“Those are the Botanical Gardens,” said Mr. Taft⁠—“the man from Cook’s”⁠—making a general sort of gesture toward the other side of the street. What I saw was a small gravelled park with some avenues of fine palms, some other kinds of trees, and a few clumps of shrubbery. We were driving under the low-hanging branches of some magnificent old acacias, but everything looked neglected and run down, and there didn’t seem to be a bit of grass anywhere; just scorching sand and clay. It was really a relief to rest one’s eyes on the awful green scum on the surface of the moat. Manila in those days was not the beautiful, park-like, well-kept city that it has since become. There were soldiers everywhere, and it seemed to me we were being constantly saluted.

“And now we come to the far-famed Luneta,” said Mr. Taft, quite proudly.

“Where?” I asked. I had heard much of the Luneta and expected it to be a beautiful spot.

“Why, here. You’re on it now,” he replied.