'THE LITTLE MAN HELD HIS LANTERN NEAR MY FACE ...'"THE LITTLE MAN HELD HIS LANTERN NEAR MY FACE AND SAID: 'I THINK I MUST HAVE MADE A MISTAKE.'"
"THE LITTLE MAN HELD HIS LANTERN NEAR MY FACE AND SAID: 'I THINK I MUST HAVE MADE A MISTAKE.'"
Here he burst out laughing so loudly that I plainly heard it.
"I should be glad to do anything in my power to aid you," I began, wishing to do my best to pacify the little fellow; "but as for having kept you shut up for twenty centuries, why, my dear fellow, that's simply absurd, for I am only twenty-three years old now!"
"Oh, see here," he answered scornfully, "that's a little more than I can stand! You've played the innocent game long enough; you can't fool me that way again. Why, I suppose you will deny that your name is Trancastro, next?" and he hopped up and down in a rage.
"Tran——which? Tran——what?" I began.
"That's right, that's right!" cried the little imp in a perfect fury. "Go on—deny everything!"
"See here!" I cried, now out of patience with his whims, "I don't know anything about you or your Tran-what-you-may-call-him, and if you hadn't kicked up such a racket in my closet Inever would have come near you!—I wish I hadn't, and then the mice would have finished you—and a good riddance!"
As I paused for breath the little man held his lantern as near my face as possible, and after a long, earnest look, said with great gravity and deliberation:
"I think I must have made a mistake!"
Then, turning suddenly, he gave a great skip and shouted out, "And then—I am free!"
"Certainly you are, so far as I am concerned," I replied carelessly; "but I can't imagine what all this fuss is about. So long as you are pleased, I suppose I must be satisfied."
Meanwhile he had continued to jump and whirl about, until he dropped his lantern and it went out, leaving us in the dark. Then he calmed down enough to say, "What canyouknow about it? You—only twenty-three years old!" He chuckled as though this were a great joke at my expense, and went on, "If you will offer me a chair and something to eat, I'll tell you the whole story."
So I stepped down from the chair, lighted my student-lamp, and offered my little guest my hand. Into it he climbed, and I deposited him upon the table under the light, where I could see him plainly.
He was about six inches in height and dressed in what seemed to be mouse-skin. He wore a little belt and a helmet the size of a thimble. His face was unwrinkled, but intelligent enough for any age.
Seeing he was unwilling to be stared at, I broke the silence by saying, "I am sorry I can not offer you a chair—but mine are too large, I am afraid." I feared he might be hurt by the hint.
"Not at all!" he replied politely, now that he had convinced himself I was not that awful Tran-somebody, "see here!"
He beckoned to my favorite easy-chair. At once it rose gently into the air, and, dwindling down to a size suitable for the little wretch, dropped softly down upon the table beside him.
Ignoring my exclamations, he seated himself comfortably within it, and, looking up at me, said, as though nothing had happened, "I said I would tell you all about it, didn't I?"
"Yes," I answered, leaning eagerly forward.
"Well, I'll not!" said he bluntly.
"You'll not?—and why not?" I asked.
"Oh," said he, calmly crossing his little legs, "you couldn't understand it."
"Perhaps I could," I replied, smiling indulgently. "Just try me."
"Do you know whatdnaxis?" he asked, apparently hoping that I might.
"No, I can't say I do—exactly," I confessed unwillingly.
"Then of course you couldn't understand it—for that's the very beginning of it!—But no matter. Let's change the subject. Is there anything I can do for you in return for your hospitality to a hungry guest?"
"I beg your pardon—I quite forgot," and I rang the bell.
When the servant came, I ordered supper for two. This strange order caused the servant to gape in silent astonishment. I repeated the order, however, and she hurried away without asking any questions. Returning, she placed the supper upon the table, without seeing the frantic retreat of the little man as she approached the table with the heavy tray.
"What an awkward blockhead!" exclaimed the angry little fellow. I made no answer, being puzzled over the proper way to ask my small friend to eat with a knife and fork larger than himself.
'PERHAPS,' SAID THE LITTLE MAN, 'HAVING LIVED FORTY CENTURIES ...'"'PERHAPS,' SAID THE LITTLE MAN, 'HAVING LIVED FORTY CENTURIES, I MAY BE OLD ENOUGH TO ADVISE A YOUNG MAN OF TWENTY-THREE.'"
"'PERHAPS,' SAID THE LITTLE MAN, 'HAVING LIVED FORTY CENTURIES, I MAY BE OLD ENOUGH TO ADVISE A YOUNG MAN OF TWENTY-THREE.'"
But, as I hesitated, the mysterious beckoning process again took place, and one-half the contents of the tray diminished to a size convenient for his use. He ate almost greedily, like a starving man. I watched him in silent wonder until he seemed to be satisfied.
Then, pushing back his chair, he said gratefully: "A very nice supper! I should like to return your kindness in some way. You little know what a service you have done me in releasing me from that cruel Trancast——"
Here he broke off suddenly and remained in abrown study. He seemed so melancholy that I interrupted his thoughts by asking:
"And what could you do for me?" He brightened up again as I spoke, and answered:
"Who can tell? What are your troubles?"
