“He Would Never Use One Word Where None Would Do,”by: Philip Levine

If you said “Nice day,” he would look upat the three clouds riding overhead,

nod at each, and go back to doing what-ever he was doing or not doing.

If you asked for a smoke or a light,he’d hand you whatever he found

in his pockets: a jackknife, a hankie –usually unsoiled — a dollar bill,

a subway token. Once he gave mehalf the sandwich he was eating

at the little outdoor restauranton La Guardia Place. I remember

a single sparrow was perched on the backof his chair, and when he held outa piece of bread on his open palm,

the bird snatched it up and went back toits place without even a thank you,one hard eye staring at my bad eye

as though I were next. That was in Mayof ’97, spring had come late,

but the sun warmed both of us for hourswhile silence prevailed, if you can call

the blaring of taxi horns and the trucksfighting for parking and the kids on skatesstreaming past silence. My friend Frankie

was such a comfort to me that year,the year of the crisis. He would turn

up his great dark head just going grayuntil his eyes met mine, and that was all

I needed to go on talking nonsenseas he sat patiently waiting me out,the bird staring over his shoulder.

“Silence is silver,” my Zaydee had said,getting it wrong and right, just as he said

“Water is thicker than blood,” thinkingthis made him a real American.Frankie was already American,being half German, half Indian.

Fact is, silence is the perfect water:unlike rain it falls from no clouds

to wash our minds, to ease our tired eyes,to give heart to the thin blades of grass

fighting through the concrete for even airdirtied by our endless stream of words.

Ode to Autumn by John Keats

Seas on of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom -friend of the maturing sun; 

Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; 

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 

To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, 

Until they think warm days will never cease; For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 

Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers: 

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, 

Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. 

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; 

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river-sallows, borne aloft 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Sonnet

Sonnet 104WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

To me faire friend you neuer can be oldTo me faire friend you neuer can be old,For as you were when first your eye I eyde,Such seemes your beautie still: Three Winters colde,Haue from the forrests shooke three summers pride,Three beautious springs to yellow Autumne turn’d,In processe of the seasons haue I seene,Three Aprill perfumes in three hot Iunes burn’d,Since first I saw you fresh which yet are greene.Ah yet doth beauty like a Dyall hand,Steale from his figure, and no pace perceiu’d,So your sweete hew, which me thinkes still doth standHath motion, and mine eye may be deceaued.For feare of which, heare this thou age vnbred,Ere you were borne was beauties summer dead.

Love's Quiet WorldFrederic Parker

Love is a quiet world, with spacious realmsThe heart will completely abandon its rulesAnd kiss the conqueror who overwhelmsTo become King or court jester of foolsTo trade your honor for willingly warm lipsWhen this world is confined between two armsA soft touch to the mouth from fingertipsWill bring heart's guarded ramparts to disarmThis fiery world that needs no translationWill expose the soul to its heated coreAnd claim burning hearts and their salvationAs flames turn to ashes for evermore

Love is a quiet world filled with debrisLeft by court jesters not the Kings who flee

A Doubtful ChristmasThe value of hard work, love and commitment

By Doyle Suit

During the summer of 1944, my father sold everything we owned, took all the money and disappeared from our lives. My mother suddenly found herself alone to care for five boys. I was the oldest, barely ten years old. My youngest brother still wore diapers. 

My grandparents welcomed us to their place – eighty acres of rocky hill country, twenty miles from

the nearest town. They scratched a living out of growing row crops in the thin topsoil, and running beef cattle on open range.

Grandpa butchered an extra hog that year, and we planted a field of turnips to mature in the cool fall weather. We didn’t know a lot of different ways to prepare turnips, but the farm supplied adequate food. My mother worked in the fields and cared for us kids while I started fifth grade at school.

Changes in our lives couldn’t be avoided. My father had been abusive at times, but he’d always provided for us. Now, I worried about what might happen, but my mother stayed positive, and assured us that she would keep us together as a family and safe from harm.

Relatives donated hand-me-down clothes whenever they could, and the farm produced enough food to nourish all of us every day. I milked cows before catching the school bus, and did chores after I got home each day. The younger boys washed dishes, fed chickens and pigs, and carried in firewood. Six-year-old Jerry was paired with me on a crosscut saw, and we regularly cut wood to heat the house during the winter.

