CHAPTER XIX

.

MONMOUTH.

The news of the French alliance, and consequent war between France and England, compelled the English to leave Philadelphia. They had taken their ease there during the winter, while hardships and Steuben's drilling and Washington's unflagging zeal had made the American army at Valley Forge strong and determined. A French fleet might at any time sail up the Delaware, and with the American army in the rear, Philadelphia would be a hard place to hold. So General Howe turned his command over to General Clinton, and went home to England, and General Clinton set about marching his army across New Jersey to New York.

The moment the troops left Philadelphia, armed men sprang up all over New Jersey to contest their passage, and Washington set his army in motion, following close upon the heels of the enemy, who were making for Staten Island. There was a question whether they should attack the British and bring on a general engagement, or only follow them and vex them. The generals on whom Washington most relied, Greene, La Fayette, and Wayne, all good fighters, urged that it would be a shame to let the enemy leave New Jersey without a severe punishment. The majority of generals in the council, however, strongly opposed the plan of giving battle. They said that the French alliance would undoubtedly put an end to the war at once. Why, then, risk life and success? The British army, moreover, was strong and well equipped.

The most strenuous opponent of the fighting plan was General Charles Lee. When he was left in command of a body of troops at the time of Washington's crossing the Hudson river more than a year before, his orders were to hold himself in readiness to join Washington at any time. In his march across New Jersey, Washington had repeatedly sent for Lee, but Lee had delayed in an unaccountable manner, and finally was himself surprised by a company of dragoons, and taken captive. For a year he had been held a prisoner, and only lately had been released on exchange. He had returned to the army while the cabal against Washington was going on, and had taken part in it, for he always felt that he ought to be first and Washington second. He was second in command now, and his opinion had great weight. He was a trained soldier, and besides, in his long captivity he had become well acquainted with General Clinton, and he professed to know well the condition and temper of the British officers.

Washington thus found himself unsupported by a majority of his officers. But he had no doubt in his own mind that the policy of attack was a sound one. All had agreed that it was well to harass the enemy; he therefore ordered La Fayette with a large division to fall upon the enemy at an exposed point. He thought it not unlikely that this would bring on a general action, and he disposed his forces so as to be ready for such an emergency. He gave the command to La Fayette, because Lee had disapproved the plan; but after La Fayette had set out, Lee came to Washington and declared that La Fayette's division was so large as to make it almost an independent army, and that therefore he would like to change his mind and take command. It never would do to have his junior in such authority.

Here was a dilemma. Washington could not recall La Fayette. He wished to make use of Lee; so he gave Lee two additional brigades, sent him forward to join La Fayette, when, as his senior, he would of course command the entire force; and at the same time he notified La Fayette of what he had done, trusting to his sincere devotion to the cause in such an emergency.

When Clinton found that a large force was close upon him, he took up his position at Monmouth Court House, now Freehold, New Jersey and prepared to meet the Americans. Washington knew Clinton's movements and sent word to Lee at once to attack the British, unless there should be very powerful reasons to the contrary; adding that he himself was bringing up the rest of the army. Lee had joined La Fayette and was now in command of the advance. La Fayette was eager to move upon the enemy.

"You do not know British soldiers," said Lee; "we can not stand against them. We shall certainly be driven back at first, and we must be cautious."

"Perhaps so," said La Fayette. "But we have beaten British soldiers, and we can do it again."

Soon after, one of Washington's aids appeared for intelligence, and La Fayette, in despair at Lee's inaction, sent the messenger to urge Washington to come at once to the front; that he was needed. Washington was already on the way, before the messenger reached him, when he was met by a little fifer boy, who cried out:

"They are all coming this way, your honor."

"Who are coming, my little man?" asked General Knox, who was riding by Washington.

"Why, our boys, your honor, our boys, and the British right after them."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Washington, and he galloped to a hill just ahead. To his amazement and dismay, he saw his men retreating. He lost not an instant, but, putting spurs to his horse, dashed forward. After him flew the officers who had been riding by his side, but they could not overtake him. His horse, covered with foam, shot down the road over a bridge and up the hill beyond. The retreating column saw him come. The men knew him; they stopped; they made way for the splendid-looking man, as he, their leader, rode headlong into the midst of them. Lee was there, ordering the retreat, and Washington drew his rein as he came upon him. A moment of terrible silence--then Washington burst out, his eyes flashing:

[Illustration: WASHINGTON REBUKING LEE, AT MONMOUTH.]

"What, sir, is the meaning of this?"

"Sir, sir," stammered Lee.

