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190 as English and German, there is no à priori ground for believing that they may not come to differ as much as English and Polish, or Greek, or Hindustani. And, by approved scientific methods of linguistic research, students of language have traced out the boundaries of a grand family of human speech, embracing, along with the Germanic and Romanic groups, nearly all the other tongues of Europe, and those of no small portion of south-western Asia. We will accordingly go on first to pass in review the various branches claimed to constitute this family, and then to examine the evidence upon which the claim is founded.

Of nearest kindred with the Latin, as well as most nearly associated with it in history, is the ancient Greek, its classic compeer, but its superior in flexibility and beauty; superior, too, as regards the genius and culture of those to whom it served as the instrument of thought; but of far less conspicuous career, and making at the present day but an insignificant figure in the sum of human speech, being spoken only by the scanty population of Greece itself, and by the peoples, partly of Greek origin, which fill the islands and line the shores of the Ægean and Black seas.

The languages displaced by the Latin were, as we have seen, in great part Celtic. At the beginning of the historic period, the domain of the Celts included no mean portion of the soil of Europe. Britain, Gaul, a part of Spain, and the north of Italy, together with some of the provinces of central Europe, were in their possession. But the more energetic and persistent Italic and Germanic races soon began to gain ground upon them: and now, for a long succession of centuries, no Celtic tribe of any importance has maintained its integrity and independence. The Erse, or Gaelic of the Scotch Highlands, the native Irish, or Gaelic of Ireland, and the insignificant dialect of the Isle of Man, representing together the Gadhelic division of Celtic speech—and the Welsh in Wales, and the Breton or Armorican in Brittany, representatives of the other, the Cymric division, are the scanty remains of that great family of related tongues which, but little more than two thousand years ago, occupied


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Davy and the Goblin/Chapter IV

Chapter IV. The Butterscotchmen. Bells were pealing and tolling in all directions, and the air was filled with the sound of distant shouts and cries. Bells were pealing in all directions. “What were they?” asked Davy, breathlessly.

“Butterscotchmen,” said the Goblin. “You see, they always butter their chairs so that they won’t stick fast when they sit down.”

“And what makes you that color?” said Davy, suddenly noticing that the Goblin had changed his color to a beautiful blue.

“Trouble and worry,” said the Goblin. “I always get blue when the Butterscotchmen are after me.”

“Are they coming after us now?” inquired Davy, in great alarm.

“Of course they are,” said the Goblin. “But the best of it is, they can’t run till they get warm, and they can’t get warm without running, you see. But the worst of it is that we can’t stop without sticking fast,” he added, anxiously. “We must keep it up until we get to the Amuserum.”

“What’s that?” said Davy.

“It’s a place they have to amuse themselves with,” said the Goblin,—“curiosities, and all that sort of thing, you know. By the way, how much money have you? We have to pay to get in.”

Davy began to feel in his pockets (which is a very difficult thing to do when you’re running fast), and found, to his astonishment, that they were completely filled with a most extraordinary lot of rubbish. First he pulled out what seemed to be an iron ball; but it proved to be a hard-boiled egg, without the shell, stuck full of small tacks. Then came two slices of toast, firmly tied together with a green cord. Then came a curious little glass jar, filled with large flies. As Davy took this out of his pocket, the cork came out with a loud “pop!” and the flies flew away in all directions. Then came, one after another, a tart filled with gravel, two chicken-bones, a bird’s nest with some pieces of brown soap in it, some mustard in a pill-box, and a cake of beeswax stuck full of caraway seeds. Davy remembered afterward that, as he threw these things away, they arranged themselves in a long row on the curb-stone of the street. The Goblin looked on with great interest as Davy fished them up out of his pockets, and finally said, enviously, “That’s a splendid collection; where did they all come from?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Davy, in great bewilderment.

“And I’m sure I don’t know,” repeated the Goblin. “What else is there?”

Davy felt about in his pockets again, and found what seemed to be a piece of money. On taking it out, however, he was mortified to find that it was nothing but an old button; but the Goblin exclaimed, in a tone of great satisfaction, “Ah! hold on to that!” and ran on faster than ever.