"Well," said I thoughtfully, "I haven't many. But I should like the advice of some one older and wiser than I am."
"I shall not say howwiseI may be," said the little man soberly; "but perhaps, having lived forty centuries, I may be old enough to advise a young man of twenty-three."
I looked up, expecting to see him smiling, but he was as sober as a judge. So I told him all about my uncle and my work, and concluded by asking him what he thought I ought to do. He seemed intensely interested, and remained silent some moments after I had finished. I waited more anxiously for his opinion than I should have liked to admit.
At length he said solemnly, "Bring your uncle to me!"
"Bring——" I repeated, in amazement, "bring my——"
"Bring your uncle to me!" he repeated firmly, and so solemnly that I never thought of resisting.
"Oh, very well," I said hastily; "but how in the world am I to do it?"
"Easily enough!" he explained; "write him a note!"
"But what shall I say?" I asked helplessly.
"You said he was interested in chemistry?" asked the strange little fellow.
"I believe he cares for nothing else," I replied.
"Very well. Now write this: 'I have made a discovery to-night such as you never dreamed of. Come at once!' That will bring him," said my guest.
Why I was so easily bullied by the manikin I can not tell; but I wrote the note and sent it at once.
"Now," resumed my little guest, "what else can I do for you?"
"Nothing," I replied, laughing; "unless you will pay my bills for me!"
"With pleasure," he answered gravely; "let me see them."
I brought the bills, and he went over them very carefully.
"Hm—hm—very good!" he said, when he had finished his examination. "You have not been very extravagant. I'll reduce them for you!"
He began beckoning, as he had beckoned to the chair and the tea-tray, and I smiled, expecting to see the papers grow smaller and smaller. But when he stopped I could see no change, although he seated himself as though well satisfied. As he said nothing, I finally ventured to say:
"Well!"
"Well," he replied; "look at your bills!"
I picked them up and was astonished to see that the amounts had dwindled from dollars to cents, until each bill was for only a hundredth part of what it had been.
"But that is nonsense!" I said, looking up angrily. "I'm not a baby! What good will that do?"
"You're only twenty-three," he said, doubtfully; and smiling as a knock was heard at the door, he made me a sign to open it.
I did so, and there stood my tailor, Mr. Mewlett. I frowned, for I owed him more than a hundred dollars. But he smiled politely, saying, "Could you oblige me with that dollar or two you owe me? I need a little change to-night."
I stared at him in wonder; but, thinking it wise to ask no questions, I took his bill from the pile on the table and handed it to him.
He read it aloud: "One dollar and fourteen cents."
I counted out the money. He receipted the bill and left me, seeming perfectly contented.
I dropped into a chair, too much puzzled to say a word.
Just then the door banged open wide, and in came my uncle, puffing and blowing with the exertion of climbing the stairs.
"Well, on what fool's errand have you brought me here——" he began; but suddenly I heard a shriek from the pigmy on the table. As I turned, he began beckoning—beckoning—beckoning, as if he were frantic.
I turned to look at my uncle.
He was gone.
Then I turned again to the little man on the table—What a sight met my eyes!
There stood upon the table the miniature image of my uncle, staring with wide-open eyes at the little figure of my guest.
For a moment they glared at each other—and then, before I could interfere, they were fighting for their lives.
It was over in a second.
My uncle was too old and feeble to be a match for the wiry little warrior in leather.
As they separated, my uncle seemed to be wounded, for he staggered an instant, and then fell backward, staining the cloth like an overturned bottle of red ink.
"You scoundrel!" I cried, starting forward in anger; "what have you done?"
For a moment the little fellow had no breath to answer. He panted helplessly, and at length gasped out:
"It is—but—justice! It is Trancastro!"
'BEFORE I COULD INTERFERE THEY WERE FIGHTING FOR THEIR LIVES."BEFORE I COULD INTERFERE THEY WERE FIGHTING FOR THEIR LIVES."
"BEFORE I COULD INTERFERE THEY WERE FIGHTING FOR THEIR LIVES."
"Trancastro!" I exclaimed—"that was my uncle! Explain!—I can not understand!"
"Do you know whatdnaxis?" he asked, as he wiped his sword on a napkin.
"No!" I shouted.
"Then youcouldn'tunderstand," he said, mournfully shaking his head.
Enraged by his answer, I rushed for the table; but, before I could reach them, my uncle struggled to his feet and resumed the conflict, using his umbrella most valiantly. I paused a moment, hoping he might yet conquer—but the fight was too unequal. By a skillful twist of his opponent's wrist my uncle's umbrella was sent flying out of his hand. Being disarmed, he sank upon one knee and begged for mercy.
"Trancastro!" cried the victor, "you deserve no better fate than the cruel death you meant for me!"
"Oh, have mercy!" cried my uncle.