Our efforts paled in comparison to what our mother did, however. At one hundred-five pounds, she could swing an axe, manhandle heavy horse-drawn plows, haul hay for the cattle, and harvest crops. Still, she found time to help us with homework and say prayers with the younger boys. She also made sure we attended church regularly, and taught us to appreciate music.

As Christmas approached, my mother didn’t seem to smile as much. She hinted that Santa might have trouble bringing us presents this year. I considered myself practically grown, so I hid my disappointment, but when I overheard a conversation between my mother and grandma, I really started to worry.

“I can’t afford to buy Christmas presents for the kids,” my mother said.

“You need to have something for them,” grandma replied. “Maybe you could wrap some of the hand-me-downs.”

“The kids would be terribly disappointed to find old clothes under the tree. I have to do better than that. Maybe I can make toys.”

Homemade toys didn’t excite me, but I realized she had no money to buy presents. Explaining that to the younger kids might be difficult, though.

One day, my mother took a saw into the forest and returned with a stack of tree limbs. She left them in the harness room in the barn and refused to tell her curious children what they were for.

She worked on her project while I was in school, but I peeked when I had a chance. Pieces of wood had been cut into different shapes, then planed and sanded smooth. Later I found a stack of discs cut from a round oak limb. She also had started to carve a long piece of hickory, but I couldn’t figure out its purpose.

She hid everything from us and frustrated my attempts to snoop. But I saw that she had used nails, glue, and paint from grandpa’s workshop. I concluded that she had to be making presents.

By Christmas week, my mother was her normal happy self again. Her project was apparently complet e, and she evidently kept it secret because I’d looked everywhere without success.

When school let out for the holiday, my brothers and I cut a Christmas tree in the forest and dragged it home through the early snow. The whole family helped decorate it with ornaments, pinecones, and strings of popcorn. We gathered mistletoe and holly boughs and hung them throughout the house.

While my mother and grandma prepared food for Christmas dinner, I helped grandpa

with chores. The younger kids kept a diligent watch on pastries in the cupboard.

On Christmas Eve, we sang carols, and grandpa read aloud from his Bible. After my mother shooed us off to bed, I lay awake for a long while, anticipating Christmas morning. Aunts, uncles, and cousins would come for dinner, and I was curious about what my mother’s project would yield. I doubted that it could be anything elaborate, and homemade toys still didn’t sound exciting, but I couldn’t help noticing that she’d made a huge effort to provide for us.

I was already awake when she tapped on our door. “Merry Christmas, boys.”

We hurried into the living room, and saw that a stack of packages had magically appeared overnight under the tree. But before we were allowed to investigate what Santa had brought, my mother herded us into the kitchen for breakfast.

We gathered around the tree a little later, and my mother handed out the presents. My brothers opened packages stuffed with brightly colored trucks, tractors and trains. Those odd pieces of wood she had handled in secret were assembled and painted to form toys. The round discs made wheels that rolled, and the trucks and trains carried tiny logs and blocks. A tractor pulled a miniature wagon. The toys were beautifully crafted, and my siblings were thrilled.

When I tore off the newspaper wrapping my present, I found a hand carved bow and a quiver of blunt arrows. Blunt was fine, because I knew how to make them suitable for hunting rabbits by forging steel arrowheads in grandpa’s shop.

Many difficult years would follow that particular Christmas, but I never again doubted my mother’s ability to care for us. That Christmas would have been bleak without her skill and dedication, and it foretold her ability to provide for us. We were never hungry, and she made sure we got an education. She taught us faith in God and faith in our own abilities. That faith sustains me still.

Looking back, my mother’s determination and perseverance changed the harsh reality of that time, transforming our poverty into a memorable Christmas filled with delight. And as it tuned out, the craftsmanship in those toys predicted her later accomplishments as an artist and sculptor.

Sixty-three winters have come and gone since that special holiday – that doubtful Christmas. I’m quite sure, in fact I have no doubts, that I’ve never had a happier one.

EstrangedBy Bruce Holland Rogers

11 September 2000After the divorce, my wife said she didn't know who or what she wanted to be. When I heard that she had become a toaster, I felt vindicated. A toaster! Was that all she could be without me? And she wasn't even good at it. She could only do two slices at a time, and they came out charred on one side and white on the other. O bviously, she was the one with inadequacies.True, I was unemployed myself. But a toaster! I would never fall as low as that. I would take a job as a human being, or I'd stay on the dole.