"I desire to know, sir, the meaning of this disorder and confusion?"

Lee, enraged now by Washington's towering passion, made an angry reply. He declared that the whole affair was against his opinion.

"You are a poltroon!" flashed back Washington, with an oath. "Whatever your opinion may have been, I expected my orders to be obeyed."

"These men can not face the British grenadiers," answered Lee.

"They can do it, and they shall!" exclaimed Washington, galloping off to survey the ground. Presently he came back; his wrath had gone down in the presence of the peril to the army. He would waste no strength in cursing Lee.

"Will you retain the command here, or shall I?" he asked. "If you will, I will return to the main body and have it formed on the next height."

"It is equal to me where I command," said Lee, sullenly.

"Then remain here," said Washington. "I expect you to take proper means for checking the enemy."

"Your orders shall be obeyed, and I shall not be the first to leave the ground," replied Lee, with spirit.

The rest of the day the battle raged, and when night came the enemy had been obliged to fall back, and Washington determined to follow up his success in the morning. He directed all the troops to lie on their arms where they were. He himself lay stretched on the ground beneath a tree, his cloak wrapped about him. About midnight, an officer came near with a message, but hesitated, reluctant to waken him.

"Advance, sir, and deliver your message," Washington called out; "I lie here to think, and not to sleep."

In the morning, Washington prepared to renew the attack, but the British had slipped away under cover of the darkness, not willing to venture another battle.

Pursuit, except by some cavalry, was unavailing. The men were exhausted. The sun beat down fiercely, and the hot sand made walking difficult. Moreover, the British fleet lay off Sandy Hook, and an advance in that direction would lead the army nearer to the enemy's re-enforcements. Accordingly Washington marched his army to Brunswick and thence to the Hudson river, crossed it, and encamped again near White Plains.

After the battle of Monmouth, Lee wrote an angry letter to Washington and received a cool one in reply. Lee demanded a court-martial, and Washington at once ordered it. Three charges were made, and Lee was convicted of disobedience of orders in not attacking the enemy on the 28th of June, agreeably to repeated instructions; misbehavior before the enemy on the same day, by making an unnecessary and disorderly retreat; and disrespect to the Commander-in-chief. He was suspended from the army for a year, and he never returned to it. Long after his death, facts were brought to light which make it seem more than probable that General Lee was so eaten up by vanity, by jealousy of Washington, and by a love of his profession above a love of his country, that he was a traitor at heart, and that instead of being ready to sacrifice himself for his country, he was ready to sacrifice the country to his own willful ambition and pride.

But his disgrace was the end of all opposition to Washington. From that time there was no question as to who was at the head of the army and the people.

(_To be continued_.)

* * * * *

[Illustration: FRESH FROM A DIP IN THE BREAKERS.]

A SONG OF SUMMER.

BY EMMA C. DOWD.

The flowers are fringing the swift meadow brooks, The songsters are nesting in shadowy nooks; The birds and the blossoms are thronging to meet us, With loveliness, perfume, and music they greet us,-- For Summer, the beautiful, reigns!

The bobolink tilts on the tall, nodding clover, And sings his gay song to us over and over; The wild roses beckon, with deepening blushes, And sweet, from the wood, sounds the warble of thrushes,-- For Summer, the beautiful, reigns!

The white lilies sway with the breeze of the morning, In raiment more fair than a monarch's adorning; The bright-throated humming-bird, marvel of fleetness, Comes questing for honey-blooms, draining their sweetness,-- For Summer, the beautiful, reigns!

High up in the elm is the oriole courting, A new suit of velvet and gold he is sporting; With gay bits of caroling, tuneful and mellow, He wooes his fair lady-love, clad in plain yellow,-- For Summer, the beautiful, reigns!

The blossoms and birds bring us, yearly, sweet token That Nature's glad promises never are broken. Then sing, happy birdlings, nor ever grow weary! Laugh on, merry children, 'tis time to be cheery!-- For Summer, the beautiful, reigns!

THE LAST CRUISE OF "THE SLUG."

BY THOMAS EDWIN TURNER.

[Illustration]

Clifford and Jack went down from Brooklyn last summer to spend a few weeks with Clifford's aunt, in the cozy old homestead on the Shrewsbury River. Yachting was to be their chief enjoyment. To be sure, they were not practical yachtsmen; but Jack said he "had read up the subject," and Cliff "had been out in a yacht once or twice," so they had no fears.