I could not stand this. The honor of the family forbade me to remain neutral. I rushed to the table, crying, "Here! here!—this has gone quite far enough!"
Again the beckoning! I became in a moment a third pigmy upon my own table!
"Now," exclaimed the triumphant warrior, "we are upon equal terms! Come on!"
I had no weapon. I dared not interfere. While I stood hesitating, the little tyrant made a slipknot from one of my curtain-cords, threw the noose over my uncle's neck, and rose into the air, dragging his victim after him. I heard a breaking of glass, and, regaining my natural size in a moment, rushed to the window only to see them flying away!
All that remained to convince me that I could not be mistaken was the stain upon the cloth, the little arm-chair, and the miniature supper. I searched the room, but found nothing.
Until now I have never told the story—for who would have believed it? But any one who believes my story, and would like to see what remains of Trancastro and his victim, has only to open the battered little satchel, and there can still be seen the little chair, the little knife and fork, and all the relics left by my guest. No unbeliever shall ever see them.
You would hardly believe it possible that there are so many alphabets in the world which seem to have nothing to do with one another—neither coming one from another by borrowing, nor descending, apparently, from the same alphabet thousands of years ago. The numbers of existing nations and of men to-day are as nothing compared with those that have perished. So the number of existing alphabets and syllabaries are but as a handful compared to those that have passed away and left no trace whatever. Writings on paper and bark can remain only as long as the paper and bark hold together; even in Egypt, where, owing to the dryness of the climate, paper lasts longer than elsewhere, it can last only a few thousand years. Nations that once for long periods possessed writings are now completely unknown, and with them their alphabets also have perished, because no record of their existence was left on rock, brick, or pottery. What looks, therefore, like an abundance of material by which to read the life of alphabets is really very little compared to what we ought to have.
You remember how nations like the Phoenicians, when adopting a new series of letters, name these letters according to their own fancy, just as we sometimes teach children their alphabet by saying, "A was an Archer" (or we may prefer to have A stand for an Apple, or some other word beginning with A); and "B was a Butcher," or "a Bear," or some other word beginning with B. There is no doubt that both the Romans and the Greeks had lists of words useful to remind children of their letters. Now, our alphabet came directly to us from the Irish missionaries and professors of religion and wisdom, who taught Christianity to the heathen Angles, Saxons, Jutes, Goths, Germans, Danes, and Swedes, several centuries after the death of our Lord. They did not learn from the Phoenicians, although they have traditions that seem to point to settlers in Ireland bearing a similar name. Instead of using the Latin names for the letters taken from the Christian Romans, they gave them names of their own. Their wise and pious men had been members of, or were the pupils of, a class of learned heathens called the Druids. In ancient Ireland, adruïwas prophet, priest, doctor, and magician, and the name seems to be connected with our word tree. It was against the rule of the Druids to write things down. They were in the habit of retiring to the deepest woods for meditation and study, sometimes attended by pupils. That is probably the reason why the Irish, among whom the Druids retained their power the longest,—because Ireland was the hardest to reach of all the great islands thereabouts, and the last to feel the changes taking place elsewhere in Europe,—chose this pretty system of naming the letters of the Latin alphabet when it became common. Instead of calling A,alpha, as the Latins usually did, they said A,ailm, the word which stood in their language for palm-tree and came, in sound, nearest toalpha, and began with anA. Instead ofbetathey saidbeith, the word for birch-tree, almost the same in sound as the Phoenician, but quite different in meaning. And so with the other letters:Coll, hazel;duir, oak;eadha, aspen;fearan, alder;gort, ivy;huath, whitethorn;iogha, yew;luis, mountain-ash;muin, vine;nuin, ash;oir, broom;peith, dwarf-elder;suil, willow;teine, furze;ur, heath. They called this alphabetbethluisnion, choosing out the letters B, L, and N, instead of the letters A and B, to form a name. Another term, more nearly like the word alphabet, wasaibcitie, or A-B-C order, the syllabletiemeaning order, or sequence. Living in wooden houses, in lands mostly covered with trees, the people of Ireland were specially fond of plants, and so named their letters from plants alone. Such a method may possibly point to an early syllabic system among these races, founded on pictures of trees and plants, on leaves, on hunting-tools, and things connected with woodcraft; but at present we can only make this guess. It is very unlikely that so early and rude a writing would be placed on stone or metal, and so come down to us. The Egyptians used trees or plants but seldom, either in their symbolic or alphabetic hieroglyphics. Our S alone, of the letters, comes from a little picture of growing plants, which is supposed to represent a garden overflowed by the Nile. Egypt was peculiarly wanting in forests. Population was dense and animals abounded. On the other hand, a partiality for trees is found in all the Celtic tribes. The intense love of nature shown in the modern literature of Germany, France, and Italy, of Great Britain and the United States, may be traced to the Highland Scotch, and from this may be derived the still more modern passion for pictures of landscape.
OLD IRISH ALPHABET.OLD IRISH ALPHABET.
OLD IRISH ALPHABET.