Later, she worked as a hotel washing machine, then as a high-capacity dryer until she was demoted. She became one of those laundry hampers with four wheels and a canvas hopper. Finally, she lost even that job.Soon, however, I felt less and less like gloating. I still couldn't find any work at all, no matter how I tried.I next saw her while on my way to an interview for janitorial work at a hospital. She was in the parking lot,

backed into a reserved space. And she was stunning.There was no mistaking her, even with all the changes. She had white sidewalls. Her body was lustrous teal everywhere but on the inward curving white panels that streaked back from her front wheels. Her chrome sparkled in the sun.I just stood there in front of her, searching for something to say until a man came out of the hospital and walked up to her."Beautiful, isn't she?" he said, fitting a key into her door. "I restored her," he said, "built her up a little from her original 283 small block, gave her some juice. Dual-Carter-carbed. You know cars? Want to see under the hood?"His generosity made me uncomfortable. "No."I hadn't noticed the plates until now. They said "MD." He was a doctor."She's the finest 1960 Corvette on the road," he said, patting her roof affectionately.She was older than that. But damn if she didn't look 1960."She used to be mine.""What?""I said she used to be mine.""I know something about her history," he said, trying to keep a smile in place."She was mine. She once belonged to me."All the friendliness went out of his face. "I don't think so." He opened her door."Sure, just because she's gleaming now, you don't think she could ever have been attached to someone like me!""I said nothing of the sort." He got in and closed the door. He started her. The way her engine hummed, I could tell she was getting only the best of everything.

He revved her, but he couldn't drive off. I was in the way. I glared. He glared.I looked from his face to the checkered flags of her hood ornament. Those little flags did something to me. This was a side of her I had never imagined.He rolled down the window. "Get out of the way," he said.Oh, the sun on her satiny finish. The gleam of her front grille. . . .He raced her engine again, menacingly now, then started to pull forward. He might have run me over, but she stalled out. She still cared. But it was too late for reconciliations.He started her again. I felt all the regret that I had concealed with my gloating. Too late. Too late to change anything.I stepped out of their way and le t them drive off together. I went in for my interview, and I got the job.I am . . . a mop.

Alexander The Great Biography

Alexander the Great was perhaps the greatest military commander of all time. During one decade, he conquered all of the known world leaving one of the world's most extensive empires.Alexander was born in the northern Greek kingdom of Macedonia, in July 356 BC. His parents were Philip II, King of Macedon, and his wife Olympias.As a young child he was tutored by the great philosopher, Aristotle. Aristotle taught a variety of subjects including philosophy,

poetry and ideals of government. To some extent, these ideals influenced Alexander when he was later governing conquered nations.Alexander had a love of music and books, when asked what is greatest possession was, Alexander replied Homer's Iliad. However, he also had a ruthless nature which he displayed on being crowned King. Alexander soon moved to have all potential challengers killed (including his infant half brother)- so he could be the undisputed King. When a friend was found guilty of treason, he also executed his innocent father (who had been a loyal general to Alexander).On coming to the throne, Alexander united the warring factions in Greece, before leading his army into Persia. Although seemingly outnumbered, Alexander led his army to a decisive victory. It was said that during his reign, Alexander remained undefeated. After beating the Persians, Alexander led his faithful army further East until they came to the regions of Afghanistan and India. Again Alexander proved militarily successful and went onto establish cities in many different countries.Although, Alexander was ruthless in eliminating rivals to the throne, his treatment of occupied territories was remarkably progressive and tolerant. Alexander forbid his troops from raping and pillaging, but, established new democratic governments, incorporating the local customs of the area. He allowed religious tolerance for the different religious groups.Many stories tell of the loyalty and faith his army had in Alexander. Once they were returning across a desert with hardly any water left. It is said that Alexander's will alone, kept his troops focused on making the return journey. At one point, his army collected a small pitcher of water from the remaining supplies and offered it to Alexander. Alexander said nothing and disdainfully through the precious water into the sand. It was incidents like this which created a God-like image around Alexander. He himself said, it was only sleep and sex which reminded him he was a mortal.However, he enjoyed a passionate life of drinking, womanising and reveling. For a man seemingly invincible on the battlefield, he ironically died at the early age of 32.

