Imagine a large bamboo building with a thatched roof, wherein hundreds of natives have gathered, for, what is to them, the supreme enjoyment of life. Around the door are one or two guards in Spanish uniform; but everything appears so decorous and orderly that it is indeed difficult to realize that we are in a gigantic gambling den. Nearly every native has with him his fighting-cock, which he loves as devotedly as one of his own children, and upon which he has spent much care and interest. The "farmer," often a Chinaman, who has secured a license from the Government to run the cock-pit, stands in the middle of the ring, around him a group of natives excited and eager. Two fighting-cocks, each armed with a steel spur three or four inches long, are in the hands of their respective owners. Every eye is riveted upon the prospective contestants. The farmer, or proprietor, announces that the contest is about to begin, and from every hand dollars rain into the ring, each person staking a certain amount upon his favorite. This done, all is breathless expectation, and at the word "Casada" (meaning matched), and at "Largo" (let go), the fowls are let loose. The fight waxes hot and furious; the two cocks are as pugnacious as bull-pups. But it is soon over; for, at a well-directed thrust from the steel spur, one of the contestants lies dead. The crier now announces the name of the winner, and all the winners come down into the middle of the ring and pick up their own stakes, as well as the amount won by the wager. Strangers often remark how unusual it is that amid so much confusion, and where there is apparently boundless opportunity for cheating, there should be so much honesty and good faith. However, every man is to be trusted. I have never known but one exception--he was instantly hacked to pieces with knives. There are over a hundred of these gambling pits around Manila. It is the natives' greatest diversion. Opposition to this sport would almost create a rebellion; and so the Spanish Government wisely makes the best of it, pocketing almost a million dollars a year from the licenses. The Evening Procession. It is night. Against the sombre gloom of the heavens twinkle millions of stars: they too are a part of the grand illumination that is to be the climax of the whole fiesta. Again the village-green in front of the church! It is alive with the happy villagers, decked in all their finery--the men and boys in airy, colored shirts and white trousers, the women and girls in splendid skirts and brilliant chemisettes.