The clans of Scotland, blood relations and descendants of the Irish, chose for emblems, or "badges," either a plant or its flower. Thus, the MacKays chose the bulrush. The general badge for Irishmen, as you know, is a little plant like the sorrel, called the shamrock; while that for Scotland is, appropriately enough, the hardy, prickly, but not unbeautiful thistle. The English, too, show traces of the same idea; their race-badge is the rose, a foreign plant, perhaps because they were more thoroughly subjugated by the Normans than were the Scotch and Irish; perhaps because their land is like a rose-garden for cultivation. Now, some Irishmen have claimed that the Phoenicians made settlements in Ireland many centuries before Christ. If they ever taught their alphabet to the tribes of that island, it has been crowded out by others, or has fallen into disuse. Some kind of writing had existed before the Christians introduced thebethluisnion; there is hardly a doubt that altered Greek letters, known as Runes, were used in Ireland; but with the exception of the mysterious Oghans, which will be noticed further on, none are to be found; for, just as nations have been struggling with nations from the earliest period to which we can look back, and forms of government with other forms, and languages with languages, so systems of writing have been struggling with systems of writing. Sooner or later the best, that is to say, the most convenient, alphabet wins the day. Within a few centuries, the rounded and perfected form of the Christian alphabet has taken the place of the old Irish alphabet, which was itself an earlier form of the very same Christian letters.
You have traced your letters back through the Irish missionaries to the Christians of Rome; but how did they come to Rome? You must know that among the great and renowned cities founded by the Phoenicians in Greece was Chalkis, a town in the island of Euboea. This island is close to the mainland of Greece, and its inhabitants are called Boeotians. Now the Athenians, who considered themselves very smart people, used to make all manner of fun about the stupidity of the Boeotians. But just why the Boeotians were thought very stupid folk, unless through jealousy or rivalry, I do not see, for one of the greatest poets of the world, called Pindar, was a Boeotian, and many famous generals, artists, architects, painters, and writers came from the ranks of this so-called stupid folk. And for all the fun they liked to make of these island people, the rest of Greece, including Athens, very likely had to come to the Boeotians for the alphabet. But you are not to suppose that the Phoenicians came to Euboea in the flourishing days of Athens, when the marvelous sculptors lived. It was long before. And the Latins of Italy, in their turn, took their letters from the Greek-Phoenicians of Chalkis long, long before Rome became a famous town. And it was because of great wars and the attacks of Asiatic nations that the people who had the best alphabet came to Europe at all.
The Phoenicians were driven out of Asia Minor by the armies of other nations, which, under different names, are mentioned in the Bible, and perhaps among these were the Jews, in whose language the Bible has come down to us. It is more than probable that the ambition of great nations still farther to the eastward, drove the nearer nations of Syria upon the Phoenicians, who held the sea coast. But there was another inducement. The Phoenicians became very rich from their trading voyages; and also, I fear, from their plundering and kidnapping of slaves, for the Mediterranean was the haunt of buccaneers until the Romans frightened pirates into some kind of peaceableness. Even in this century it was necessary for the United States to send a fleet against the pirates that sailed from ports in Northern Africa. The riches of the Phoenician towns must have tempted the neighboring tribes to attack them. At any rate, having alreadymade many settlements elsewhere, the Phoenicians began to give way more than a thousand years B. C., and to take refuge in their old or new colonies. Some old Greek traditions tell how Kadmus, a mighty leader and a very wise man in all the arts and sciences, came over from Asia and taught the Boeotians letters. In Phoenician the word Kadmus means the East-man, while the word Europe, which gradually was applied to a vast extent of land, a continent, at first belonged only to the land just across from the island of Euboea, on the other side of the narrow strait called Euripus, and means, in Phoenician, the West-land. So when you read of Kadmus coming to Europe it is the East-man coming to the Westland. Over and over again in history we find names to which all sorts of fanciful derivations have been given, and beautiful legends and myths have been attached, turning out to be the simplest kind of words. Thus, Ireland also means the Westland, and it comes from the Celtic wordiarand our wordland;iarmeaning the West.Iar, before being used to denote the West, meant the back, and that fact lets us into an important secret concerning the religion of the Celts who first came over the Irish sea to the Emerald Island. It tells us that those early men named the points of the compass according to the other directions when the observer faced toward the East. So the East was named from front, or forward, the West from back or behind, the North from left hand, and the South from right hand. That means that the early Celts worshiped the Dawn and the Sunrise. And so faithfully have the old traditions remained in men's minds in that big western island of the British Empire that, to this day, the emblem on the coat of arms of Ireland is a sunburst, or rising sun.
Another curious thing is that it is more than probable that the Irish preference of the color green, for their flag and their sashes, arose from a mistake among those who had lost a thorough knowledge of the old Irish language. The sun, in Irish, is called by a word pronounced like our word "green"; and it is likely that the Irish fondness for that color arose from the word's exact likeness in sound to their word for the sun. In the same way, when we talk about greenhouses, we think they are called so because the plants are kept green in them during winter. Yet it is far more probable that "green," here, is the Irish word meaning, not the color, but the sun; because greenhouses are built so as to catch the sun's rays and store them up while it is hidden by clouds, as happens more than half the time in showery Ireland.
