“Oh, Mother, give me some of the raw rice to eat.”

“No,” said the mother, “it is not good for you to eat until it is cooked.  Wait for supper.”

But the little girl persisted until the mother, out of patience, cried: 

“Be still.  It is not good for you to talk so much!”

When she had finished pounding the rice, the woman poured it into a rice winnower and tossed it many times into the air.  As soon as the chaff was removed she emptied the rice into her basket and covered it with the winnower.  Then she took the jar upon her head, and started for the spring to get water.

Now the little girl was fond of going to the spring with her mother, for she loved to play in the cool water while her mother filled the jars.  But this time she did not go, and as soon as the woman was out of sight, she ran to the basket of rice.  She reached down to take a handful of the grain.  The cover slipped so that she fell, and was covered up in the basket.

When the mother returned to the house, she heard a bird crying, “King, king, nik! nik! nik!” She listened carefully, and as the sound seemed to come from the basket, she removed the cover.  To her surprise, out hopped a little brown rice bird, and as it flew away it kept calling back: 

“Goodbye, Mother; goodbye, Mother.  You would not give me any rice to eat.”

WILD TRIBES OF MINDANAO

Introduction

About one thousand miles to the south and east of the Tinguian and Igorot is the Island of Mindanao, which is inhabited by mortals and immortals entirely unknown to the mountain tribes of the north.

In the northern part of this great island are the Bukidnon—­timid, wild people who, attacked from time to time by the Moro on one side and the Manobo on the other, have drawn back into scattered homes in the hills.  Here they live in poor dwellings raised high from the ground.  Some even build in trees, their sheltered and secret positions making them less subject to attack.

They are not a warlike people, and their greatest concern is for the good will of the numerous spirits who watch over their every act.  At times they gather a little hemp or coffee from the hillside or along the stream bank and carry it to the coast to exchange for the bright cloth which they make into gay clothes.  But they do not love work, and the most of their time is spent in resting or attending ceremonies made to gain the good will of the immortals.

In this country the belief prevails that there are spirits in the stones, in the baliti trees, in the vines, the cliffs, and even the caves.  And never does a man start on a journey or make a clearing on the mountain side until he has first besought these spirits not to be angry with him but to favor him with prosperity and bring good crops.

The greatest of the spirits is Diwata Magbabaya, who is so awe-inspiring that his name is never mentioned above a whisper.  He lives in the sky in a house made of coins, and there are no windows in this building, for if men should look upon him they would melt into water.