ON THE OLD COW'S BACK.
nce more in the boat's stern with his steering paddle, Perce Bucklin gazed eagerly over the bobbing heads of the twins, who were rowing, and reported his observations, as they approached the castaway on the back of the "Old Cow."
"It's nobody I can make out," he said, when near enough to recognize, as he believed, any person he knew. "But that isn't a yachting-cap he has on; it's a handkerchief tied around his head. The sun on the water dazzles me or I —— Boys," he suddenly exclaimed, "it isn't a man! It's a boy!"
And he shouted, "Hello, there!"
The castaway returned the hail, and as the boat came nearer, cried out:
"That you, Perce Bucklin?"
Then Perce uttered an ejaculation of the greatest astonishment:
"Boys, it's Olly Burdeen!"
"No!" "Jingo!" "You don't say!" exclaimed the twins, who wouldn't believe him until they turned their heads and saw for themselves.
"Hullo, Olly!" called Moke.
"How did you ever get there?" asked Poke.
"Pull, boys!" said Perce impatiently, as they held their oars while looking around. "He must have been aboard the yacht,"—for as yet Olly made no answer. He was in fact too much agitated with joy and gratitude, after his long hours of suffering in mind and body, to make any coherent explanations.
The dory came dancing over the waves.
"Where's the yacht?" Perce demanded.
"I don't know anything about any yacht," answered the miserable, happy Olly, stepping down to the water's edge to meet his deliverers.
"Hasn't the Susette been lost?" Perce inquired.
As he was still some little distance away, and the waves were dashing on the rocks, all Olly understood was something about the Susette being lost.
It gave him a shock, with which, however, came a gleam of consolation. Mr. Hatville, then, had not returned home.
I will do Olly the justice to say that he could not under any circumstances have rejoiced at such a disaster as the wreck of the yacht; yet it was some comfort to think that the loss of the watch had not yet been discovered.
"I haven't heard of it!" Olly said in a shaky voice.
"Then how in the world did you get where you are?" inquired Perce, and as Olly was too much overcome by his feelings to answer at once, he continued: "We concluded you must have been aboard of the Susette. Where's the best place to take you on?"
"Right here," said Olly. "But I've a boat, too, around on the other side. I'd like to save that."
"A boat!" Moke exclaimed. "Then why in the name of common sense——"
"Why didn't you go ashore?" cried Poke.
"It leaks, and I haven't any oars nor anything to bail with. It was all I could do to get over here in it, without sinking. I was on the "Calf's" back till the waves began to break over it this morning."
Here a sob caught poor Olly's voice, at the recollection of all he had gone through.
"On the 'Calf'!" said Perce. "How did it happen? But never mind about that till we get you out of your scrape."
The dory pulled around the "Old Cow," while Olly scrambled over the back, picking up on his way the second thwart, which he had used to paddle with, and afterward in making his signals of distress.
On the seaward side was a cleft in the rock, into which he had propelled his dory on the top of a wave, and where, leaping to the ledges, he had held it by the painter while the wave went out. There it was still, jammed high up in the chasm, where the buffets of the tide had left it.
Olly alone could never have got it out without waiting for the next tide to help him; it was all his companions could do to loosen and lift it from those rocky jaws. This they did, after effecting a landing on the little islet; while Olly, who acknowledged himself half starved, ate some of the provisions they had brought, and between mouthfuls told his surprising story.
One very important particular, however, he took care not to mention, so that no light was thrown upon the mystery of the watch which had found its resting-place in Perce Bucklin's pocket.
It would be hard to say whether this was a disappointment or a relief to the finder. He had so fully persuaded himself that there was some connection between the watch picked up on the beach and the human being cast on the rock, that he could not easily give it up, even after discovering who that human being was.
True, Olly was not a very probable owner of such a timepiece. Yet that was not an impossible thing; at any rate, he might know something about it. Perce was anxious to solve the riddle, even if it should be at his own cost; for he had no wish, as I have said before, to keep what belonged to another.
"I didn't know you in that suit of clothes, Olly," he said, as they were getting the boat out of the crevice, "and with that handkerchief on your head! I never saw such a change in anybody,—did you, boys?"
"He looks as pinched as if the lobsters had been nipping him," said Moke.
"And as blue about the gills as a turkey-gobbler," said Poke.
"I lost my hat overboard last night," said Olly, "I tied on my handkerchief this morning after I got tired of waving it. I thought you would be more apt to see the board. Wasn't I missed? Wasn't anybody looking for me?"
"No," Perce replied. "The young lady with the nose—the tall one—said you went with the yachters."
"She!" exclaimed Olly, who still had feelings left that could be hurt by such evidence of Amy Canfield's utter indifference to him. "She knew better than that."
"Mrs. Murcher knew better," said Perce. "She thought you had gone home to show your new suit to the folks. Did the boarder make you any other present?"
"Wasn't that enough?" returned Olly, munching a cold boiled egg.
"It will do for a beginning," said Perce. "But with such a suit as that, it seems as if you ought to have a handsome—watch-chain; needn't mind about any watch," he added with a laugh, intending thus to make a jest of his remark if Olly didn't take it in earnest.
Poor Olly tried to smile with his pinched, empurpled face; at the same time casting down his eyes in some alarm, to see what there was about his dress to put such a notion into Perce's head.
"Olly doesn't feel like joking," observed Moke.
"Neither would you, I guess!" exclaimed Olly, glad to change the subject. "All night on the rocks except when I was paddling or swimming for my life. No fire, not a mouthful to eat, not a wink of sleep! I got wet through a second time, getting over here from the 'Calf,' in a sinking boat. I can't tell you how it made me feel, boys, to see your fire on the beach last night, and again this morning! Why didn't you see me? I tried the handkerchief, and then the board, but I thought you never would look!"
"We were too far off," said Poke.
"We were too busy minding our own business," said Moke.
"That reminds me, the seaweed is waiting for us," said Poke. "Hurry up, boys!"
Perce was the last to leave the island; and he himself got wet up to his waist by a wave, in preventing the boat from being dashed upon the rocks after the others were aboard.
He did not care for a little salt water himself. But he thought of the watch in the pocket of his trousers. That, however, would probably not be much hurt by a few additional drops after what it had been through already. As far as he was concerned, the mystery had not been cleared up, at all, as he had expected it would be, by the rescue of the castaway.