But to return to Kadmus, the man, or the representation of the men, who to the ancient Greeks seemed to come out of the East. There was in Greece an ancient people whom men called the Pelasgi, or sea-people, because they seemed to live on the sea, so easy and so much at home were they on board their long black ships. Moreover, "sea-people" was a ready enough name for those who dwelt so much on islands. This Pelasgian folk at one time conquered the half of Egypt with their fleets, and with the aid of other nations. Now, when in the course of centuries, the Greeks had learned a great many things besides masonry and seacraft from the Pelasgians, and letters and seamanship from the Phoenicians,—they too, like the Syrian nations, began to push the people who had been their teachers out of their islands and towns. Doubtless the Phoenicians were very arrogant and imperious people, who fancied that their riches made them the superiors of all poorer folk, and that justice only existed for the rich. By that time they had made many flourishing settlements in Italy, Spain, and Northern Africa, and they became famous for the last time in their towns of Northern Africa, where they left numerous different alphabets. Finally the Romans, jealous of their commerce and wealth, managed to ruin their navies, defeat their armies, and sack and destroy their cities, among which the greatest was Carthage, meaning, in Phoenician, New Town. Some day, if you have not yet studied it, you can learn in Roman history all about the Roman destruction of Carthage and the time of the Punic wars. When those wars occurred, the Carthaginians were making a last effort to remain masters of the western parts of what are now called Europe and Africa, then the most western portion of the civilized world.
"Pay his fare in, please, Mister!"
The speaker was a ragged little urchin, with a bright, jolly face, who stood at the entrance of a base-ball ground. By his side sat a great black poodle. The dog looked up at me with such a solemn and woe-begone expression that I laughed outright, whereupon the boy took courage and repeated his request: "Pass him in, Mister; it's only a dime. We're under age."
"Do you mean the dog?" I asked.
"Yes," was the reply. "He's a base-baller. He hasn't missed a game this season; and," the boy continued earnestly, "I wouldn't have him miss one, either. But, you see, Mother's rent's due to-day, so we've no extra cash,—have we, Major?" And the big poodle wagged its tail and showed its teeth in a broad dog-laugh.
It certainly was the most remarkable-looking poodle I had ever seen. It was a pure black, with the back part of its body shaved to the skin except where, on the top, the hair had been left in the shape of an anchor. A tuft only was left at the end of the tail; the feet had bracelets or anklets of hair, and as the dog's head and chest were not clipped it looked like a lion from the front; but from the side it was the most comical-looking object you can possibly imagine, while in looking down upon it, the symbol of hope was always presented; and this anchor, as I learned afterward, was emblematical of the Major's chief characteristic.
"What're the chances, Mister?" asked his owner, after I had examined the dog for a few moments.
"I think they are good," I replied. "But why do you wish him to go in? Does he belong to either nine?"
"No, he doesn't," responded my new acquaintance; "but," confidentially, "he's left-field in the 'Lincolns,' and if you knew how badly he'd feel to miss this game, you'd pass him in."
"Can he play?" I inquired in an incredulous tone.
"Can he play?" the youngster retorted indignantly, adding, "Can you, Major?" as he turned to the dog. The animal showed all its teeth, and cast up its solemn eyes, saying "yes," as plainly as possible.
"You just come with me a minute, Mister," continued the small speaker; and leading me around the corner, away from the crowd, he drew a well-worn base-ball from a dilapidated pocket, and tossed it to me. "He does best at a fly-catch," he remarked; "and when I say he's left-field of our nine, it's as much as to say he isn't a muffer."
Curious to see what the dog would do, I tossed the ball at him, and it landed fair in his capacious mouth, and was held there.
"That's not what he wants, Mister," said Major's young master. "Throw it up high,—just as high as you can."
I drew back my arm and looked up; and on the instant Major had become like another dog. His ears stood up, his eyes flashed, and the hairy emblem of hope seemed to wriggle like a snake as he danced backward, barking in loud, jubilant tones. This time I threw the ball as high as I could. Up it went, so high, in fact, that I doubt if I could have caught it myself, as it is some years since I severed my connection with a base-ball nine. But the moment it left my hand, Major seemed to know where it was going to fall; he watched it for a second, then ran back about twenty feet, and as it turned in the air, he was directly under it.
Down it came, right over the dog, which stood with legs braced apart, and tail wagging slowly; then a red mouth opened, a row of white teeth glistened and——Major had caught the ball! A few seconds later he delivered it to me, with a wag of his tail that said plainly, "You're out, Mister."
So good a player certainly deserved to see the game, and we were soon within the high fence. At once Major took up his stand behind the scorer, and watched the game with the greatest gravity, occasionally, when a heavy strike was made, running out, as if to see who caught it, and uttering a single bark of satisfaction. Everybody seemed to know him, and had a friendly pat or word for him; in fact, it was evident that the dog was one of the base-ball fraternity.