Mahatma Gandhi Biography

Mohandas Gandhi was born, 1869, in Porbandar, India. Mohandas was from the social cast of tradesmen. His mother was illiterate, but her common sense and religious devotion had a lasting impact on Gandhi's character. As a youngster, Mohandas was a good student, but the shy young boy displayed no signs of leadership. On the death of his father, Mohandas travelled to England to gain a degree in law. He became involved with the Vegetarian society and was once asked to translate the Hindu Bhagavad Gita. This epic of Hindu literature awakened in Gandhi a sense of pride in the Indian scriptures, of which the Gita was the pearl.Around this time, he also studied the Bible and was

struck by the teachings of Jesus Christ - especially the emphasis on humility and forgiveness. He remained committed to the Bible and Bhagavad Gita throughout his life, though he was critical of aspects of both religions.Gandhi in South AfricaOn completing his degree in Law, Gandhi returned to India, where he was soon sent to South Africa to practise law. In South Africa, Gandhi was struck by the level of racial discrimination and injustice often experienced by Indians. It was in South Africa that Gandhi first experimented with campaigns of civil disobedience and protest; he called his non violent protests -satyagraha. Despite being imprisoned for short periods of time he also supported the British under certain conditions. He was decorated by the British for his efforts during the Boer war and Zulu rebellion.Gandhi and Indian IndependenceAfter 21 years in South Africa, Gandhi returned to India in 1915. He became the leader of the Indian nationalist movement campaigning for home rule or Swaraj.Gandhi successfully instigated a series of non violent protest. This included national strikes for one or two days. The British sought to ban opposition, but the nature of non-violent protest and strikes made it difficult to counter.Gandhi also encouraged his followers to practise inner discipline to get ready for independence. Gandhi said, the Indians had to prove they were deserving of independence. This is in contrast to independence leaders such as Aurobindo Ghose, who argued that Indian independence was not about whether India would offer better or worse government, but that it was the right for India to have self government.

Gandhi also clashed with others in the Indian independence movement such as Subhas Chandra Bose who advocated direct action to overthrow the British.Gandhi frequently called off strikes and non-violent protest if he heard people were rioting or violence was involved.In 1930, Gandhi led a famous march to the sea in protest at the new Salt Acts. In the sea they made their own salt - in violation of British regulations. Many hundreds were arrested and Indian jails were full of Indian independence followers.However, whilst the campaign was at its peak some Indian protestors killed some British civilians, as a result Gandhi called off the independence movement saying that India was not ready. This broke the heart of many Indians committed to independence. It led to radicals like Bhagat Singh carrying on the campaign for independence, which was particularly strong in Bengal.Gandhi and the Partition of IndiaAfter the war, Britain indicated that they would give India independence. However, with the support of the Muslims led by Jinnah, the British planned to partition India into two - India and Pakistan. Ideologically Gandhi was opposed to partition. He worked vigorously hard to show that Muslims and Hindus could live together peacefully. At his prayer meetings, Muslim prayers were read out along side Hindu and Christian prayers. However, Gandhi agreed to the partition and spent the day of Independence in prayer mourning the partition. Even Gandhi's fasts and appeals were insufficient to prevent the wave of sectarian violence and killing that followed the partition. Away from the politics of Indian independence Gandhi was harshly critical of the Hindu Caste system. In particular he inveighed against the 'untouchable' caste, who were treated abysmally by society. He launched many campaigns to change the status of the untouchables. Although his campaigns were met with much resistance, they did go along way to changing century old prejudices.At the age of 78, Gandhi undertook another fast to try and prevent the sectarian killing. After 5 days, the leaders agreed to stop killing. But, ten days later, Gandhi was shot dead by a Hindu Brahmin opposed to Gandhi's support for Muslims and the untouchables.Gandhi and ReligionGandhi was a seeker of the truth."In the attitude of silence the soul finds the path in a clearer light, and what is elusive and deceptive resolves itself into crystal clearness. Our life is a long and arduous quest after Truth."- GandhiHe said his great aim in life was to have a vision of God. He sought to see worship God and promote religious understanding. He sought inspiration from many different religions - Jainism, Islam, Christianity, Hinduism, Buddhism and incorporate them into his own philosophy.

The Raven

Edgar Allan Poe[First published in 1845]

Once upon a

midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,While I nodded, nearly nappin g, suddenly there came a tapping,As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -Only this, and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrowFrom my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtainThrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;So that now, to still the beating of my

heart, I stood repeating`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -This it is, and nothing more,'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;For we cannot help agreeing that no living human beingEver yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,With such name as `Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -On the morrow he will leave me, as my

hopes have flown before.'Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disasterFollowed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden boreOf "Never-nevermore."'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linkingFancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yoreMeant in croaking `Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressingTo the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease recliningOn the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censerSwung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent theeRespite - respite and nepenthe from thy

memories of Lenore!Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore -Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom

the angels name Lenore?'Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sittingOn the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;And mysoul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floorShall be lifted - nevermore!