If Olly had frankly told his entire story, how gladly would Perce have taken the treasure-trove from his pocket and held it out to him, exclaiming: "Here is your watch, boy!" gladdening his eyes with the sight. But as it was, both were silent on the subject which now filled both their minds.
Olly had already learned from his companions that their only reasons for thinking the yacht had been wrecked, was the fact of its not having returned the night before, and the appearance, that morning, of a human form on the outlying rock,—excepting always the very private reason in Perce Bucklin's trousers-pocket.
Mr. Hatville was then most likely still undrowned; and now that his own life was saved, Olly began to study how he should shirk the responsibility of his guilty borrowing,—in his troubled thoughts looking every way except the right way, and inventing plausible fictions, where nothing would avail like the simple truth. He sat in the stern of his companions' dory, leading his own in tow by the painter; dejected and silent, and more than once thinking he would watch for a chance, when nobody was observing him, to drop overboard the watch-seal and the fragment of chain which he still carried in his vest.
Chapter XIV.
OLLY HAS A BAD DREAM.
Long before the rescuers and the rescued reached the shore with their leaky boat in tow, the excitement among Mrs. Murcher's boarders in regard to the yacht had been allayed by a telegram. The adverse wind of the evening before had caused the Susette to put into Portland; whence some of the party were to return by rail that morning.
“THE CASTAWAY RETURNED THE HAIL, AS THE BOAT CAME NEARER.”
So said the message; in consequence of which, interest in the unknown individual on the back of the "Old Cow" languished somewhat, until the arrival of the little party on the beach. Then it went up to the bubbling point again; and there was the liveliest effervescence of curiosity to know how Olly Burdeen, the faithful, unromantic chore and errand boy, had met with so wonderful an adventure.
Accompanied, or preceded, by those who had gone down to see him disembark, he mounted with slow, miserable, anxious feet the piazza steps.
There all the other ladies came out eagerly to meet him, and pressed around, marveling and questioning; and Mrs. Murcher, flushed from her molding-board, held up both her doughy hands.
"Why, Olly! where have you been?" said one.
"In his new suit of clothes!" said another.
"The first time he ever wore them!" exclaimed a third.
And one laughed; the one of all whom Olly most dreaded to have see him in that plight.
It was not an ill-natured laugh by any means; and she would have helped it if she could. But Amy Canfield had a merry disposition. And Olly after his night of terror and fatigue, still oppressed with a horrible anxiety, humbled, drooping, rolling his distressed eyes in fear of encountering Mr. Hatville's, with the handkerchief still on his head and his new clothes torn at the knees,—it must be owned that Olly did look ridiculous.
"Why, Amy!" said Mrs. Merriman, "how can you laugh?"
"It's so funny!" replied the tall brunette; "and I'm so glad he is rescued," she added, discreetly. "We all were so anxious, thinking the Susette had gone on the rocks; and it was only our Olly after all."
"What has happened to you, Olly?" cried Mrs. Murcher, amazed to the end of her doughy fingers.
"I just went out to take a little row, last evening," murmured the forlorn Olly. "I lost one oar; it got tangled in the kelp, and a wave wrenched it out of my hand. Then I broke another, and the wind blew me off shore."
"And you've been all night on the 'Old Cow'?" said the good landlady.
"Worse than that," said Olly. "I was on the 'Calf.' And a part of the time in the water. I guess if anybody had been there on the 'Calf's' back in my place—alone—such a night!—waiting for the tide to rise and cover 'em—I guess they wouldn't have thought it much of a joke!" And Olly's voice broke.
"It must have been terrible, Olly! Do forgive my laughing!" said Amy, relenting. "How did you get to the 'Old Cow'?"
Olly faltered forth more of his wretched story, which was listened to with many an expression of surprise and sympathy, for he was rather a favorite with Mrs. Murcher and her lady boarders.
He had wished to go directly home to Frog-End, and had tried to induce the boys to carry him over in the ox-cart. But they were in haste to resume their work, which had been too long interrupted already; and they could not see why he should object to returning to the boarding-house.
After all, he thought to himself, the dreaded inquiry regarding the watch might as well be met first as last.
The kindness he met with made him feel more miserably remorseful and apprehensive than ever, for he knew that it was lavished upon him because his friends were still ignorant of what might at any minute now come to their knowledge.
He was really worn out with the long, fearful strain on his mind and strength, and he was quite willing to accept Mrs. Murcher's advice that he should go at once to bed and "take something hot."
The nucleus of the boarding-house was, as we have said, an old farm-house, which accounted for its not very sightly situation, there in a hollow of the hills. Besides the spacious addition, the original building remained, and at the end of the upper corridor was the old attic, with two or three steps descending to the door.
Olly's room was there, and there he was soon in bed, with ample leisure to think over the terrible part of his experience which was happily past, and the part which was unhappily to come.
He had not ventured to ask about the yachting party, lest something concerning the watch should come out. But he had accidentally overheard some one speak of the Susette having run into Portland. Everything else was uncertain. But, thankful for a reprieve however brief from the impending catastrophe, he ate the steaming gruel Mrs. Murcher brought him, sank into a state of stupor, and was soon rehearsing in dreams his dire adventures.
He was having a distressing conversation with a dog-fish of enormous size. The monster came up out of the sea, and resting its elbow on the "Calf's" shoulder, and its face on its hand,—a face and attitude grotesquely suggestive of Mr. Hatville,—accused Olly of having one of that gentleman's eyes in his pocket, although there were two spectral eyes as big as watches in the speaker's head, at the moment. The dispute was growing frightfully loud, when Olly cut it short by kicking the dog-fish, or Mr. Hatville, or whoever it was, back into the sea, and immediately woke.
Chapter XV.
IT WAS NOT A DOG-FISH.
It is generally a very good way to get out of trouble, to wake, and find it a dream. But that did not serve Olly's turn this time. The voice was still heard, louder and louder, not in the sea, as he had fancied, but behind the door which separated his garret from the corridor.
"I paid two hundred and forty dollars for that watch, and fifteen dollars for the chain, let alone the seal, and I want to know who has them!"
It was Mr. Hatville's voice pure and simple, without any fishy element about it. At the same time a good pair of boots, such as no dog-fish ever wore, were tramping excitedly across the floor. Poor Mrs. Murcher's anxious, protesting voice was heard in reply, but not loud enough for Olly to make out the words.