When the game broke up, Major's master invited me to be present at a match-game of the "Lincolns," on the ensuing Saturday. The rival nines were made up of boys under thirteen, black and white, and Major. As I reached the ground, it was his inning, and his master, who claimed the privilege of striking for him, was at the bat. The dog was right behind with one paw in advance, and his eyes on the striker. In came the twisters, and Major made several false starts; but, finally, as the ball went scudding from the bat, off he rushed for first base, his ears flapping, his plumelike tail out straight behind. But theshort-stop was too nimble for the dog, and just before he reached the base, the ball arrived there, and he came slowly back, his tail hanging low, and a very mournful expression in his great eyes.
"Maje's out,—side out!" cried the boys, and immediately conceiving a method by which he could retrieve this disaster, the dog seemed to regain his spirits, dashed into the field, and was speedily in his position as left-fielder, before any of the others had reached their places.
THE CURIOUSLY CLIPPED DOG MAKES A GOOD LEFT-FIELDER IN THETHE CURIOUSLY CLIPPED DOG MAKES A GOOD LEFT-FIELDER IN THE BASE-BALL NINE.
THE CURIOUSLY CLIPPED DOG MAKES A GOOD LEFT-FIELDER IN THE BASE-BALL NINE.
In the preliminary "pass around" that preceded the play, Major was not left out, and I saw that the balls that were thrown at him directly were quite as swift as those delivered from base to base; and in justice to him, I never saw him "muff." When a ball was thrown at him, he settled back, and dropped his great lower jaw, into which the projectile seemed to fit; then, with tail wagging, he would hasten to carry the ball to the next player. He was equally proficient with low balls, either catching them in his mouth or stopping them with his broad chest, and in fielding he could not be outdone. When he caught a ball, he carried it at full speed to the nearest thrower, and not a few players were put out by his quick motions and activity.
But perhaps the strangest part of it all was the delight and pleasure that Major took in the game. He showed it in every motion, speaking with his tail as well as his eyes and mouth, and I doubt if any of the boys had a greater interest in the sport.
Major's accomplishments were not confined to base-ball playing. He could perform numerous tricks, and understood, or pretended to understand, everything that was said; and if the gentleman in London who is so industriously endeavoring to teach dogs to talk, could only borrow Major, he might achieve success.
Major would take a ten-cent piece to the baker, and bring home a loaf of bread, and no such tricks as giving him the wrong change or a bogus loaf could be successfully played upon him by the neighbors. I was told that one day when given a counterfeit quarter, Major gravely bit it, smiled a contemptuous smile, and wagged his head in disapproval; but this I will not vouch for. He did so manywonderful things, however, that one would hardly be surprised at any feat attributed to him.
"How came you to clip him in such a fashion?" I asked of his master.
"Because he's so hopeful," answered my new acquaintance. "When we first came to town we were very, very poor. We're not so very rich now," he added, confidentially; "but in those times we had only a dollar or two at a time, for all of us, and Mother used to sit and cry, and you'd have thought there wasn't any hope for us. But Major was never discouraged. Whenever Mother began to cry, he'd walk up to her, and laugh, and show his teeth, and then she'd almost always look up and put her arms around his neck and say, 'Maje, your'e tryin' to cheer us up; you're doing your best; I know you are;" and it seemed to make us all hopeful-like. Andhehadn't anything to be cheerful for, either. One day we were at our worst; there wasn't anything in the house; and cold! You wouldn't believe how cold it was, Mister! Maje had run out, and Mother was in the big chair, and I was ready to cry, because she looked so solemn; when there came a scratchin' at the door—and what d'ye s'pose? I pulled it open, and there was Maje with a basket in his mouth and a bundle tied on his back, and I never saw him more cheerful and hopeful in my life. Well, Mother broke out cryin', just at the time she ought to ha' been laughin', and she put her arms 'round Maje's neck. There was meat and cake and ever so much more in the basket, and it kept us from starvin'.
"Where did he get them? Why, that's the cur'ous part of it. We never could find it out from Maje; but there was a paper in the basket sayin': 'From a Friend.' But how Maje came to be acquainted with him just at that time, I don't see—do you, Mister?"
It often happens that dogs of no special breed, poor outcasts of the canine family, show the most remarkable characteristics.
A fire company in New York had for years a dog that was as faithful in its duties as any of the men, and on several occasions it called the attention of patrolmen to places where fires were smoldering. A certain drayman in the same city had a dog that spent its time upon the horse's back, and seemed to delight in exhibiting its equestrian skill. I have often seen the dray going down Broadway, the dog on the horse's back but keeping his place with difficulty when the horse moved rapidly.
A DOG THAT COULD CLIMB TREES.
A friend of mine who lived in the Sierra Madre Mountains had a collie that was an inveterate tree-climber, and woe to the squirrel that climbed up a trunk that Jack could scale. Of course straight trees were out of the question; but one that grew at an angle of forty-five degrees, and had a rough bark, was quickly mounted by the collie.