THE IBALON

A long time ago, there was a rich land called Ibalong. The hero Baltog, who came from Botavora of the brave clan of Lipod, came to this land when many monsters were still roaming in its very dark forests. He decided to stay and was the first to cultivate its field and to plant them with gabi.

Then one night, a monstrous, wild boar known as Tandayag saw these field and destroyed the crops. Upon knowing

this, Baltog decided to look for this boar with all his courage and patiend. At last, as soon as he saw it, he fearlessly wrestled with it, with all his might. Baltog was unafraid. He was strong and brave. Though the Tandayag had very long fangs, he was able to pin down the monstrous, wild boar and break apart its very big jawbones. With this, Tandayag fell and died.

After this fight, Baltog went to his house in Tondol, carrying the Tandaya’g broken bones. Then he hung it on a talisay tree in front of his house. Upon learning of the victory of their Chief Baltog, the people prepared a feast and celebrated. The very big jawbones of the dead boar became an attraction for everyone. Thus, came the tribes of Panikwason and Asog to marvel it.

The second hero who came to the land of Ibalong was Handyong. Together with his men, he had to fight thousands of battles, and face many dangers to defeat the monster. As warriors, they first fought the one-eyed monster with the tree necks in the land of Ponong. For ten months, they fought without rest. And they never stopped fighting until all these monsters were killed.

Handyong and his men made their next attack against the giant flying sharks called Triburon which had hardly flesh and sawlike teeth that could crush rocks. They continued fighting until the defeat of the last Triburon.

They tamed the wild carabaos. They even drove away the giant and very fierce Sarimao which had very sharp fingernails. And using their spears and arrows, they

killed all the crocodiles which were as big as boats. With all these killings, the rivers and swamps of Ibalong turned red with blood. It was at this time that the savage monkeys became frightened and hid themselves.

Among the enemies of Handyong and his men, the serpent Oryol was the hardes to kill. Having a beautiful voice, Oryaol could change its image to deceive its enemies. To capture it, Handyong tried different ways. But Oryol escaped every one of it and disappeared.

So alone and unafraid, Handyong decide to look for Oryol in the heart of the forest. He followed the beautiful voice and was almost enchanted by it in his pursuit. Days and nights passed until Oryol came to admire Handyong’s bravery and gallantry. Then the serpent helped the hero to conquer monsters, thus restoring peace to the entire Ibalong.

In one the areas of Ibalong called Ligmanan, Handyong built a town. Under his leadership and his laws, slaves and masters were treated equally. The people planted rice and because of their high regard of him they named this rice after him. He built the first boat to ride the waves of Ibalong’s seas. Through his good example, his people became inspired and came up with their own inventions. There was Kimantong who made the plow, harrow and other farming tools. Hablom who invented the first loom for weaving abaca clothes, Dinahongm an Agta, who created the stove, cooking pot, earthen jar and other kitchen utensils, and Sural who brilliantly thought of syllabary and started to write on a marble rock. This was a golden period in Ibalong.

Then suddenly, there cmae a big flood caused by Unos, with terrifying earthquakes. The volcanoes of Hantik, Kulasi and Isarog erupted. Rivers changed their direction and the seas waves rolled high. Destruction was everywhere. Soon, the earth parted, mountains sank, a lake was formed, and many towns in Ibalong were ruined.

Then appeared the giant Rabot, half-man and half-beast, with awesome and terrifying powers.

People were asking who will fight against Rabot. So Bantong, the third hero was called. He was a good friend of Handyong. He was ordered to kill the new monster on Ibalong. To do this, he took with him a thousand warriors to attack Rabot’s den. But using his wisdom against Rabot, he did not attack the giant right away. He first observed Rabot’s ways. Looking around the giant’s den, he discovered that there were many rocks surrounding it, and these were the people who were turned into rocks by Rabot.

Bantong also learned that Rabot loved to sleep during the day and stayed awake at night. So, he waited. When Rabot was already sleeping very soundly, Bantong came

hear him. He cut the giant into two whith his very sharp bolo and without any struggle, Rabot died. So Ibalong was at peace once more.