"I hung it up when I was changing my clothes, and then went off and forgot it!" burst forth the male voice again. "But I supposed it would be safe here. I didn't know you had thieves in your house, Mrs. Murcher!"
"I haven't, sir! unless they are among your own friends," the landlady answered, in a higher key than before. "I don't believe it is stolen. It must be somewhere!"
"Of course it's somewhere!" the boarder retorted—"somewhere in some rogue's keeping. I'd like to see the fellow who dared to lay hands on it—the best time-keeper I ever saw! Stem-winder; chronometer movement; heavy, fine gold case! I had it regulated down to the finest point; it was losing only about a second and a half a month."
Other voices here joined in; the corridor appeared to be filling with boarders, all excited by the news of Mr. Hatville's loss.
"No," said that gentleman; "I wasn't at all anxious about it; only, when I found we couldn't get back last night, I was vexed to think it would run down. I wouldn't have had that happen for five dollars. Where's Olly?" he demanded. "He must know something about it."
Olly trembled in his bed. He would have preferred just then to take his chances with a whole school of dog-fishes, of the largest size, rather than confront the wrathful owner of the watch.
"I don't think he knows anything about it," said Mrs. Murcher, now quite near Olly's door. "He has been away all night; he has had a terrible time out at sea—in the sea—and on the rocks. Don't disturb him! He's fast asleep."
"If he hasn't slept for a week, and can't sleep again for a fortnight," cried Hatville, "I'll have him up and see if he knows anything about that watch."
"Let me speak to him!" said Mrs. Murcher. "You've no idea how weak and tired and worn out he is. I've got him into a perspiration, and now if it is checked, I shall expect nothing in the world but that he will have a fit of sickness, and may be never get over it."
"It ought not to check an honest boy's perspiration, to tell what he knows about my chronometer," Hatville muttered, while Mrs. Murcher, stepping down the two or three stairs that led to the old attic, opened Olly's door.
"Sh!" she whispered gently, motioning Mr. Hatville back. "He's so sound asleep! It's such a pity to wake him, poor boy! But I suppose I must."
Oily lay with his back toward her, with his head and face covered by the sheet. His perspiration hadn't ceased, by any means; he felt that he was fast dissolving in a clammy feeling of abject fear.
"He's in such a beautiful, dewy, childlike, innocent sleep" said the motherly Mrs. Murcher, laying her hand softly on his brow. "Just the thing he needs; better than all the medicine in the world!" She was tempted to add, "or than all the watches!"
Still Hatville did not relent. Without strongly suspecting Olly of taking the watch, he was yet determined to pursue his investigations, even if he broke the most beautiful, dewy, childlike, innocent slumber on earth.
"Shake him!" he said.
So Mrs. Murcher shook, gently at first, then more and more vigorously, saying, "Olly! Oliver! Olly Burdeen! Oliver Burdeen!" more and more loudly in his ear, until he suddenly sprang up with a muttered cry.
"Stop that boat! stop that—— she's running on the 'Old Cow'! Oh, boys!—where am I?"
And, appearing to recognize Mrs. Murcher's presence for the first time, he rolled up his eyes and sank back with a groan on the pillow.
Chapter XVI.
A BAD AWAKING.
"He's delirious!" whispered the landlady.
"He's dreaming," replied the boarder.
"Olly! Wake up a minute! What's become of my watch?"
"Watch?" repeated Olly, still disguising his real fears in a well-feigned fictitious terror. "What watch? I thought I was in the water again!"
His voice trembled, though not altogether from that more remote cause which he desired to impress upon the minds of spectators.
"My watch, which I left hanging in the case beside my bureau when I went yachting yesterday," said Hatville, as much imposed upon as the sympathizing Mrs. Murcher herself. "What has become of it?"
"Your watch?" Olly repeated, with a bewildered air, as if beginning dimly to comprehend the question. "How should I know? I've been away. I've been wrecked. Haven't they told you?"
"You haven't the watch, have you?" exclaimed the landlady.
"His watch? Mr. Hatville's? Of course I haven't! What should I have his watch for?"
The brunt of the inquiry thus met, Olly felt that he was acting his part very well, and took courage. Then somebody in the corridor whispered to Mr. Hatville, who immediately asked:
"What boy was that who came here to the house for you last evening?"
"Boy? I don't know of any boy!" said Olly.
"You remember, Amy; you showed him upstairs," said Mrs. Merriman.
"I know the one you mean; one of the Frog-End boys!" exclaimed Mrs. Murcher. "He said he and some friends of Olly's were camping on the beach, and they wanted him to join them. It can't be that he took it!"
"Who showed him upstairs? You, Amy?" cried Hatville.
It was a moment of fearful suspense to Olly, who remembered what Perce had said of coming to invite him to their picnic, and learning that he had either sailed in the yacht or gone home to show his new clothes. He stopped breathing to hear Amy's reply, in clear, silvery tones, from the farther end of the corridor.
"Yes; I showed him up, and pointed out Olly's room. Mrs. Murcher thought Olly was there, trying on his new clothes."
"But he wasn't," said Mrs. Murcher. "And the boy came downstairs again in a very few minutes."
"Where was he during those few minutes?" Mr. Hatville demanded. "Did you watch him, Amy?"
"I? No, indeed! Why should I take the trouble to watch him?" cried Miss Canfield.
"What was to prevent his going into my room," Hatville inquired, "and taking the watch?"
"Nothing that I know of." The silvery accents faltered. "I don't know but I am to blame, Mr. Hatville!"
"Oh, no! It wasn't your business to watch strangers who gain admission to the house," said Hatville.
"But I did something which I see now was very indiscreet," Amy exclaimed. "It was growing quite dark in the passage, and I opened the door of your room to let in more light. I knew you were not there, and I had no idea your watch was. I am very sorry."
“ ‘SHAKE HIM,’ SAID MR. HATVILLE.”
"You are very frank," replied Hatville. "But don't blame yourself. Of course, you had no idea of putting temptation in the way of a rogue."
"No; and I can't believe he was a rogue—such a fine, honest-looking face as he had!" Amy exclaimed. "But I had no business to open your door."