This curious habit was the result of his passion for squirrel-hunting, and the moment one of those little animals would dart up a favorable tree, Jack was after it, scrambling up so high that he was often found by his master thirty or forty feet from the ground, barking fiercely at the squirrel, which had sought refuge on a limb beyond the reach of the dog. In returning, Jack would settle close to the tree-trunk, and back down, inch by inch, exercising great precaution, well knowing that with his short claws he was at a disadvantage. When within a few feet of the bottom he would slide and scramble to the ground.
I once knew a dog, and he had earned his good name honestly. He was so genuine a sea-dog that he had been named Surf, and there was not a better sailor on the Maine island where he lived. Surf knew nearly all the islanders, and they knew him. Whenever he met any of them, hewagged his tail genially. It was his mode of saying good morning, or how-d'ye-do; and the people would always return his friendly greeting. There's an old saying, that "It's better to have the good-will than the ill-will of a dog." There were a few boys whom Surf snarled at, and you may rest assured that they were very rough, mean boys. The best young fellows thought Surf a fine comrade, with whom they could enjoy a romp almost as well as if he were a schoolmate. If his master or any of the family were going out in a boat, Surf was the first on board; and taking his place in the extreme bow, he saluted every one within hailing distance. No matter how hard it blew, or how blinding the spray, he maintained his place, vigilant and fearless. Thus he came to be the best-known and most popular dog on the island. Everybody had a smile for him; everybody had a good word for him. Many boys who go to school and can read and write are not so true and kind as was Surf.
So abounding in good nature was Surf that he made friends even of the people who passed by the island, and many passed every day. The channel followed by steamers was not far distant from the point on which his master, Mr. Andrews, lived. When a boat was nearly opposite this point Surf went down to the water's edge and barked, not in a spiteful, malicious way, but in cheery tones, as if calling out "How are you, old fellow!" The spirit in which anything is done is soon known, and the pilots of the steamboats began to answer his barking with the steam whistle. At this, Surf would wag his tail as if the proper courtesies had been exchanged, and return quietly to the house. So it came about that captains and crews and not a few of the passengers expected a salutation from Surf, whenever the boat neared the point.
Surf was not spoiled, however, by his popularity. He put on no airs whatever, and was just as ready to play with little Bob Andrews, and follow him about, as he was to "pass the time of day," after his fashion, with the captain of a steamer, or the richest man on the island. Bob was a reckless little mortal, and Surf appeared to have the impression that the boy needed looking after. Like many people who live by the sea, the Andrews family had the feeling that they could never be drowned, and no one was more venturesome than Bob in clambering over the rocks about the ocean's edge.
SURF PULLED OFF THE BOY'S CAP AND RAN WITH IT AT FULLSURF PULLED OFF THE BOY'S CAP AND RAN WITH IT AT FULL SPEED TO THE HOUSE.
SURF PULLED OFF THE BOY'S CAP AND RAN WITH IT AT FULL SPEED TO THE HOUSE.
One day, however, he ventured too far and too carelessly, for he fell with a splash into deep water. The little fellow could not swim, and his bubbling cry for help could scarcely have been heard on the rock from which he fell, so loud was the noise of the dashing waves. Surf's tail became rigid with the stress of the emergency; then over the rock he went after his playmate. Seizing the boy by the coat-collar, he swam around the rock to a gravelly beach, and soon had him high, but not dry, on the shore. Indeed, the little fellow had taken so much water inside as well as out that he lay helpless and insensible, though beyond the breaking waves.
For a moment, Surf was puzzled. He knew his task was not finished; but what should he do next? A bright thought struck him. The day was windy, and the boy had pulled his little cap down over his ears so tightly that the waves had not washed it off. But Surf pulled it off with his teeth and ran at full speed with it to the house. The family was just gathering around the dinner-table when the great, wet dog bounded in and laid the well known cap on Mr. Andrews' chair.
"Merciful Heaven!" cried the father, seizingthe cap and rushing out, followed by his wife and all the family.
Surf led the way, whining in a low tone, to where Bob lay, pale indeed, but already showing signs of life. Fortunately, Mr. Andrews was an intelligent man and knew just what to do. And so, within an hour, Bob was in his high chair at the table with the rest. But he shared his dinner, that day, with the brave dog that had saved his life.
Surf entered so heartily into the family rejoicing, and was so elated at the praise he received, that there seemed to be some danger that he would wag his tail off before the day ended.
Yet, even after this heroic act, Surf never so much as hinted by his manner, "See what a good dog I am!"
Carlo felt himself to be one of the family. From his puppyhood days, he had been treated with great kindness and allowed to come into the house under certain restrictions. He also had accorded to the different members of the household various marks of his favor, according to his estimate of their deserts; but for his mistress and her sister he had unbounded affection. Whenever they walked abroad, he was their self-appointed guardian, and never had ladies a more attentive and gallant escort. Not only did he respond gratefully to any favor or notice that he received, but he was also ready to prove himself no carpet-knight should danger threaten the ladies.