Clifford and Jack were second cousins, and great friends; but Jack had been in the habit of spending his summers at Saratoga, and accordingly he looked forward to his present trip with the feeling of an adventurous explorer of unknown regions. And in order to be prepared for every emergency, he brought an "outfit" that filled a strong trunk, two valises, a shawl-strap, and a number of queerly-shaped packages.

[Illustration: CAESAR AND THE PEACOCK. (SEE NEXT PAGE.)]

Clifford, who for several years had spent a part of each summer at his aunt's, carried a handbag. When Jack asked him where the rest of his things were, Clifford, with a glance at his cousin's paraphernalia, answered that he preferred to keep his "outfit" at his aunt's. He was not likely to need it elsewhere, and he saved expense for extra baggage.

But Caesar was Jack's chief reliance and most weighty responsibility. Caesar was a dog;--according to Jack, a setter-dog. And as Clifford was unable to state what was the dog's breed, if it were not a setter, Jack felt that he had established his point. Moreover, when Caesar, upon their arrival at Mud Flat, immediately celebrated the occasion by slaughtering eight out of a brood of eleven Cochin China chicks that were great pets of their hostess, Jack claimed that his pet's success as a game dog was assured beyond cavil. Jack was somewhat discouraged on learning that the principal "game" in that vicinity was the sideling "shedder," or crab, and he acknowledged that in the pursuit of such plunder he feared even Caesar was not ambitious. But nothing ever discouraged Caesar, and he had more fun with Miss Goodmaid's favorite peacock than all the game in New Jersey would have afforded him; as subsequent events developed the fact that he was mortally afraid of a gun. This is not strange, considering that he had spent the previous eight months of his short life in a stable on Henry street, in Brooklyn. Indeed, his principal amusement during the rest of the boys' visit, was to chase the gorgeous bird of Juno into the branches of a pear-tree, and stand below and bark.

Though this was severe on the nervous organism of the peacock, it seemed to afford unlimited satisfaction to Caesar, and it kept him out of so much other possible mischief, that he was rarely interfered with on these occasions.

[Illustration: JACK EXHIBITS HIS "OUTFIT."]

As soon as Jack could have his luggage taken to the house and put in the room the boys were to occupy, he hastened to unpack his outfit before the wondering eyes of Clifford. A handsome double-barreled shot-gun, Clifford suggested, might be used in trying to kill his aunt's three remaining chickens; a delicate split-bamboo fishing-rod might come in well for catching live bait, if they were not in a hurry; and an extensive collection of artificial flies would perhaps serve to frighten away the mosquitoes. A large horse-pistol Cliff thought would be "just the thing for picking off bull-frogs in the marshes"; but he was forced to tell his cousin that he feared his shooting-coat, his fine yachting suit, his knickerbockers for mountain climbing, and his tennis flannels, would scarcely be needed in that vicinity.

Poor Jack looked ruefully at his expensive "outfit," which Clifford seemed to prize so little, and then he asked his cousin to tell him what specialties of costume and accouterments were best fitted to the Shrewsbury region. Without answering in words, Clifford simply pointed to a closet, through the open door of which could be seen, hanging from hooks, a broad-brimmed straw hat, a blue flannel shirt, a stout pair of trousers, and a lanyard. A large jack-knife lay upon the shelf, and a substantial pair of high shoes stood firmly on the floor.

Little more was said concerning the subject that evening, but Jack went to bed in a very sober frame of mind. In the morning, he put all his fancy toggery back into his trunk, selecting only such useful garments as Clifford suggested, and took an early opportunity of purchasing a hat which was an exact counterpart of the one worn by his cousin.

Indeed, it was dangerous to mention the word "outfit" in Jack's hearing for a long time.

Clifford's aunt, Miss Goodmaid, was asked to tell them where they could hire a sail-boat for their proposed trip; she had heard that Johnny Peltsman, the carriage-maker's son, in Mud Flat, had such a boat, and to him the boys went to "negotiate."

Johnny Peltsman _did_ have a boat, which he said he would let, if he "could get his price." The Slug, he admitted, looked a trifle heavy, and, while under "proper conditions" she would go fast, Johnny confessed that she couldn't sail very close to the wind. Upon payment of five dollars, he said, the boys might have the boat for two weeks.

"Done!" cried Jack, eagerly. "I dare say she will suit us perfectly. Some people may like boats that sail close to the wind. But a boat to suit me must be able to slide away from the wind, and not stay crawling around close to it!"

Clifford's face was a study as his partner thus aired his nautical opinions, while Johnny Peltsman greeted the remark with open-mouthed astonishment; and when Jack concluded his observations, Johnny said earnestly:

"By the way, young friend, it is understood, of course, that if you sink or wreck the Slug, you must pay damages."

