Iloilo, May 5, 1905.

I had two sweet little love-birds sent me yesterday, sitting jammed up in a tiny dirty cage in which they had travelled from China. They looked so uncomfortable and draggled, poor scraps, that I set off after my siesta, and went “down town,” as the Americans call it, to see if I could get a cage for them. More Philippine shopping! I explained and argued at all sorts of emporiums, but no one had anything the least like a bird cage. At last I thought the wonderful English store might produce one, and when I got there, they said they thought they had something of the kind, made of wood, of native manufacture. I said I thought that would do very well, so after a lot of rummaging in a camarin, some very nice cages were found—large and clean, and made of split bamboo, with a little red and green paint here and there.

I was delighted—till I found there was no mistake about their having been made by a Filipino! No water-pipkin; no tray to slide out; a door so small that I could only squeeze my hand into the cage with difficulty; and no perches! It was all there was to be had in Iloilo, however, so I took it with me, and climbed in under the apron of the calesa—it was raining very hard—and took my cage home and told the servants to make perches. This they did with considerable skill, and the results looked very nice, but when I put the birds on them, the poor things instantly tumbled off into the soap-dish full of water, which was meant for them to drink from. After a lot of anxious thought, it occurred to me that the perches were much thinner than those in the little cage the birds had arrived in, and perhaps they could not wrap their long toes round these; and this was evidently the trouble, for as soon as larger ones were made and fixed in, the couple got up and stuck on, whispering to each other how nice the new perches were.

Of course the cat wants to eat them, and glares with greedy eyes, while old Tuyay is fearfully puzzled, coming to look intently, and snuffing very long and hard, which the wee birds don’t mind a bit. They are such sweet things, with their tiny chirpings and pretty ways.

There is a strong S.-W. Monsoon blowing now—warm and tiring—and one’s skin feels sticky and uncomfortable. In a month or two, however, this will be the chronic condition of the atmosphere, and will go on till October, but I suppose one gets used to it after a time, as to everything else. Yesterday a Typhoon was signalled by the meteorological office, but it has not arrived yet, and I hope it won’t come our way at all, for the circular winds that sweep over these islands are the most frightful storms, tearing up trees, whipping off corrugated roofs, and setting the nipa houses on fire.

There are a great many rats here, which eat up whatever the cockroaches don’t finish—i.e., whatever is not in glass jars or tins. They get through nearly as many potatoes—at the price of new potatoes at home in May—as we do, so I invested in a large wire trap, which was set in the dispensa ten days or more ago. The boys and the sota (groom) watched the trap with the keenest interest, but never a rat would get into it to oblige them. Now, however, while I was writing this, Domingo came in, beaming, with the trap in his hand, and a huge grey rat in it. “What are you going to do with it?” I asked. “Are you going to kill it?”

“Si, seÑora, by pouring petroleum on the rat and setting it alight.” He was astonished and obviously disappointed when I peremptorily forbade this horrible rite, which the Filipinos have learnt from the Chinese, who think that the poor, agonised, blazing animal runs away with the ill-luck of the house.

Then he suggested boiling water, and was again disappointed and surprised when I didn’t join in this spree either, and went off quite gloomily to carry out my orders—to find something large enough to stand the trap in so as to drown the poor beast as quickly as possible.

Nothing could be found, till the sota fetched a tub from the stables, and this I made them fill with all the bath water—fresh water being far too precious to waste, even on sentiments of humanity! They collected all the water they could, and finally the flood reached the top of the cage, and though the sight of the rat struggling made me feel deadly sick, I waited till he was stiff and cold, as I did not know what cruelty these “little brown brothers” might not indulge in if left to their own devices.

The cook had been at market, and Sotero had gone shopping, so there was not the crowd there might have been on the Azotea, and only half the advice. They don’t get excited, these Filipinos, unless they are fighting or massacring—one does not see frenzied little groups shouting in each other’s faces, and throwing their fingers about like Italians, or low-class Arabs, or people like that—they are very slow, and their voices always soft and gentle. I mean the Filipinos, for the Mestizos differ from them in this, as well as in having curiously harsh, discordant voices, by which one readily detects their breed.

We went a night or two ago to a performance given by a wandering Italian Opera Company, who were really very good indeed, acting remarkably well, and possessing good voices. Three of them sang in various selections, and the fourth conducted an orchestra of bare-footed, flat-faced natives in ragged camisas, whose battered old straw hats hung about the footlight-board and on the piano.

The conductor played the piano splendidly, with incredible energy in such heat, and the result that he knocked out of his orchestra was astonishing. The theatre was very full, and we had shared a box with some friends, all sitting with our knees jammed together in a pattern like the ornamentation on a runic cross.

We enjoyed the show immensely, but, oh, it was hot! And if we, looking on, felt faint with the heat, what must it have been for the performers and for the Chef d’orchestre! Talking of heat, the thermometer now averages 90° to 93° all day in the dark, airy house, and a little while ago, when we got some ice by luck and manoeuvring, I put the thermometer in the ice chest, and it only went down to 80°!

We have taken the house at Nagaba for next Saturday to Monday, and are busy making preparations for going over, with an anxious eye on the sky above and the weather-cock in the garden opposite. One has to take a good deal to the house at Nagaba, as all they provide is the four walls, a table, some chairs, a big native bed, and one or two hard cane couches. For this, however, one pays the same price a day as at a big London hotel for bed and breakfast for two people!