Now Carlo felt that he was not a mere watch or churning dog—an animal kept for a purpose. By ties of long association and deep affection, he was one of the family. That he had his three meals daily did not suffice; he observed all that was going on, and noted any change that occurred. The absence of his mistress and her sister quite depressed his spirits, and when they returned his joy was great indeed.
They had been away, and they returned one summer evening. As they were greeting the members of the household, Carlo heard their voices, and came bounding in, intent on the most frisky, hearty and demonstrative of welcomes. At that critical moment, however, a flea on his back gave him a most venomous, distracting bite, and, half frantic from pain, Carlo turned his head so suddenly to return the bite, that he tumbled down on his nose and rolled over, cutting so awkward and ridiculous a figure that every one burst out laughing.
Carlo rose, and having given his mistress a look of reproach, walked with great dignity out of the room. And many were the apologies that had to be made before his wounded feelings were soothed and the old cordial relations resumed.
A gentleman in Bristol, England, owned a dog remarkable both for intelligence and devotion. The dog had been taught to run errands. It was a part of his daily duty to go to the meat-market, carrying a basket in which was the money to pay for the meat. One day his master thought he would put a new test to the dog's faithfulness and intelligence. He ordered the man who kept the market to take the money as usual, but to refuse the meat and order the dog to go home without it. This the market-man did, and the poor dog returned to the house dejected, melancholy, slow, with ears and tail hanging, and with the basket empty. Seeing his master, he seemed to try to put on an air of cheerfulness, evidently hoping that the situation would be understood. But, no; the master frowned upon him, scolded him harshly, and bade him go out of his sight. This was almost more than the poor fellow could bear, and sneaking out he crept under a table in an outer shed, where he lay for two days to all appearances in a state of gloomy despair. On the third day, his master called him out, speaking kindly to him again, and the dog was wild with joy. Again his master sent him to the market with the money in his basket. The dog went in, but this time he placed the money on the floor and put his paw on it, before he allowed the market-man to take the basket. When the man gave him the meat, the dog quickly whisked the money back into the basket and trotted off home with both meat and money, giving them to his master with an air of decided triumph.
In that beautiful suburb of Philadelphia known as Germantown, lived a beautiful little gray Skye terrier with a very long name,—Mephistopheles. He was called Meph, for short; and a remarkably intelligent dog he was.
At one time Meph's master, who is a well known physician of Germantown, was ill. In the middle of the night, the dog bounded to the side of the bed, and laying its paw upon the arm of its master endeavored to awaken him. Having succeeded, it tried in various ways to attract his attention to the opposite side of the room; repeatedly leaving the bed and returning.
Unwilling to be disturbed, the invalid remained some time without noticing his little pet. But the animal became so importunate that the doctor could no longer remain impassive. He arose, and, following the dog to the bay-window on the other side of the room, he found, to his astonishment, that a goldfish had leaped out of the aquarium, and was panting almost lifeless on the carpet.
Meph evinced much joy when his master restored the fish to its watery home; and the doctor fondly caressed Meph, who quietly returned to his cushion bed, seeming perfectly satisfied with having performed his mission and saved the life of the fish.
He must have evolved the idea that all was not right—that the fish was "out of its sphere."
This dog met an untimely death through the cruelty of a man, who, on account of some trivial annoyance, put an end to poor Meph's career. The man might have learned a lesson of kindness from the little creature he wantonly murdered.
A RECIPE.
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'Pothecary, 'pothecary, living in the rose,Tell us how to make the scent that everybody knows."A penny's worth of nectar; a dozen drops of dew;A little compound sunshine that's slowly filtered through;A sun-glass made of diamond, and then—the mixing done—Set out a little flask of it to simmer in the sun."'Pothecary, 'pothecary, is there nothing more?"Yes, it taketh industry to make the summer's store.So, my lad and lady, run off now and play;—This, like every day in June, is my busy day."
'Pothecary, 'pothecary, living in the rose,Tell us how to make the scent that everybody knows.
'Pothecary, 'pothecary, living in the rose,
Tell us how to make the scent that everybody knows.
"A penny's worth of nectar; a dozen drops of dew;A little compound sunshine that's slowly filtered through;A sun-glass made of diamond, and then—the mixing done—Set out a little flask of it to simmer in the sun."
"A penny's worth of nectar; a dozen drops of dew;
A little compound sunshine that's slowly filtered through;
A sun-glass made of diamond, and then—the mixing done—
Set out a little flask of it to simmer in the sun."
'Pothecary, 'pothecary, is there nothing more?"Yes, it taketh industry to make the summer's store.So, my lad and lady, run off now and play;—This, like every day in June, is my busy day."
'Pothecary, 'pothecary, is there nothing more?
"Yes, it taketh industry to make the summer's store.
So, my lad and lady, run off now and play;—
This, like every day in June, is my busy day."
Who knows what a riddle is? A riddle is something to be guessed. Well, here is a riddle in a picture, all about pretty painted bridges.