Olly overheard this conversation with strangely mingled feelings of envy and remorse, of fear and guilt. How admirable was Amy's prompt confession of her fault, and how readily it was forgiven! Why couldn't he have had a little of her courage, owned his folly, and thrown himself upon Mr. Hatville's mercy! His implied denial had now cut him off from that only noble course; and he saw no way to disentangle the web in which he had involved both himself and his friend.
"Wasn't it the same boy who came here again this morning?" asked Mr. Merriman. "He had discovered Olly on the 'Old Cow,'—though nobody knew it was Olly; and he came to get oars and a spy-glass."
"Yes," said one of the other ladies; "and he came upstairs to look from the windows. He might have gone into your room then, Mr. Hatville."
"But if he had stolen the watch the night before, would he have shown his face here again this morning?" argued the landlady, who had been too much bewildered by what had occurred in her house, to take much part in the previous conversation.
"He might have done just that thing," Hatville replied, "in order to brazen it out, and make a show of innocence. But most likely he saw the chronometer then, and, having had time to think about it, he watched for a chance to take it this morning, when it was supposed I might have been lost in the yacht."
That seemed very probable; and Mrs. Murcher was obliged to admit that there had been no other stranger about the place, to her knowledge, except the messenger who brought Mr. Hatville's telegram. He, however, had not got out of his buggy.
"That same boy is on the beach now, gathering seaweed," said Mrs. Merriman. "At least, he was there a short time ago."
"That's good news!" cried Hatville, gayly. "Who'll go with me and point him out? We'll interview this seaweed-gatherer, who does a little side business in other people's watches!"
And Olly could hear his boots departing in haste through the corridor and descending the stairs. One or two ladies went with him to identify the supposed culprit; while others remained to discuss this last exciting revelation.
"Such a bright, interesting boy!" said one; "I shouldn't have believed it of him!"
"I thought him a young hero!" cried another, "to leave his work and start off to the rescue!"
"Well!" said a third, "I thought so, too. He certainly organized the whole thing; and it seems strange to me that he should have shown so much zeal to save the life, perhaps, of the very person whose watch he had just taken!"
"You can't tell much from a boy's looks, or his actions either, as to what he may do when exposed to temptation," was the rather severe rejoinder of the first speaker.
"Not unless you know him pretty well," added one of the others.
"As we know Olly, for instance," observed some one else. "I actually believe Mr. Hatville at first suspected he had taken it."
"Absurd!" "Preposterous!" "Nonsense!" chorused all together. All which Olly overheard with feelings which can hardly be imagined by anybody not actually suffering what he suffered then.
Had the lady boarders spoken harshly or suspiciously of him, he might have hardened his heart. But their kind words made him bitterly regret that he had not kept his good reputation by frankly owning the fault, which, if discovered now, must convict him of dishonesty.
And to a boy like him,—not a bad boy at heart, by any means, as I trust you all understand,—it was a terrible thing to know that another was accused of downright theft, in consequence of his own foolish and cowardly conduct. And that one a friend,—a friend, too, who had just rescued him from danger and distress! Poor Olly almost wished he had been left to perish; that he had never reached the back of the "Old Cow," or been seen or heard of again.
All this he kept to himself, and lay with his face turned to the wall, thinking of the probable result of the charge against Perce Bucklin, and of retribution falling upon himself; when Mrs. Murcher came and pulled the coverlet carefully over his shoulder, and shut the door again gently as she went out, leaving him, as she supposed, to sleep.
"Of course they can't prove anything against Perce," he tried to console himself by thinking; for he was utterly ignorant of the astounding evidence that was to free him from the last shadow of suspicion, and fix the guilt on his friend.
(To be continued.)
THE AMBITIOUS KANGAROO.
They held a great meeting a king to select,
And the kangaroo rose in a dignified way,
And said, "I'm the one you should surely elect,
For I can out-leap every beast here to-day."
Said the eagle, "How high can you climb toward the sky?"
Said the nightingale, "Favor us, please, with a song!"
Said the hawk, "Let us measure our powers of eye!"
Said the lion, "Come wrestle, and prove you are strong!"
But the kangaroo said, "It would surely be best,
In our choice of a king, to make leaping the test!"
WONDERS OF THE ALPHABET.
By Henry Eckford.
Seventh Paper.
Great was the surprise of scholars, both Hindoo and European, when certain students of old languages claimed that the letters of the Sanskrit, the classical language of India, were originally derived from an alphabet, akin to the Phœnician, used by a great branch of the great race of peoples who are called Shemites, or Semites, after one of the sons of Noah. (The Jews, Arabs, Philistines, Hittites, Phœnicians, and Aramæans are Semites.) Those students believe that the wonderful peninsula of India, which, as far back as traditions go, has been crowded with men of various colors and different tongues, received a Semitic alphabet under two forms by two different roads, and perhaps at periods far apart. They believe that there was a land road and a sea road. They trace one alphabet by land, through Bactria and Cashmere, from one fierce and intelligent nation to another; and they believe that they have traced a second alphabet from Arabia to India by way of the Red Sea. The nation that carried the latter alphabet is supposed to have been the Sabæans, an ancient people of Arabia, who were once as powerful in the Southern seas as the Phœnicians, their kindred, were in the Mediterranean.
Perhaps the word Sanskrit means nothing to you, but it is the name of an important old Oriental language. Sanskrit stands in very much the same relation to many Eastern languages as Latin does to the languages of Italy, Spain, and France. In the last century, William Jones, a Welshman of marked genius, went, like many young Britons, to India to advance his fortunes under the British mercantile government of that land. It was he who first called the attention of Europe to Sanskrit. Since his day much of its poetry and legends has been read, many of its fables and dramatic works have been translated. The word Sanskrit means polished and perfected; and polished and perfected its alphabet certainly is. It is the most complete and most carefully devised alphabet of all those that we know. Sanskrit writing is very solid and handsome in appearance,—a stately script worthy of holding the decrees which mighty monarchs issued from courts magnificent with all the splendors of the Orient. There are not twenty-two letters as in the Phœnician alphabet, nor twenty-six as in ours—there are forty-seven! Instead of beginning with A, the Sanskrit alphabet begins with K. Why? Because K is a letter spoken from the throat. Indian grammarians carefully noted in what parts of the throat and mouth the different sounds of their language were made, and, for convenience, they systematized their ample alphabet on this admirable plan. They put their fourteen vowels by themselves as broad, open sounds which were shorter or longer; and, taking the consonants, they placed first on the list those which are spoken from the throat, then those spoken from the palate, then those spoken from the roof of the mouth nearest the brain, then those spoken from the teeth, and finally those spoken from the lips. The list of consonants starts with those uttered low down in the throat and ends with those uttered from the lips; added to these are the soft and flowing consonants called semi-vowels—Y, R, L, and V; and after these come the sibilants, or hissed letters, and the letter H,—forty-seven in all.