"Certainly, if we lose the yacht, you shall be paid for it," Jack answered, feeling rather indignant at the suggestion.

[Illustration: THE BOYS ENGAGE THE "SLUG."]

Being directed to the place where the Slug lay, the boys hastened away to take immediate possession. Johnny stood looking after them until they were out of sight. Then turning to enter his shop, he soliloquized:

"Well, that beats all! The idea of hiring a boat without seeing it, and not caring to have it to sail close to the wind! I suppose, of course, those chaps can swim." And with an ominous shake of the head, Johnny resumed his carriage-making.

Our heroes found their prize lying in a little cove just above the bridge. The Slug was a flat-bottomed center-board boat, fifteen feet long, five feet across the stern, and narrowing gradually to a point at the bows. A more clumsy sail-boat was never seen. But Jack only noticed the two large lockers, and with unbounded satisfaction, remarked to his cousin:

"We can stow away a big stock of provisions in those boxes, Cliff."

It was Friday, so the two boys decided to give the "yacht" a short trial-trip down to the Highlands and back. In that way they would become familiar with the boat, and on Monday morning would be ready to start on a week's cruise. It chanced that a flood-tide was just beginning when the lads shoved the Slug well out into the river, while the wind was blowing a brisk gale straight down-stream, the very direction in which the boys wished to go. Clifford was enough of a sailor to step the little mast and properly set the leg-of-mutton sail for a breeze directly astern. With a strong wind behind her, and only a weak tide opposing, it was not surprising that the Slug made a progress quite satisfactory to the two amateur yachtsmen. As the tide increased in force, however, the boat went slower and slower, and it was six o'clock when the Highlands "hove in sight," as Jack said--having learned that and other nautical terms from his story-books. On finding how late it was, Clifford remarked:

"We'd better be making for home."

The boys managed to put the Slug about, and very soon Jack ascertained that there were times when it was an advantage to have a boat able to sail close to the wind; for, as the breeze still blew down-stream, Clifford found it simply impossible to beat up the river in the Slug. The truth was, the only "proper conditions" under which Johnny Peltsman's boat would sail at all were those of going straight before the wind!

[Illustration: "'HOW CAN YOU SLEEP?' ASKED CLIFFORD."]

Clifford told Jack that they must "row the old tub back to Mud Flat," and both boys pluckily bent to the work. It was hard work, too. The oars were long and heavy, the boat was as unwieldy as a raft of logs, and at length Jack exclaimed:

"It seems to me, Cliff, that the scenery along this river is very monotonous. We passed just such banks and houses as those over there, ten minutes ago."

Clifford threw a hurried glance shoreward, looked down at the water, and immediately pulled his oar into the boat, saying:

"The fates are against us, Jack. In spite of our pulling and tugging, we are actually drifting down-stream. The tide has turned; it's dead against us, and so is the wind. It would take a Cunarder to tow this miserable scow back to Mud Flat, now."

"What's to be done?" asked Jack, suddenly realizing that they might be swept out into the bay, where the whitecaps gave evidence that a very high sea would be encountered.

"Neither of us can swim very far," said Clifford. "Our only chance is to land on that little island, yonder. Luckily we're drifting straight toward it."

Favored by the current, the boat was carried close to the sand-bar of the island, and by a vigorous use of the oars they were able to bring their craft safely to land.

"We'll have to stay here until slack water," said Clifford, "and then perhaps we can row across to the shore. The next slack will be about midnight, so we'd better camp here and take advantage of to-morrow morning's slack. Then we can cross to the Highlands Landing, a short distance below here, and go back by steamboat. The Seabird will tow the Slug home for us."

"All right; I'll stand by you," laconically answered Jack.

They at once set about gathering grass and sea-weed with which to make a bed, intending to use the Slug's sail for a covering. After a couch had been arranged to their satisfaction, the two friends strolled around their domain, which they found to be a little larger than a city lot. During their walk, the boys caught four or five soft-shell crabs, which the epicurean Jack prudently stowed away in one of the lockers.

The mosquitoes had troubled the lads greatly from the moment they landed on the sand-island; and, as they had no matches and could not make a "smudge," they soon decided to "turn in" as Jack technically stated. But then the vicious insects attacked their victims in clouds, until the boys were forced to cover their heads and hands completely with the sail; and in that uncomfortable condition they finally fell asleep.

