At Sagada we found ourselves quite far up in the Igorrote country, where Filipinos as a rule, do not go. We had come from Cervantes over a trail where the horses cautiously kept to the inside, and where we were told to let go of our inner stirrups so, in case a horse went over the edge of the precipice its rider would have a chance of falling clear on the terra-firma side instead of being hurled out into open space. There are a great many people who have to be taken over such trails blindfolded, but there were no dizzy-heads among us, and as each turn of the way revealed to us different and more wonderful views, we filled the day with exclamation points.

Here and there we met bands of Igorrotes, marching “Indian file,” carrying great bundles of rice up shortcut mountain trails, which wound through the rice terraces and were “as steep as the side of a house.” All the men had long, murderous-looking spears, while the women were evidently the burden-bearers. Along the main trail we came, now and then, upon a company of men leading home a whimpering and pitiful little pack of very thin dogs. We knew these were to be killed and eaten and, naturally, the thought was sickening, but in the Igorrote country the dog-loving white man has to get used to this. Some day, perhaps, it will be different, but not until herds and flocks have been substituted and entirely new ideas have patiently been instilled into the minds of these people. For the time being dog flesh is their most cherished article of diet.