The sound of the distant voices had grown fainter and fainter still, and Davy was just hoping that their long run was almost over, when the street came abruptly to an end at a brick wall, over the top of which he could see the branches of trees. There was a small round hole in the wall, with the words “” printed above it, and the Goblin whispered to Davy to hand in the button through this hole. Davy did so, feeling very much ashamed of himself, when, to his surprise, instead of receiving tickets in return, he heard a loud exclamation behind the wall, followed by a confused sound of scuffling, and the hole suddenly disappeared. The next moment a little bell tinkled, and the wall rose slowly before them like a curtain, carrying the trees with it apparently, and he and the Goblin were left standing in a large open space paved with stone.

Davy was exceedingly alarmed at seeing a dense mass of Butterscotchmen in the centre of the square, pushing and crowding one another in a very quarrelsome manner, and chattering like a flock of magpies, and he was just about to propose a hasty retreat, when a figure came hurrying through the square, carrying on a pole a large placard, bearing the words:—

JUST RECEIVED!

THE GREAT FRUNGLES THING!

ON EXHIBITION IN THE PLUM-GARDEN!” At the sight of these words the mob set up a terrific shout, and began streaming out of the square after the pole-bearer, like a flock of sheep, jostling and shoving one another as they went, and leaving Davy and the Goblin quite alone.

“I verily believe they’re gone to look at my button,” cried Davy, beginning to laugh, in spite of his fears. “They called me Frungles, you know.”

“That’s rather a nice name,” said the Goblin, who had begun smiling again. “It’s better than Snubgraddle, at all events. Let’s have a look at the curiosities;” and here he walked boldly into the centre of the square.

 The goblin turned his telescope toward him.

Davy followed close at his heels, and found, to his astonishment and disappointment, that the curiosities were simply the things that he had fished out of his pockets but a few minutes before, placed on little pedestals and carefully protected by transparent sugar shades. He was on the point of laughing outright at this ridiculous exhibition, when he saw that the Goblin had taken a large telescope out of his pocket, and was examining the different objects with the closest attention, and muttering to himself, “Wonderful! wonderful!” as if he had never seen anything like them before.

“Pooh!” said Davy, contemptuously; “the only wonderful thing about them is, how they ever came here.”

At this remark the Goblin turned his telescope toward Davy, and uttered a faint cry of surprise; and Davy, peering anxiously through the large end, saw him suddenly shrink to the size of a small beetle, and then disappear altogether. Davy hastily reached out with his hands to grasp the telescope, and found himself staring through a round glass window into a farm-yard, where a red Cow stood gazing up at him.

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

title: Davy and the Goblin/Chapter IV


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Davy and the Goblin/Chapter V

Chapter V. Jack and the Bean-Stalk’s Farm.

It was quite an ordinary-looking farm-yard and quite an ordinary-looking Cow, but she stared so earnestly up at Davy that he felt positively certain she had something to say to him. “Every creature I meet does have something to say,” he thought, as he felt about for the window-fastening, “and I should really like to hear a Cow”—and just at this moment the window suddenly flew open, and he pitched head-foremost out upon a pile of hay in the farm-yard, and rolled from it off upon the ground. As he sat up, feeling exceedingly foolish, he looked anxiously at the Cow, expecting to see her laughing at his misfortune, but she stood gazing at him with a very serious expression of countenance, solemnly chewing, and slowly swishing her tail from side to side. As Davy really didn’t know how to begin a conversation with a Cow, he waited for her to speak first, and there was consequently a long pause. Presently the Cow said, in a melancholy, lowing tone of voice, “The old gray goose is dead.”

“I’m very sorry,” said Davy, not knowing what else to say.

“She is,” said the Cow, positively, “and we’ve buried her in the vegetable garden. We thought gooseberries would come up, but they didn’t. Nothing came up but feathers.”

“That’s very curious,” said Davy.

“Curious, but comfortable,” replied the Cow. “You see, it makes a feather-bed in the garden. The pig sleeps there, and calls it his quill pen. Now I think that pig-pens should be made of porcupine quills.”

“So do I,” said Davy, laughing. “What else is there in the garden?”

“Nothing but the bean-stalk,” said the Cow. “You’ve heard of ‘Jack and the Bean-stalk,’ haven’t you?”

“Oh! yes, indeed!” said Davy, beginning to be very much interested. “I should like to see the bean-stalk.”