It seemed but a short time to Clifford before he became conscious of a stinging, smarting sensation on his face that was almost unbearable, and he awoke to find that he was literally covered with swarms of the poisonous little pests, while Jack, snugly rolled up in the sailcloth of which he had taken complete possession in his sleep, snored loudly.

Slapping, brushing, and shaking off his tormentors, Clifford punched his companion and exclaimed:

"How can you sleep through this?"

"Oh, _I'm_ all right," answered Jack, in smothered tones.

"Well, _I'm_ not!" growled Clifford, as he sprang to his feet and proceeded to spend the few hours until daybreak in battle with his small but ferocious enemies.

At sunrise, the castaways refreshed themselves with a prolonged bath; and then, hungry as bears, they impatiently waited for slack water, when they sprang into the Slug, and by long and hard work, at last reached the mainland not far above the Highlands.

[Illustration: "THE TWO HUNGRY LADS WERE SOON DISPATCHING THEIR BREAKFAST."]

An investigation of their finances showed the boys that they had, together, exactly sixty-five cents. With that sum, therefore, they had to provide a breakfast, pay steamboat fares home, and meet unknown incidental expenses. A little shop was soon found where coffee, butter, and a roll would be furnished to each boy for thirty cents. Their fares home would amount to twenty cents; and the boys decided to take the chance that fifteen cents would prove adequate to the unforeseen. Remembering the soft-shell crabs in the locker, Clifford induced the good-natured landlady to cook them "without extra charge;" and soon the two hungry lads were dispatching their thirty-cent breakfast, which included fried potatoes, also "donated" by the kind-hearted hostess.

At ten o'clock on that eventful Saturday morning, the young navigators re-embarked and dropped down with the tide to the steamboat landing at the Highlands.

The boys soon saw the Seabird plowing her way to the landing. When she had landed, the Slug was quickly made fast to the stern of the larger boat, and ere long the steamer was bearing them homeward.

Seated well forward on the upper deck, the boys were congratulating themselves on being at last free from all anxiety, when suddenly they were startled by loud cries from the stern of the steamboat:

"Hi! Hi! You lads who own the little boat astern! Hurry! quick! quick! She's sinking! she's sinking!"

Running to the spot whence came those warning shouts; Clifford and Jack looked down at the Slug and saw that the small center-board had been thrown entirely out of its trunk by the force of the water which had been churned to a white foam under the huge paddle-wheels of the Seabird,--and a broad stream pouring through this opening into their "yacht" threatened each moment to swamp it.

"Bother that yacht! She's going to haunt us all our lives!" cried Jack, in dismay; but Clifford, taking in the state of affairs at a glance, ran to the lower deck, and with one stroke of his pocket-knife cut the Slug's painter, and then the two boys silently and sadly watched their boat drop far behind in the fan-shaped wake of the larger vessel.

"She may be picked up by some one alongshore, but, more likely, she'll go to the bottom," thoughtfully remarked Clifford.

"I don't believe it," said Jack; "that yacht will never sink! She will be turning up against us all through life, bringing trouble and disgrace."

In due time, the boys arrived at the Goodmaid homestead, where they received a warm welcome from Clifford's aunt, who had almost begun to fear that her young guests were at the bottom of the Shrewsbury.

On Monday morning, bright and early, the two boys started down the left bank of the river to find their boat. They found it after an hour's walk. It had been hauled out upon the beach. The Slug had been sighted and recovered by a farmer living alongshore. After paying two dollars as salvage, Jack asked the farmer concerning the best way of getting the boat home.

"There are three ways," answered the man, thoughtfully. "The first is to wait till there's a hurricane blowing straight up the river, when perhaps you can sail up. The second is to hire me to row her up. And the third is to let me put the boat on my lumber wagon, and haul it up to Mud Flat."

"Of the three, which would be best?" persisted Jack.

"Well," replied the farmer, "you may have to wait weeks for the hurricane; I will haul the boat for two dollars; and I will undertake to row it up the river--(though, understand, I don't say how long I shall be about it)--but row her up I will, somehow, and charge you only two hundred and fifty dollars for the job. And that's very cheap, I can tell you, for I know that boat!"

It is hardly necessary to say that the boys decided that the Slug should go home on wheels, provided they might ride, too, without increase of pay. By the use of rollers, an inclined plane and levers, the boat was safely hoisted upon the wagon. The farmer occupied the bow, and Jack and Cliff each sat on a thwart.