The Indian grammarians who devised this complete and scientific system must have had ears almost as sharp as those of the boy in the old story who was said to be able to hear the grass growing. They distinguished between a number of consonants containing a sound of N,—between "twangs" very slightly differing in sound; and they placed them also in the order of their utterance, beginning with an N uttered from the throat and ending with one spoken with the tongue close to the lips. Our language has two or three different N sounds, but our alphabet does not distinguish them. The French language also has several N sounds not indicated by the alphabet, so that one can not hope to speak French intelligibly, still less accurately, without practice with teachers who can render the different N sounds. The Spanish alphabet tries to indicate a second N by putting a mark over the N—thus, Ñ. Then, too, we have three sounds for which our alphabet has but one letter, S; while the Sanskrit alphabet has three letters, one for each sound of S. In the alphabet, as in many other matters, the more enlightened nations of India put to shame the most advanced nations of the Western World.
Did you ever notice how, in our script, or written characters, for the sake of clearness and to keep some letters distinct from others, we have gradually come to write some of them with tall heads above the upper line, or with long tails below the lower line? And still we are constantly mistaking an l for a badly crossed t, and a g for a j or a y; while some letters that do not go above or below the line, such as m, n, i, w, u, and r, are constantly confounded in rapid writing. We are so used to this confusion that we seldom think of it, and we fail to wonder why some arrangement is not generally agreed to, which would do away with it. By remembering this fact, you will avoid the mistake of thinking because our alphabet, written or printed, is so good, that it could not be better. There is great room for improvement in both departments; in the printed form, the difference between n and u, for instance, is none too great; while in writing hardly one person in ten thousand distinguishes them from each other,—which letter is meant must be guessed by the reader. But the men and women who set up type and correct proofs are much bothered by these defects in our alphabet.
The difficulty of having changes made in existing alphabets is very great, yet this is not necessarily a disadvantage. Much insight into the origin and gradual improvements of sets of letters has been gained by studying the order in which the several letters stand. The order varies greatly in different nations, and varies slightly at different epochs in the same nation. In taking the Phœnician letters, the Greeks dropped some, used others for slightly different sounds, and added a few to express sounds that were important to them or that did not exist in the Phœnician. But this was done very gradually. It never has been easy to induce people to change and improve their alphabets.
But there is another reason why men have refused to change the order of letters by inserting a new and useful letter in the place where it naturally belonged. The Greeks and many other peoples used the letters of the alphabet for numerals. We use our own numbers without stopping to think whence they came. The cumbersome system used by the Romans, and called after them, consisted of strokes (I-II-III-IIII) to indicate the four fingers, and two strokes joined (V) to represent the hand, or five fingers. Ten was a picture of two hands, or two V's (X). Among the Etruscans the half of one, or, as we put it, ½ was >, which we think stood for a forefinger crooked in order to denote the half of one finger. But when the Etruscans and Greeks worked at the higher mathematics or attempted hard sums in arithmetic, they are much more likely to have used letters, in order to avoid the clumsiness of these numerals; in other words, they used what looked like a kind of algebra. We know that they tried to simplify the Roman numerals at Rome by making four and nine with three strokes instead of four, by placing an I before the V and an I before the X (IV and IX).
Our use of the numerals which we call "Arabic" is comparatively recent, and it is believed that the Arabs got these numbers from India several centuries after the Koran was written, or about eight hundred years after Christ. But the fact that the Greeks and others used the letters of their alphabets for numerals, caused the order in which they were written to remain fixed. If alpha stood for 1, beta for 2, gamma for 3, delta for 4, and so on up to ten, then a newly coined or newly adopted letter could not be inserted without great confusion; it had to be tacked on to the end of the alphabet. So, when scholars find in inscriptions letters, adopted from another alphabet, which stand out of their natural order, they can make a shrewd guess at the century in which the inscription was made. Suppose an alphabet, which is also used for numerals, loses a letter in the course of time, because there is very little or no use for it; then that letter is still of service for a numeral, and it can not be dropped as a number, though it drops out as a letter. When it is found still employed as a numeral, it reveals some of the history of the alphabet to which it once belonged. These are only a few of many methods of determining the age of a given inscription. Old coins are very useful in settling what the alphabets of various nations were at different epochs.
Our own numerals are extremely convenient for ordinary arithmetic. Algebra, in which letters stand for numbers, is useful for abstract reasoning in mathematics; it treats of the properties of numbers in general. Whether the Indian numerals were originally part of some ancient alphabet, or a series of shortened signs originally somewhat like the Roman numerals that we still use, is not really decided.
There was a curious fashion among certain grammarians and mathematicians of Old India which may be mentioned here. They liked to increase their own importance by making knowledge hard to attain; as it imposed on their pupils, and even more on the outside world. They also wished to exercise the memories of their pupils, and keep them mindful of certain numbers and dates by means of memorizing words. In works on arithmetic and prosody, they deliberately wrote out long words which meant nothing if looked at as parts of a sentence, but stood for so many numbers if the reader had the clew. If such a grammarian wished to write the number twelve by this method, he would write down "moon, eyes"; because there is one moon and two eyes. If he wished to signify the number 1486, he would write "moon, seas, mountains, seasons"; because in India people believed that in the world there were one moon, four seas, and eight mountain chains, and six seasons during the year. So ingenious were they in hiding plain things under an artificial system! The priestly rulers of Egypt, also moved by pride and the desire to seem learned, began at a remote period to make the hieroglyphics as hard as possible to understand. For a given word they would always choose as little known and seldom used a character as they could think of. And doubtless this did render them objects of greater reverence in the eyes of pupils and of common folk.