“You can’t see the beans talk,” said the Cow, gravely. “You might hear them talk; that is, if they had anything to say, and you listened long enough. By the way, that’s the house that Jack built. Pretty, isn’t it?”

Davy turned and looked up at the house. It certainly was a very pretty house, built of bright red brick, with little gables, and dormer-windows in the roof, and with a trim little porch quite overgrown with climbing roses. Suddenly an idea struck him, and he exclaimed:—

“Then you must be the Cow with a crumpled horn!”

“It’s not crumpled,” said the Cow, with great dignity. “There’s a slight crimp in it, to be sure, but nothing that can properly be called a crump. Then the story was all wrong about my tossing the dog. It was the cat that ate the malt. He was a Maltese cat, and his name was Flipmegilder.”

“Did you toss him?” inquired Davy.

“Certainly not,” said the Cow, indignantly. “Who ever heard of a cow tossing a cat? The fact is, I’ve never had a fair chance to toss anything. As for the dog, Mother Hubbard never permitted any liberties to be taken with him.”

“I’d dearly love to see Mother Hubbard,” said Davy, eagerly.

“Well, you can,” said the Cow, indifferently. “She isn’t much to see. If you’ll look in at the kitchen window you’ll probably find her performing on the piano and singing a song. She’s always at it.”

 Mother Hubbard sings a song. Davy stole softly to the kitchen window and peeped in, and, as the Cow had said, Mother Hubbard was there, sitting at the piano, and evidently just preparing to sing. The piano was very remarkable, and Davy could not remember ever having seen one like it before. The top of it was arranged with shelves, on which stood all the kitchen crockery, and in the under part of it, at one end, was an oven with glass doors, through which he could see several pies baking.

Mother Hubbard was dressed, just as he expected, in a very ornamental flowered gown, with high-heeled shoes and buckles, and wore a tall pointed hat over her nightcap. She was so like the pictures Davy had seen of her that he thought he would have recognized her anywhere.

She sang in a high key with a very quavering voice, and this was the song:— I had an educated pug, His name was Tommy Jones; He lived upon the parlor rug Exclusively on bones.

And if, in a secluded room, I hid one on a shelf, It disappeared; so I presume He used to help himself.

He had an entertaining trick Of feigning he was dead; Then, with a reassuring kick, Would stand upon his head.

I could not take the proper change, And go to buy him shoes, But what he’d sit upon the range And read the latest news.

And when I ventured out, one day To order him a coat, I found him, in his artless way, Careering on a goat.

I could not go to look at hats But that, with childish glee, He’d ask in all the neighbors’ cats To join him at his tea.

And when I went to pay a bill (I think it was for tripe), He made himself extremely ill By smoking with a pipe.

There was something about the prim language of this song that sounded very familiar to Davy, and when Mother Hubbard chanced to turn her face towards him he was surprised to see that she looked very like old Miss Peggs, his school-teacher. While she was singing the song little handfuls of gravel were constantly thrown at her through one of the kitchen windows, and by the time the song was finished her lap was quite full of it.

“I’d just like to know who is throwing that gravel,” said Davy, indignantly.

“It’s Gobobbles,” said the Cow, calmly. “You’ll find him around at the front of the house. By the way, have you any chewing-gum about you?”

“No,” said Davy, greatly surprised at the question.

“So I supposed,” said the Cow. “It’s precisely what I should expect of a person who would fall out of a window.”

“But I couldn’t help that,” said Davy.

“Of course you couldn’t,” said the Cow, yawning indolently. “It’s precisely what I should expect of a person who hadn’t any chewing-gum.” And with this the Cow walked gravely away, just as Mother Hubbard made her appearance at the window.

“Boy,” said Mother Hubbard, beaming mildly upon Davy through her spectacles, “you shouldn’t throw gravel.”

“I haven’t thrown any,” said Davy.

“Fie!” said Mother Hubbard, shaking her head; “always speak the truth.”

“I am speaking the truth,” said Davy, indignantly. “It was Gobobbles.”

“So I supposed,” said Mother Hubbard, gently shaking her head again. “It would have been far better if he had been cooked last Christmas instead of being left over. Stuffing him and then letting him go has made a very proud creature of him. You should never be proud.”