And now, for the first time in her history, the Slug was under complete control. The whip cracked, the horses strained at their collars, the wheels rolled, and away went Jack's "yacht," trundling homeward. The road led past the Goodmaid farm, and over the long bridge crossing the Shrewsbury. As they neared the farm, the boys raised a shout, and Caesar, Jack's mongrel and mischievous dog, leaving the peacock for a moment, came bounding out to meet them.

True to his nature, he at once began a series of noisy gambols about the farmer's young and high-spirited horses. But soon wearying of that harmless jumping at the wagon, the dog suddenly ran under the forward wheels, and sprang at the long fetlocks of the "near" horse.

Like a flash, the team made a wild plunge, and dashed down the road. The wagon was jerked from beneath the Slug, and the boat and its passengers fell heavily to the ground. The anchor, dropping between the wagon-box and a wheel, became firmly fixed; while the line to which the anchor was attached, being good manilla rope, was uncoiled and dragged after the horses with great rapidity.

Fortunately, the boys and the driver had time to jump out of the "yacht" before the anchor-rope was all "paid out," and so, with the exception of a bad shaking-up and a few bruises, they suffered no injury from their unceremonious disembarking. But the sudden fall had "broken the backbone" of the Slug, as Jack expressed it; and, as if that were not enough, the poor boat, as it hung by the painter, was swung, bumped, knocked, and dragged along, until it was literally reduced to fragments. There was scarcely a residence in all Mud Flat that did not have, long afterward, some satisfactory reminder of the last cruise of the Slug.

But all agreed that the old boat had one virtue--it made famous firewood!

[Illustration: THE GREAT SPRING-BOARD ACT.--BY THE ENTIRE COMPANY.]

WONDERS OF THE ALPHABET.

BY HENRY ECKFORD

FIFTH PAPER

In tracing back our letters, we now have reached Chalkis, where the Phoenicians under Kadmus taught the Greeks their letters. A funny thing occurred to the wise men who ferreted out all these facts. They could read Greek, and they could read Hebrew, and the strange likeness between many of the names for the letters in the two languages made it certain that in some way they were related or connected. But what meant those letters on rocks, metal vases, and earthenware jars that we now call Phoenician? Single letters looked like Greek letters distorted; but the words would not read as Greek. Nor would they read as Hebrew, although the characters appeared to have some connection with Hebrew. Greek is written like our writing, from left to right; but Hebrew, Arabic, and Persian are written from right to left. So, in those languages a book begins where our books end. It was found, too, that the Hebrew writing now in use is very different externally from that used by David and Solomon, although the names and general shape of the letters are the same. Have you ever seen a Hebrew Bible? The alphabet in which the Old Testament was originally written looked very different from that which the Jews now use in their Bibles; it was much nearer the Phoenician in appearance.

For a long time it never dawned on men's minds that perhaps the Phoenician way of writing, from right to left, was not followed by the Greeks; but at last they remembered that in very early times the lines of Greek writing were made to read alternately from right to left and from left to right. Such inscriptions were called _boustrephedon_ ("turning like oxen in plowing"), because the letters had to be read as the oxen move from furrow to furrow in the field that they plow, first one way, then the other. That gave the needed clew.

After all, if we do not connect letters one to the other, as in running handwriting, does it make much difference whether we set the separate letters down in a sequence which begins at the right and ends at the left, or in one that begins at the left and ends at the right? Some nations, like the Chinese and Tartars, find it convenient to write signs _under_ each other. The Egyptians used to write in at least three several directions, namely, downwards, from right to left, and from left to right. Generally one can tell how to read hieroglyphs in Egyptian and Mexican manuscripts by noting the direction of the faces of animals and persons pictured, and then reading in the opposite direction. Sometimes Egyptian hieroglyphs were engraved one upon the other, like a monogram.

Well, putting some or all of these facts together, it suddenly flashed on some one that the oldest Greek letters might be nothing more or less than the Phoenician letters turned the other way. And when they came to examine the very oldest Greek inscriptions to be found, they discovered that this was the main difference between the two! The Greeks had borrowed the Phoenician letters and merely added some new characters to express sounds peculiar to their own tongue and neglected others that were of no service.

It was this alphabet that the Greek-Phoenicians brought to Italy. When, centuries later, Latins and Sabines and Etruscans and Oscans, banded together and formed the great city of Rome, it was this alphabet they inherited from their forefathers. Several of the letters which the Etruscans thought necessary to express sounds in their language, were dropped before the Romans came to power and produced their great poets and essayists.

So, now you know how the alphabet came to you, which the Irish monks taught our heathen forefathers. It came through the Latins from the people of Boeotia, or Greeks, who learned it from the Phoenicians.