But to return to the numbers that we call Arabic and the Arabs call Indian. The numbers used by the peoples of India who wrote in Sanskrit were very like the figures 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, and 0, that we use to-day. Even closer resemblances will be found if one goes back to the earliest forms of our numerals; for, during the last thousand years, our numbers have undergone some slight changes. We took them, as you have heard, from the Arabs, who did not employ them much before 800 A. D.; and the use of them did not penetrate into Europe by way of Italy and Spain until four centuries later. Together with these numerals, the Arabs learned from India how to do sums by algebra. For algebra, though an Arabic word, is a science of which the Arabs were ignorant before they reached India. How long the Indians of Hindostan had used this system of notation along with their alphabet, we can not yet determine; but it is quite possible that the old grammarians who improved the Sanskrit were enabled to fashion its alphabet into so scientific an order of groups because this separate system of numerals existed at even a more remote period, and had been found handier than the signs of the alphabet. Not using their letters as numerals, they could marshal them on the best system they were able to devise, as we, too, have been able to do with our alphabet ever since we got the Indian numerals from the Arabs.
It may be said that the invention of these numerals and of algebra for the higher mathematics stamps the old Hindoos as one of the most wonderful races of the world.
(To be concluded.)
“THIS SEAT RESERVED.”
THE BROWNIES AT LAWN-TENNIS.
By Palmer Cox.
One evening as the woods grew dark,
The Brownies wandered through a park,
And soon a building, quaint and small,
Appeared to draw the gaze of all.
Said one: "This place contains, no doubt,
The tools of workmen hereabout,
Who trim the vine, and shape the tree,
Or smooth the walks, as chance may be."
Another said: "You're quite astray,
The workmen's tools are miles away;
Within this building may be found
The fixtures for the tennis ground.
A meadow near, both long and wide,
For half the year is set aside,
And marked with many a square and court,
For those who love the royal sport.
On afternoons assembled there,
The active men and maidens fair
Keep up the game until the day
Has faded into evening gray.
And then the racket, net, and ball
Are stowed away for future call."
"In other lands than those we tread,
I played the game," another said,
"And proved my skill and muscle stout,
As 'server' and as 'striker-out.'
And all the rules can quote as well
As those who print them out to sell;
The lock that hangs before us there
Bears witness to the keeper's care,
And tramps or burglars might go by,
If such a sign should meet the eye.
But we, who laugh at locks or law
Designed to keep mankind in awe,
May praise the keeper's cautious mind,
But all the same an entrance find,
And for the present evening claim
Whate'er is needed for the game."
Ere long, the path that lay between
The building and the meadow green,
Was crowded with the bustling throng,
All bearing implements along;
Some lugging stakes or racket sets,
And others buried up in nets
Until their feet alone they showed
Beneath their loose and trailing load.
To set the posts and mark the ground
The proper size and shape around,
With service-line and line of base,
And courts, both left and right, in place,
Was work that caused but slight delay;
And soon the sport was under way.
And then a strange and stirring scene
Was pictured out upon the green.
Some watched the game and noted well
Where this or that one would excel.
And shouts and calls that filled the air
Proved even-handed playing there.
With anxious looks some kept the score,
And shouted "'vantage!" "game all!" or
To some "love, forty!" "deuce!" to more;
But when "deuce set!" the scorer cried,
Applause would ring on every side.
At times so hot the contest grew,
Established laws aside they threw,
And in the game where four should stand,
At least a dozen took a hand.
Some tangled in the netting lay
And some from base-lines strayed away.
Some hit the ball when out of place
Or scrambled through unlawful space.
But still no game was forced to halt
Because of this or greater fault.
And there they sported on the lawn
Until the ruddy streaks of dawn
Gave warning that the day was near,
And Brownies all must disappear.
A MATTER-OF-FACT CINDERELLA.
By Mrs. Annie A. Preston.
"Oh! what a fine carriage, and what handsome horses! They are as gay as the coach and horses of Cinderella!" and the bright-faced little girl, with a glory of spring sunshine illuminating her glossy hair, clasped her bare brown hands in delight.
"It dashed by so quickly, I had not time to notice it," replied Grandma Eaton, looking over her glasses down the turf-striped country road after the rapidly departing carriage. "I wonder whose it can be? There! it has stopped. What is that for, Ella, child?"
"I don't know, Grandma, dear; but I think something about the harness has given way. See! the horses are dancing and prancing. The gentleman has jumped from the carriage. He has taken something from his pocket. It looks like a knife. Oh, yes!"
"I had good eyes once, but they have served their day," sighed Grandma Eaton.
"The horses are quiet, now," went on Ella, who had not once taken her observant eyes from a spectacle so unusual for that quiet neighborhood. "Now the strap is mended, I think, and everything is all right," added the child with a little sigh of regret; and as the gentleman drove swiftly on, she left the window and skipped out to the edge of the road, to see the fine horses prance away.
"I guessed rightly, Grandma, dear!" cried Ella as she came running back from the scene of the accident. "It was a broken strap, for here is a piece, almost torn in two, that was cut off. And here is a penny I found right under it; a bright, new penny—as yellow as gold!"
"This is no penny," said the woman, taking the shining coin in her own hand and looking at it closely; "it is an eagle. I know an eagle when I see one, although I have not had one of my own for many a day."
"Ten mills make one cent, ten cents make one dime, ten dimes make one dollar, ten dollars make one eagle! A golden eagle! Oh, how much good it will do us!" exclaimed the little girl as she glanced at her grandmother's thin shawl and at the scant belongings of their humble home.
"We are not to think of that," said Grandma Eaton, speaking so decidedly that a flush overspread her thin, worn face. "The coin belongs to the gentleman who just dropped it; and I do not doubt that a way will be opened for it to be returned to its owner. Those who seek to do right seldom lack opportunity. Cinderella's horses and carriage pass this way too seldom to escape notice, and probably some of our neighbors will be able to tell us to whom they belong."
But all the men in the quiet, out-of-the-way neighborhood had been at town-meeting that afternoon, and none of the women folk, excepting Grandma Eaton and little Ella, had seen the fine sight. They would have remembered it almost as the figment of a dream, had it not been for the bright ten-dollar gold piece laid away in cotton in Grandma Eaton's best china tea-pot, on the top shelf of the parlor cupboard.
