One Sunday I entrained for Ba liwag, a town in Bulacan which can well afford to hold two fiestas a year without a qualm.
I took the train partly because I am prejudiced in favor of the government-owned railroad, partly because I am allowed comparative comfort in a coach, and finally because trains sometimes leave and arrive according to schedule.
In the coach I found a little world, a section of the abstraction called humanity whom we are supposed to love and live for. I had previously arranged to divide the idle hour or so between cultivating my neglected Christianity and smoothing out the rough edges of my nature with the aid of grateful sights without - the rolling wheels, the flying huts and trees and light-green palay seedlings and carab aos along the way.