But that great mercantile people, the Phoenicians, also left to the nations near their old home in Palestine, the same precious gift of an alphabet. Very old inscriptions in Hebrew, lately found, are seen to be written in almost the same alphabet as the Phoenician. Perhaps you are beginning to wonder how many peoples there are who owe their letters to that old sea-folk who were the traders, pirates, and buccaneers of the Mediterranean! There is the Hebrew, which people have called the alphabet of God, because the Holy Scriptures were written in it, and which was also used by magicians for their amulets and talismans; there is the Greek, in which the epics of Homer, the long poems of Hesiod, and the rhapsodies of Pindar were taken down; there is the Latin, in which all the wisdom of the ancients reached us; and there are all the differing alphabets, printed characters, and script handwritings of Europe and America! In fact, I could not tell you here, so numerous are they, the names of all the languages in Asia, Africa, Europe, and America, that were and are written in some alphabet, which traces its descent from the twenty-two Phoenician letters.

The connection between Greek and Phoenician is much easier to believe than that Arabic, a sentence of which you see here represented, should be also a writing derived from the Phoenician. Arabic letters are used by so large a portion of the inhabitants of the earth that it stands second among the great national, or rather, the great religious alphabets of the world. Some of you know, I suppose, that Mohammed was a very wise and imaginative Arab of an important though poor tribe of Arabia Felix. He was a great poet and statesman; he had visions and called himself the Prophet of God. He wrote the Koran, which is used by an immense multitude of men as their only law-book and Bible. The dialect which he and his clan used became, through the spread of his doctrines, the standard, first for all Arabia, and then for all the enormous countries a hundred times larger than Arabia which his disciples and their followers won by force of arms.

[Illustration: This Arabic sentence is a famous inscription upon the colonnade of one of the great mosques at Jerusalem. The mosque is known as the "Dome of the Rock," and it is thought to stand upon a portion of the site of the great Jewish Temple. This inscription is placed near the great southern door of the mosque. It is in one continuous line, however, instead of two as represented in this fac-simile. It reads from right to left, and is thus translated: "This dome was built by the servant of God, Abd [allah-el-Imam-al-Mamun, E] mir of the Faithful, in the year seventy-two. May God be well pleased, and be satisfied with him. Amen."]

Of course the alphabet he used did not spring up suddenly. It was handed down from the early times of the Phoenicians, and gradually became so changed in most of the letters that you would hardly believe they had ever been the same as the Phoenician letters. Writers of it were so careless, or so proud of being able to read and write when the mass of their neighbors were ignorant, that, neglectfully or intentionally, they allowed many letters to become almost like one another. In the Arabic, Turkish, and Persian languages, it is hard to tell a number of the letters apart. In order to distinguish them, later writers devised a set of dots, like the dot over our small i. The same difficulty occurred among the Hebrews, whose wise men seemed to enjoy making writing hard to write and to read. Another reason why Arabic is hard to make out is because many of the letters change their forms according as they stand alone (unconnected), or stand at the beginning of a word (initial), or in between two other letters (connected) or at the end of a word (final). Think of having to distinguish the same letter under four different forms! What a bother to the children of the Arabs, Turks, and Persians as they sit tailor-fashion, or kneel patiently on the floor, their shoes left outside the threshold, while the school-master flourishes his rod over their puzzled noddles, or raps the soles of their tired little feet!

Now Arabic letters and Hebrew, too, if you try to trace them back to Phoenician, are found to have passed through the hands of a people who occupied the high lands of Asia Minor, where the two great "rivers of Babylon," the Euphrates and the Tigris, begin to run their course. This land was called Aram and the ancient language spoken there, the Aramaic. Between Phoenician and Aramaic the connection is close. The Aramaic took the place of the Phoenician language, when the Phoenicians were edged out of Palestine westward over the Mediterranean. So we see that Arabic, which looks so strange and is so elegant and fantastic when embroidered on banners or traced on tiles or written on the beautiful mulberry-leaf paper of the Orient, really uses, in the main, the same alphabet that looks so plain and simple on the page you are reading!

[Illustration: PERSIAN SENTENCE.]

Both Phoenician and Aramaic were in all probability spoken and written in Palestine and Aram. It was in Aramaic, too, that the words of Christ and his apostles were spoken; and a few of the actual words are still retained in the New Testament, for example "Talitha cumi," meaning "Maid, arise!" It was probably Aramaic that prevailed also in the great capitals of Mesopotamia, while the rich and haughty kings of Babylonia and Assyria were using on their stone and plaster images and in their queer books of inscribed and baked brick, the writing that is called "cuneiform." It is so called because the letters appear to to be formed of little _cunei_, wedges, or nails. "Arrow-headed writing" is another name for it. Look well at this curious writing made by engraving on brick. Several different languages have been written in it.

