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Updated: June 3, 2025
The following description gives some faint idea of one of the most diabolical crimes ever committed in the Philippines: "Villa's cruelty and sanguinary jeering grew without let or hindrance from day to day; it seemed that this hyena continually cudgelled his brains to invent new kinds of torture and to jeer at the friars.
Nor did the paltry sentiment of friendship deter him from his just course. When the panic aroused by the silent burglar was uncontrolled, a neighbour consulted Peace concerning the safety of his house. The robber, having duly noted the villa's imperfections, and having discovered the hiding-place of jewellery and plate, complacently rifled it the next night.
Our hearts can talk our heads down almost any time, and, best all, our hearts are always right despite the statistic that they are mostly wrong." Harley Kennan did not believe, and never did believe, his wife's report of the tales Jerry told. And through all his days to the last one of them, he considered the whole matter a pleasant fancy, all poesy of sentiment, on Villa's part.
"Nor does he seem demonstrative," was Villa's judgment. "At least, nothing like Jerry," "Wait till they meet," Harley smiled in anticipation. "Jerry will furnish enough excitement for both of them." "If they remember each other after all this time," said Villa. "I wonder if they will." "They did at Tulagi," he reminded her.
He was a sullen-faced fellow wearing a fur cap and a nondescript uniform, with an assortment of weapons thrust in his belt, according to the custom of the Balkan guerrillas, and with two bandoliers, stuffed with cartridges, slung across his chest. He was as incongruous a figure in that pleasant German countryside as one of Pancho Villa's bandits would have been in the Connecticut Valley.
"After the defeat we deserted from General Villa's troops this side of Celaya." "General Villa defeated? Ha! Ha! That's a good joke." The soldiers laughed. But Demetrio's brow was wrinkled as though a black shadow had passed over his eyes. "There ain't a son of a bitch on earth who can beat General Villa!" said a bronzed veteran with a scar clear across the face.
You see it happens like this: We got as far as that dry arroyo just before the trail drops down into the valley, when up jumps a bunch of this here Villa's guys and commenced takin' pot shots at us. "Seein' as how I was sent to guard Bridge an' Mig, I makes them dismount and hunt cover, and then me an' my men wades in and cleans up the bunch.
Having stepped forth, Basil stood for a moment sniffing the cool air with its scent from the vineyards, and looking at the yellow rift in the eastern sky; then he followed a path which skirted the villa's outward wall and led towards the dwelling of Aurelia. Presently he reached the ruined wall of the little garden, and here a voice challenged him, that of a servant on watch until sunrise.
Landor's love of his villa and estate finds expression again and again in his verse written at this time. The most charming of all these charming poems the perfection of the light verse of a serious poet is the letter from England to his youngest boy, speculating on his Italian pursuits. I begin at the passage describing the villa's cat:
From the bunkhouse other men were running rapidly in the direction of the fight, attracted by the first shots. Billy and Eddie stood their ground, a few paces apart. Two more of Villa's men went down. Grayson ran for cover. Then Billy Byrne dropped the last of the Mexicans just as the men from the bunkhouse came panting upon the scene. There were both Americans and Mexicans among them.
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