On the very next Monday morning after this episode, that same glossy-haired, blue-eyed Ella, with grandma's thin shawl pinned about her shoulders, made one of a bevy of girls who, with arms full of books, slates, and lunch-baskets, were drawing near a plain little brown school-house, standing in the shade of a tall, plumy pine-tree on a sandy hillside that was supposed to be exactly in the center of the Pine Meadow school-district.
"Oh, there's a fire in the school-house!" cried Lizzie Barber; "and I'm glad, for my fingers are cold. I was in such a hurry I forgot my mittens."
"We don't often find a fire made on the first day of school," said Abby Wood, "because the committee-man has to go for the teacher."
"He must have kindled it before he started away," said Ella, "because it has been burning some time. I can tell by the thinness of the smoke."
"That is just like you, Ella Eaton," put in Angelina Brown. "You're always pretending to know things by what you see that no one else would ever think about. Can't you be obliging enough to look through the walls and tell us who is there? Perhaps school has begun."
"I have no way of telling that," laughed Ella, good-naturedly; "but, no doubt some of the boys are there to make first choice of the seats."
"The boys must have climbed in at one of the windows," whispered Ella. "Let us serenade them to let them know we are here."
And she began one of their familiar school songs in a clear, ringing voice, her companions at once joining in with the melody.
By this time they had crossed the waste of sand, and were at the school-house door; but, on trying to enter, they were surprised to find the stout hasp and padlock as secure as it had been through all the long vacation.
Immediately heavy footsteps were heard hurriedly crossing the school-room, one of the small windows was thrown up with a bang, and a stout, rough-looking, tangled-haired, shabby fellow scrambled out in great haste. He cast his eyes sharply about, made a rush at the group of affrighted little girls huddled together upon the broad door-stone, grabbed Ella's lunch-basket with one hand, and Angelina's dinner-pail with the other, cleared the low rail fence near by at a running jump, and was lost to sight in the woodland at the end of the field.
As the ruffianly tramp ran in one direction, the little girls, dropping all their wraps and traps, and seizing hold of hands, ran almost as fast in the other.
How far they might have gone, had they not been turned about by meeting the committee-man and the pretty young lady teacher, it would be hard to say.
The girls were sure a grim, weather-beaten tramp would be found under every desk, and two or three in the wood closet, and they could not be persuaded to enter the school until a thorough search had been made.
It was not so bad as that; but what they did find was a broken window, a fragment of bread, the teacher's chair split into kindlings and nearly burned, and a large bundle of expensive silks and laces.
The intruder had apparently either fallen asleep by the fire and overslept himself, or, not supposing that school was to begin so early in the season, had intended to make the secluded building his hiding-place for the day.
"There was a burglary committed at Willinotic night before last," said Mr. Stiles, the committee-man, "and I fancy these are a part of the spoils. A large reward is offered for the detection and identification of the robbers; so, girls, it will be to your advantage to remember how that fellow looked."
"I shall never forget him," said Lizzie; "he was the tallest man I ever saw."
Abby was sure he was short. Angelina fancied he was lame; and Ella remembered he had a bent nose. They all agreed that he was fierce and horrid, and were equally sure they should know him if they should ever see him again.
“THE GOLD PIECE WAS LAID AWAY IN GRANDMA EATON’S BEST CHINA TEA-POT.”
The affair made a great local excitement; and when the goods were identified as belonging to the great Willinotic dry goods firm of Clark & Rogers, the girls who had enjoyed such an experience with a real burglar were the envy of all the boys in the community.
But time sped on, the nine-days' excitement had become but a memory in the dull routine of school duties, and June had arrived with its roses, when one day word came from Clark & Rogers, asking Mr. Stiles, the committee-man, to bring the little girls who had encountered the burglar, to Willinotic, to see if they could pick him out of a number of men who had been arrested while undermining a railway culvert some days before: "There is a tall one, and a short one, a lame one, and one with a bent nose," the letter said; "so it seems that there is a great deal of material upon which the little women may exercise their memories."
"I am so glad my mother sent to New York for my gypsy hat," said Angelina. "My mother finished my blue dress last night," said Lizzie; and while Abby was telling what she expected to wear, Ella ran on ahead, fearing that she might be questioned upon the same subject, for she knew very well that nothing new, pretty, or fresh would fall to her lot. A thought of the gold eagle did cross her mind; but she bravely put it away from her.
And neither could the dear old grandmother help thinking of the gold piece when she heard that Ella had been summoned to Willinotic; but she, too, resolutely conquered the temptation, saying to herself:
"My grandchild shows her good breeding in her gentle manners and speech, and they are better than fine clothes."
The day at Willinotic was a unique experience for the bevy of little country girls. They enjoyed the hour's ride on the railway and the fine sights in the handsome streets of the large town; but the grand, white-marble court-house, where they were taken, filled most of them with a vague alarm. The sultry summer air drew cool and fresh through the long corridors, and they almost shivered as they were given seats in a lofty room, from which the glaring sun was studiously excluded. Through the half-open doorway they caught glimpses of the grave, gold-spectacled judge at his high desk; the black-coated lawyers seated at their long table in front; the witness-stand with its railing; and a pale-faced prisoner sitting beside an officer.
"There is going to be a thunder-shower," said Angelina, "and I know I shall be frightened to death."
"Let's all take hold of hands," said Abby Wood. "I never felt so lonesome in all my life. I'm going back to the depot for fear we shall be left."
"I'll go with you," said Lizzie. "I don't remember anything about the old tramp, only that he was short—and I wish I hadn't come."
"Why, Lizzie Barber," cried Angelina, "you have always said he was the tallest man you ever saw! How Mr. Stiles will laugh!"
"Well, I shan't stay to be laughed at!" half sobbed Lizzie. "Come, Ella."
"We must not leave this room, where Mr. Stiles told us to stay until he came for us," said Ella, so resolutely that her companions sat down again, although Abby whispered to Angelina:
"The idea of our minding a little girl like Ella, just as if she were the school-teacher herself!"
Happily, Mr. Stiles appeared in time to prevent another outbreak, saying:
"Come, Angelina. You may as well go in first."
"Oh, dear!" sighed Angelina. "I wish Mother had come!" And she was led away into the great court-room.
One by one Mr. Stiles came for the girls, until Ella was left alone. She curled herself up like a kitten in one of the large arm-chairs, and silently took in her unaccustomed surroundings with keen enjoyment.
