1. Who are the characters in the story? Describe each.
_________________________________________________________________________
2. What unique identity/traits of the characters are shown in the story?
Ka Ponso- _____________ Fathe/Julior- ________________
Jose- __________________
3. How did Julio show his love to Jose?__________________________________________
4. If you are in ka Ponso’s shoes, What will you do? Why and why not?
_________________________________________________________________________
5. How can you make others happy in your own way?_______________________________
The Happiest Boy in the World
by: NVM Gonzalez
Julio, who had come from Tables to settle in Barok, was writing a letter to, of all people,
ka Ponso, his landlord, one warm June night. It was about his son, Jose, who wanted to go
to school in Mansalay that year. Jose was in the fifth grade when Julio and his family had left
Tablas the year before and migrated to Mindoro. Because the father had to stop schooling
for a year. As it was, Julio though himself lucky enough to have ka Ponso to take him as
tenant. Later when Julio’s wife, Fidela, gave birth to a baby. Ka Ponso, who happened to be
visiting his property then, offered to become its godfather. After that they began to call each
other compadre.
"Dear Compadre,"Julio started to write in Tagalog bending earnestly over a piece of
paper which he had torn out of Jose's notebook. It was many months ago when, just as now,
he had sat down with a writing implement in his hand. That was when he had gone to the
municipio in Mansalay to file a homestead application, and he had used a pen, and to his
great surprise filled in the blank forms neatly. Nothing came of the application and talked
with the officials concerned. Now, with a pencil instead of a pen to write with, Julio was sure
that he could make his letter legible enough for Ka Ponso.
"It's about my boy Jose, "he wrote on. "I want him to study this June in Mansalay. He's
in the sixth grade now, and since he's quite a poor hand at looking after your carabaos, I
thought it would be best that he goes to school in the town."
He sat back and learned against the wall. He had been writing on a low wooden bench,
the sole piece of furniture in the one-room house. There he sat in one corner. A little way
across stood the stove; to his right Fidela and the baby girl, Felipa lay under the hempen
mosquito net. Jose, who had been out all afternoon looking for one of Ka Ponso's carabaos
that he had strayed away to the newly planted rice clearings along the other side of the Barok
river, was here too, sprawing beside a sack of palay by the doorway. He snored lightly, like
a tired youth; but he was only twelve.
The kerosene lamp's yellow flame flickered ceaselessly. The dank smell of food, of
fish broth particularly, that had been spilled from many a bowl and had dried on the floor
seemed to rise from the very texture of the wood itself. The sad truth about their poverty, if
Julio’s nature had been sensitive to it, might have struck him with a hard and sudden blow
then; but as it was, he just looked about the room, even as the smell assailed his nostrils,
and stared now at the mosquito net, now at Jose as he lay there by the door. Then he
continued with his letter.
"This boy, Jose, compadre,"he went on, "is quite an industrious lad. If you can only let
him stay in your big house. Compadre, you can make him do anything you wish-any work.
He can cook rice, and I'm sure he'll do well washing dishes."
Julio recalled his last visit to ka Ponso's about three months ago, during the fiesta.
he had seen that it was a big house with many servants; the floor was so polished you
could almost see your own image under your feet as you walked; and always there was a
servant who followed you about with a piece of rag to wipe away the smudges of dirt which
your feet had left on the floor.
"I hope you will not think of his as great bother. "Julio continued, trying his best to
phrase these thoughts. He had a vague far that ka Ponso might not favourably regard his
letter. But he wrote on, slowly and steadily, stopping only to read what he had put down.