[Illustration: SPECIMEN OF CUNEIFORM WRITING.]

A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION.

BY LILIAN DYNEVOR RICE

I.

Six sturdy lads lay curled up in their beds When the Birthday of Freedom had faded to night, With burns on their fingers and pains in their heads, And scarred like the heroes of many a fight. But, strange to relate, as all sleepless they lay, Though ten from the steeple had chimed loud and clear, They sighed: "What a perfectly glorious day! Too bad it can only come once in the year!"

II.

The six patient mothers, who loved the six boys, Were resting at last, now the daylight was done; For, with the wild racket and riot and noise, No peace had been theirs since the dawn of the sun. And they sighed, as they said in the weariest way (And full cause had they for their feelings, I fear): "This has been _such_ a terrible, ear-splitting day! How lucky it only comes once in the year!"

[Illustration: THE LEOPARD BROUGHT TO BAY BY WILD DOGS.]

WILD HUNTERS.

BY JOHN R. CORYELL.

Everybody knows the old story of the father who taught his sons to be united by showing them a bundle of sticks. Taken together, the sticks could not be broken; but taken singly, they were snapped in two very quickly.

The wild dogs of South Africa, like the bundle of sticks, furnish an example of the value of unity. A single wild dog is not very formidable, but a pack of wild dogs is the dread of every living creature in the part of Africa where they dwell; and more persevering, savage, and relentless hunters do not exist.

The wild dog has keen scent, quick intelligence, great powers of endurance, and great speed; so that, however swift may be the animal pursued, it has cause to fear this tireless hunter. Indeed, the wild dog never seems to take into consideration the size, strength, or agility of its game. Even the lion, it is said, has learned to dread those small hunters, which seem to have no fear of death, but rush with fierce courage to attack the mighty monarch himself, should he be so unlucky as to become the object of their pursuit.

One traveler tells of having witnessed the pursuit and destruction of a large leopard by a pack of wild dogs. Whether or not the dogs had set out with the intention of capturing the leopard, he could not tell. He saw them start up the great cat in a low jungle. The leopard made no effort at first to fight off its assailants; but, with a series of prodigious springs, sought shelter in the only refuge the plain afforded--a tree which had

## partially fallen.

There the hunted beast stood, snarling and growling in a manner that would have frightened off any ordinary foe. The savage dogs, however, never hesitated a moment, but with agile leaps ran up the sloping trunk, and gave instant battle to their furious game. One after another, the dogs were hurled back, each stroke of the terrible paw making one foe the less. Yet they continued to throw themselves against the enraged creature, until, wearied by the contest and wounded in fifty places, it fell from the tree; when, still struggling, it was quickly torn to pieces.

It must not be supposed, however, that the wild dog usually prefers as formidable game as the leopard. A sheep-fold is always an attraction too great for the wild dog to pass.

And now, after calling this wild hunter a dog, I shall have to say that it is not a dog at all, but is only a sort of cousin to the dog, and really a nearer relative of the hyena, though it so resembles both animals as to have gained the name of hyena-dog. Its scientific name is _Lycaon venaticus_; and besides the two common names already mentioned, it has half a dozen more.

Being neither dog nor hyena, and yet akin to both, it is one of those strange forms of the animal creation which naturalists call "links." It has four toes, like the hyena, while it has teeth like the dog's.

Some attempts have been made to tame it, so as to gain the use of its wonderful powers of hunting; but none of these efforts have yet been successful, because of the suspicious nature of the animal. It seems to feel that every offer of kindness or familiarity is a menace to its liberty.

THE THEORETIC TURTLE.

BY A. R. W.

[Illustration]

The theoretic turtle started out to see the toad; He came to a stop at a liberty-pole in the middle of the road. "Now how, in the name of the spouting whale," the indignant turtle cried, "Can I climb this perpendicular cliff, and get on the other side? If I only could make a big balloon, I'd lightly over it fly; Or a very long ladder might reach the top, though it does look fearfully high. If a beaver were in my place, he'd gnaw a passage through with his teeth; I can't do that, but I can dig a tunnel and pass beneath." He was digging his tunnel, with might and main, when a dog looked down at the hole. "The easiest way, my friend," said he, "is to walk around the pole."

NAN'S REVOLT.

BY ROSE LATTIMORE ALLING.

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