Christmas Roulette

Michael’s face was red. “OK, then, gun to your head,” he demanded, “what’s the best Christmas movie?” Though his tone suggested he might actually have put something to my head, he hadn’t. Well, first, I told him, with a gun to my head I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on movies; second, the category’s too broad: Christmas comedy? Christmas love story? Is Die Hard a Christmas movie for taking place on Christmas? “Completely irrelevant,” he said. “Best is best. But anyway, it’s a trick question. They all suck because they all lie.” I knew better than to take the bait but I told him anyway that all movies lie. “Well, I know actors wear makeup and play make-believe,” he told me, “but they do that to tell a truth; Christmas movies lie to lie.” He put his mug down hard as if he wanted to tenderize the coaster. Glasses clinked down the bar. He’d been pounding me the same way since we sat down, which was common, but his red face was not. He cared about this. I watched his eyes and waited. A string of lights twinkled behind his head. “You think Santa Claus is universal,” he told me,“and that finding out he’s your parents is a primal disillusionment. That’s Hollywood bullshit. Kids have dads who bring out guns on Christmas Eve and put them to their children’s heads one by one,” he said. That can’t be right, I told him. “One by one and pulled the trigger,” he told me, “year in and year out, and made them wonder if one year there’d be bullets. Why have I never seen that in a movie?” I waited until he was finished. Why are you telling me this, Michael? I asked him. What the hell are you telling me?

Small News

I bought the newspaper out of pity before I boarded the local. It felt thin, and looked like nothing new. I swiped my card near the fare box and at the same time watched myself do so on a monitor showing me from behind, shot by the camera above the door. Other cameras grabbed me from other angles and built a composite that would have been recognizable to anyone who knew me. I took my seat opposite a fidgety man with very big hair parted awkwardly. Monitors throughout the car showed other

passengers taking their seats on this train and others, and sports stars being interviewed about off-the-field infractions, and luxury items, and frivolous foods. One showed my wife getting off a Number 7 train with overflowing shopping bags, in surveillance grays, from her good side. Predictions in the paper were dire. Apparently pension payments to municipal workers were causing a budget shortfall; the clear remedy was that they should give them up. The nation’s youngest fashion designer, age 8, was asked about her influences. On the next page, looking fidgety even in his photograph, the man with big hair was interviewed about losing his job to reverse discrimination. The poor sap, he looked it. I would have fired him too. I stared at him until he moved and watched him fade on the monitors. My own story, however, was not accurate. The picture of me getting off a train had been retouched, I believe, to make me look forlorn. The details of the stock transactions had me placing bets no sane investor would ever have risked; the whole thing lacked credibility. The hat I wore, for instance, did not look right for senior management, but I knew where I could buy one. I got off one stop early.

The Ass, the Fox, and the Lion

THE ASS and the Fox, having entered into partnership together for their mutual protection, went out into the forest to hunt. They had not proceeded far when they met a Lion. The Fox, seeing imminent danger, approached the Lion and promised to contrive for him the capture of the Ass if the Lion would pledge his word not to harm the Fox. Then, upon assuring the Ass that he would not be injured, the Fox led him to a deep pit and arranged that he should fall into it. The Lion, seeing that the Ass was secured, immediately clutched the Fox, and attacked the Ass at his leisure.

The Frogs Asking for a King

THE FROGS, grieved at having no established Ruler, sent ambassadors to Jupiter entreating for a King. Perceiving their simplicity, he cast down a huge log into the lake. The Frogs were terrified at the splash occasioned by its fall and hid themselves in the depths of the pool. But as soon as they realized that the huge log was motionless, they swam again to the top of the water, dismissed their fears, climbed up, and began squatting on it in contempt.

After some time they began to think themselves ill-treated in the appointment of so inert a Ruler, and sent a second deputation to Jupiter to pray that he would set over them

another sovereign. He then gave them an Eel to govern them. When the Frogs discovered his easy good nature, they sent yet a third time to Jupiter to beg him to choose for them still another King. Jupiter, displeased with all their complaints, sent a Heron, who preyed upon the Frogs day by day till there were none left to croak upon the lake.

THE King’s FriendBy Bentzion Elisha

Once there lived a gentile king who delighted

in having an audience with a particular rabbi

who lived in the kingdom’s capital. The two

would converse on various subjects, and the

rabbi’s acuity and sharp intellect amazed the

king again and again. No one could compare

in counsel and wisdom to the charming rabbi.

