“Please show us an umbrella shop,” begged Filippa and Favra together; for they had been whispering about what they would like to see.

“This way, then,” said her father and the Padre.

We walked along several narrow streets, which had bamboo blinds hung between the second stories, so as to keep out the strong sun.

When we came to a certain door space, which really had no hinged door, Filippa’s father moved aside the dangling ropes, made of glass and bamboo beads, which hung across the entrance. This made a tinkling noise, and attracted the workman to the front.

“We would like to see your umbrellas,” explained Fil’s father.

I thought the workman would show us silk or cloth ones, that would roll up tight.

“Why, this one is very thick,” I said.

“Lift it. It really is not heavy,” explained Fil’s father.

“How is it made?” I inquired.

“It is made out of split bamboos, which are spread out in a circle. Oiled silk, or oiled hemp cloth, is pasted over the frame. It all costs very little,” explained Fil’s father.

“But they are so thick, I could not put more than one in my umbrella stand at home,” I said.

“There you are joking again,” laughed Fil, who added: “We Filipinos hang our umbrella up on the veranda roof, where it is ornamental, as well as useful when wanted.”

“You see our umbrellas are made in pretty colors,” explained Filippa, who certainly showed that she would become a good housekeeper.

“Now, would you like to see a chair-shop, where they use no saw or plane or nails?” asked Fil.

“It seems nonsense, because our chairs at home are sawn from oak logs; and they are so filled with tacks and nails that they tear my clothes,” I replied.

“Around this corner,” said Fil, who was proud to lead the way.

Surely enough, Filipino workmen were tying lengths of bamboo poles together, with tough rattan vine, for the frame of a chair. The back was made of laced rattan and grasses. The seat was made of split bamboo, round side up, and all was as smooth, restful, light, and pliable as could be wished; and not a dangerous nail nor a saw used to make it.

“You can throw these chairs about. They never break, because they give way a little, like a spring. They are elastic, yet strong,” explained Fil’s father.

“And they cost only a few cents,” added the Padre.

“We don’t care when they burn up,” remarked Fil, who received from his father a stern look, and the order not to joke too much.

As we walked home, we passed a man who carried a bamboo over one shoulder. At one end of the pole hung a thick piece of hollow bamboo. At the other end of the pole hung an earthenware jug, tied in a net of rattan. Behind him followed a herd of goats.

“Fresh milk and bottled milk for children,” he cried.

“What is he, a curio seller?” I asked.

“No, a milkman,” answered Fil. “The bamboo jug is a pint measure. The earthen bottle holds the milk. And if you want fresh, warm milk for the baby, he will milk it here from one of his nibbling goats, right into the bamboo jug.”

“Always fresh milk!” shouted the vendor, as with his fingers, he made a snapping sound to call his herd of goats.

“Really, a walking dairy,” I remarked.