"Come, Ella," said Mr. Stiles kindly. And she followed him slowly into the court-room, hearing some one whisper lightly as she passed:
"So there is another one. I wonder if her testimony will carry as much weight as that of her mates. It was foolish to expect such children, and girls too, to identify any one."
As Ella cast a slow, thoughtful look about the room, her blue eyes suddenly dilated, and, leaving Mr. Stiles's side, she walked straight up to one of the lawyers, who regarded her curiously, when, dropping a quaint little courtesy that her grandmother had taught her, she said modestly:
"Excuse me, sir,—perhaps I ought not to tell you here, but perhaps I may not see you again,—and I found your gold eagle."
"What did you say?" asked the gentleman kindly. "How do you happen to know me, little girl? And what was that about a gold eagle?"
"I do not know you, sir; but Grandma says one may speak to a stranger on business. I saw you that day—Freeman's meeting-day, it was, you know—when you drove through North Damesfield, and a strap in your harness broke. When you took out your knife to mend it, you dropped a gold eagle, and I picked it up. Grandma has it at home in her china tea-pot, and will be ever so glad I saw you, for ten dollars is a great deal of money to have in the house—when it is not your own."
It was a funny little episode to happen in the crowded court-room, and the lawyers all turned to listen; and the grave judge, from his high seat, looked kindly down upon the little girl, while a smiled tugged at the corners of his mouth and hinted of granddaughters at home.
"How do you know it was I who lost the money?" asked Mr. Gorden, with twinkling eyes.
"Why, I saw you, sir, and I could not help knowing you again."
"How was it, Mr. Gorden?" asked the judge, as if this diversion was not altogether unwelcome; and the lawyer replied:
"I did drive through North Damesfield, on Freeman's meeting-day, by the old turnpike, to avoid the mud by the river road. The harness did break, and I feared for a time that I might have trouble with my horses; I had purchased them only two days before. I did make a new hole in the strap with my pocket-knife, and I surely on that day lost a ten-dollar gold piece. I thought, however, that it was stolen from me at the miserable little tavern where I had spent the previous night. I am so glad to find myself mistaken, that I gladly give the gold piece to my little friend here, who, it seems to me, has a better claim to it than I have."
"Oh, sir, I thank you, but, indeed, I do not think Grandma would let me take it, because, really, it doesn't belong to me at all."
"It does, if I choose to give it to you, my child," said the gentleman, smoothing her glossy curls. "And now, do you think you will be so sure of the fellow who gave you such a sorry fright, and stole your dinner, as you were of me?"
"Oh, yes, sir! If he is here, I shall know him. I saw him plainly." And, turning about as she was told, she faced the half dozen prisoners, with a little shiver. "That is the one," she said at once; "the one with his hands in his pockets. His nose is bent just a little to one side, you see. And, oh! sir! if you look at the thumb on his right hand you will see that the end has been cut off; and that the nail grows sharp and long, like a claw. I saw it when he snatched my lunch-basket, but I have never thought of it since. I seemed to see it again when I saw his face."
"That is an interesting little point, showing the association of ideas," said one of the lawyers in a low tone to another; and the prisoner whom the little girl designated was ordered to take his hands from his pockets. He refused doggedly at first; but, seeing that it was of no use for him to resist, he withdrew them, and, holding up his peculiar thumb in a defiant way, he muttered:
"The girl saw my thumb when she came in, and spoke about it because she wants to get the reward."
"The prisoner kept his hands in his pockets ever since he entered the court-room," said the sheriff.
"Not continually, I think," said one of the lawyers; and Mr. Gorden suggested:
"It may be well to put this child's memory to another test." And, turning to Ella, he asked kindly, "Are you often in Willinotic, little girl?"
"I was never here until to-day, sir," she answered.
"Do you think you would know my horses if you saw them on the street?" inquired Mr. Gorden.
"Yes, sir," said Ella, "I am sure I should know them anywhere."
"She will have her match this time, I fancy," said one of the lawyers to another in a low voice; "of course she is not prepared for the variety of teams to be seen on our main street."
A great deal of curiosity was felt in regard to this third test of the womanly little girl's memory, and the court took a recess, lawyers, judge, Mr. Stiles, and all the school-girls going to the deep balcony of the court-house.
Ella seemed simply unconscious that the eyes of the whole party centered upon her as she leaned against the railing, holding her hat in her hand, while the wind lifted her curls and brought the color back to her pale cheeks.
There were, indeed, many fine carriages and horses. Ella was closely observant, but not confused. She did not appear to notice one team more than another until ten minutes had passed; then the color went out of her cheeks again, her eyes opened wide, and she exclaimed:
"There they come, sir! up the street—the gray with a sorrel mate. It is a different carriage, but the very same lap robe. You had it spread over a white fur one when I saw you."
"Very true," said Mr. Gorden. "Your three tests of memory are unimpeachable; and now, will you be so kind as to tell us how it happens that your memory is so much more retentive than that of most children of your age?"
"I suppose, sir," said Ella, as the others gathered about to listen, "it is because my father used to teach me that it was rude and useless to stare long at any person or anything. He said I must train my eye to see everything at a glance, and we used to amuse ourselves by looking at pictures in that way. It is just like a game; and one can play at it all alone, too. I have kept it up because I live alone with my grandma out on the old turnpike, and I seldom have any one to play with. I only had one good look at you, sir, but I saw your black eyes, your gray mustache, and the look in your face that can be stern or can be very kind."
At this, Squire Gorden's brother lawyers all laughed in concert and the grave judge smiled, for they all were familiar with the look which the little girl had so artlessly described.
The thief confessed his crime later.
"I noticed how that blue-eyed girl looked at me that morning at the school-house," he said, "and I felt, somehow, as though she would know me if she ever saw me again."
The burglar was sent to prison; and Ella not only was given the gold eagle she had found, but she also received the reward for identifying the thief. And she won so many warm and helpful friends that day at the court-house that her grandmother used often to say: "That was really a Cinderella coach and pair to you, dear. And you are a matter-of-fact Cinderella yourself, though you have no fairy godmother, such as she had."
"But I have you, dear Grandma," said Ella, "and you're worth a dozen fairy godmothers. So I'm luckier than the other Cinderella, after all!"