The king had a fascination with outings to the

country, and he would invite the rabbi so that

they could discuss the kingdom ’s

happenings.

The rabbi had a way of always weaving into the conversation the idea ofhashgacha pratit, divine

providence, constantly seeking to connect the unfolding events with G-d’s underlying presence and

guiding hand.

The rabbi fumbled with the rifle, and a shot accidentally escaped from the weapon.On one of these outings, the king decided to go hunting. Accompanied by the rabbi, his companion

of choice, the king insisted that the rabbi also hunt together with him.

Unfamiliar with the sport, the rabbi fumbled with the rifle, and a shot accidentally escaped from the

weapon. A bitter scream pierced the forest, a scream from none other than the king himself! The

rabbi had mistakenly shot the king, damaging his hand forever by shooting off one of his fingers.

Enraged, the bleeding king had his guards imprison the rabbi immediately, with swift orders to put

him into one of the dungeon’s prison chambers.

Months passed, and the king’s injury slowly healed. His hand was getting stronger, and his desire to

go on one of his outings finally made him plan a most extravagant trip to many far-off lands.

Throughout his trips, he missed the wisdom and companionship of the brilliant rabbi.

In one particularly exotic location, the king was warned not to leave the camp grounds, because

hostile natives lurked. But the king’s adventurous spirit was sparked by the idea of seeing the area

as it was.

The king was warned not to leave the camp grounds, because hostile natives lurked.On one of his forays outside the camp, the king was captured by cannibal tribesmen. As was their

custom, they inspected their “merchandise” before cooking. They were alarmed to find that the

enticing specimen before them had a missing finger. Immediately they declared it a bad omen, and

discarded the king close to his campgrounds.

The king was beside himself with joy. The rabbi’s “blunder” had saved his life.

He immediately changed course and directed his entourage to return home. He had to speak to the

rabbi.

When they arrived at the capital, the king immediately set the rabbi free.

He asked him:

“Dear rabbi, you have always spoken of divine providence, and how everything comes down from

heaven for our good, and I see that here. But rabbi, I have one question: what was the divine

providence as it relates to you? You were in the dungeon for months; where is the good in that?”

If I wasn’t in the dungeon, I would have been with you.The rabbi smiled as he answered, “Your majesty, if I wasn’t in the dungeon, I would have been with

you, and the cannibals would have eaten me, G-d forbid.”

“What lesson can we take from all this?” asked the king.

After some thought, the rabbi answered.

“Perhaps the lesson is that everyone is essentially a friend of the ultimate King, the Creator of

heaven and earth. Since He is a true and good friend who wants the very best for us, we must have

faith that all our experiences, even the seemingly negative ones, are really for the best.”

The Brick 

A young and successful executive was traveling down a neighborhood street,

going a bit too fast in his new

Jaguar. He was watching for kids

darting out from between parked

cars and slowed down when he

thought he saw something. As his

car passed, no children

appeared. Instead, a brick

smashed into the Jag's side door!

He slammed on the brakes and

backed the Jag back to the spot where the brick had been thrown. The angry driver then

jumped out of the car, grabbed the nearest kid and pushed him up against a parked car

shouting, "What was that all about and who are you? Just what the heck are you doing?

That's a new car and that brick you threw is going to cost a lot of money. Why did you

do it?" The young boy was apologetic. "Please, mister...please! I'm sorry but I didn't

know what else to do," he pleaded. "I threw the brick because no one else would stop!"

With tears dripping down his face and off his chin, the youth pointed to a spot just

around a parked car. "It's my brother," he said. "He rolled off the curb and fell out of his

wheelchair and I can't lift him up." Now sobbing, the boy asked the stunned executive,

"Would you please help me get him back into his wheelchair? He's hurt and he's too

heavy for me." Moved beyond words, the driver tried to swallow the rapidly swelling

lump in his throat. He hurriedly lifted the handicapped boy back into the wheelchair,

then took out a linen handkerchief and dabbed at the fresh scrapes and cuts. A quick

look told him everything was going to be okay. "Thank you and may God bless you," the

grateful child told the stranger. Too shook up for words, the man simply watched the

boy push his wheelchair-bound brother down the sidewalk toward their home. It was a

long, slow walk back to the Jaguar. The damage was very noticeable, but the driver

never bothered to repair the dented side door. He kept the dent there to remind him of

this message "Don't go through life so fast that someone has to throw a brick at you to

get your attention!"