ingkong, nakaupo sa lusong. (Here comes Ingkong, sitting in a fish catcher.)

  28. Nakatalikod na ang prinsesa, mukha niya'y nakaharap pa. (The princess is on her back, but her head is still facing us)

  29. Balat niya'y berde, buto niya'y itim,laman niya'y pula, sino siya? (Her skin is green, her seed is black, her tissue is red, who is she?)

  30. Kung tawagin nila'y santo, hindi naman milagroso. (He is called Saint, but with no miracle.)

  31. Bahay ni Mang Pedro, punung-puno ng bato. (House of Pedro, full of stone)

  32. Baboy sa pulo, ang balahibo ay pako. (An island pig with a hair as hard as a nail.)

  33. Nanganak ang birhen, itinapon ang lampin. (The virgin gave birth, but throw the nappy)

  34. Nakayuko ang reyna di nalalaglag ang korona. (The queen tilt her head but the crown did not fall)

  35. May langit, may lupa, May tubig, walang isda. (There is a sky, there is soil, there is water, but no fish)

  36. Kumpul-kumpol na uling, hayon at bibitin-bitin. (A bunch of charcoal, hanging here and there.)

  37. Bunga na ay namumunga pa. (A fruit that still bears fruit)

  38. Tiningnan nang tiningnan. Bago ito nginitian. (It was look twice before it smile)

  39. Hindi prinsesa, hindi reyna. Bakit may korona? (Not a princess, not a queen, but wears a crown).

  40. Isang magandang dalaga.‘Di mabilang ang mata. (A beautiful girl, you can't count her eyes)

    1. ANSWERS:

      1. Pako - (Nails) 

      2. Sampayan - (Clothesline) 

      3. Tren - (Train) 

      4.Gunting - (Scissors) 

      5. Ulan - (Rain) 

      6. Tubig - (Water) 

      7. Banig - (Mat) 

      8. Damit/Baro - (Dress) 

      9. Kulambo - (Mosquito Net) 

      10. Hikaw - (Earrings) 

      11. Hangin - (Wind) 

      12.Kulog - (Thunder) 

      13. Gabi - (Night) 

      14. Anino - (Shadow) 

      15. Alkansiya - (Money Box) 

      16. Bituin - (Star) 

      17. Bahaghari - (Rainbow) 

      18. Buwan - (Moon) 

      19. Gata ng Niyog - (Coconut Milk) 

      20. Payong - (Umbrella)

      21. Kasoy (Cashew) 

      22. Atis (Sugar Apple) 

      23. Mangga (Mango) 

      24. Lansones (Lanzones) 

      25. Mais (Corn) 

      26. Kasoy (Cashew) 

      27. Kasoy (Cashew) 

      28. Balimbing (Star Apple) 

      29.Pakwan (Watermelon) 


      30. Santol (Santol fruit) 

      31. Papaya (Pawpaw) 

      (House of Pedro, full of ston


      32. Langka (Jackfruit) 

      (An island pig with a hair as hard as a nail.)


      33. Saging (Banana) 

      34. Bayabas (Guava) 

      35. Niyog (Coconut) 

      36. Duhat (Black Plum) 

      37. Bunga

      38. Mais (Corn) 

      39. Bayabas (Guava) 

      40. Pinya (Pineapple)

      (A beautiful girl, you can't count her eyes)






This blog focuses on Philippine Literature. The people of Manila and native groups within the Philippines used to write on bamboo and the arecaceae palm. They used knives for inscribing the ancient Tagalog script.

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