“I’m not proud,” replied Davy, provoked at being mixed up with Gobobbles in this way.

“You may define the word proud, and give a few examples,” continued Mother Hubbard; and by this time she had grown to be so surprisingly like Miss Peggs that Davy immediately clasped his hands behind him, according to rule, and prepared to recite.

“Proud means being set up, I think,” he said, respectfully; “but I don’t think I know any examples.”

“You may take Gobobbles for an example,” replied Mother Hubbard. “You’ll find him set up in front of the house, and mind you don’t aggravate him;” and after again beaming mildly through her spectacles she disappeared from the window, and Davy went cautiously around the corner of the house, curious to see what Gobobbles might be like. As he approached the front of the house he heard a loud, thumping noise, and presently he came in sight of Gobobbles, who proved to be a large and very bold-mannered turkey with all his feathers taken off except a frowzy tuft about his neck. He was tied fast in a baby’s high chair, and was thumping his chest with his wings in such a violent and ill-tempered manner that Davy at once made up his mind not to aggravate him under any circumstances. As Gobobbles caught sight of him he discontinued his thumping, and, after staring at him for a moment, said sulkily:—

“I can’t abide boys!”

“Why not?” said Davy.

“Oh, they’re so hungry!” said Gobobbles, passionately. “They’re so everlastingly hungry. Now don’t deny that you’re fond of turkey.”

“Well, I do like turkey,” said Davy, seeing no way out of the difficulty.

“Of course you do!” said Gobobbles, tossing his head. “Now you might as well know,” he continued, resuming his thumping with increased energy, “that I’m as hollow as a drum and as tough as a hat-box. Just mention that fact to any one you meet, will you? I suppose Christmas is coming, of course.”

“Of course it is,” replied Davy.

“It’s always coming!” said Gobobbles, angrily; “I never knew a time yet when it wasn’t coming!”

“I don’t mind having it come,” said Davy, stoutly.

“Oh, don’t you, indeed!” said Gobobbles. “Well, then, I don’t mind having you go!” and here he began hopping his chair forward in such a threatening manner that Davy turned and walked away with as much dignity as he could assume.

As he went around the corner of the house again he found himself in a pleasant lane, bordered on either side by a tall hedge, and, as he was now out of sight of Gobobbles, he started off on a gentle run by way of getting out of the neighborhood as soon as possible. Before he had gone a dozen steps, however, he heard a thumping sound behind him, and, looking back, he saw, to his dismay, that Gobobbles had in some way got loose from his high chair, and was coming after him, thumping himself in a perfect frenzy. In fact, his appearance was so formidable that Davy did not pause for a second look, but started off at the top of his speed.

Gobobbles, however, proved himself to be a capital runner, and, in spite of all Davy’s efforts, he could hear the dreadful thumping sound coming nearer and nearer, until it seemed to be just at his heels. At this instant something sprang upon his back; but, before he could cry out in his terror, a head was suddenly thrust over his shoulder, and he found the Goblin, who was now of a bright purple color, staring him in the face and laughing with all his might.

title: Davy and the Goblin/Chapter V


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V.] more territory than German, Latin, and Greek combined; and they are all, probably, on their way to extinction.

The eastern part of Europe is mainly filled by the numerous branches of another important family, the Slavic or Slavonic. Although somewhat encroached upon on the west by the Germanic, it has, upon the whole, from inconspicuous beginnings, grown steadily in consequence since its first appearance on the stage of history, and now occupies a commanding position eastward, as the vehicle of civilization to northern and central Asia. It covers most of Russia in Europe, with Poland, the eastern provinces of Austria, and the northern of Turkey. Among its principal branches are the Russian, with numerous subdivisions, the Polish, the Bohemian, the Servian, and the Bulgarian. All these are as distinctly and closely akin with one another as are the modern Germanic dialects.

A more remotely allied branch of the same family, constituting almost a family by itself, occupies a narrow territory about the great bend of the Baltic sea, from the gulf of Finland to beyond the German frontier, and comprises the Lithuanian, the Livonian or Lettish, and the Old Prussian. The latter is already extinct, and the others also appear to be going gradually out of existence, under pressure of the assimilating influence exerted upon them by the languages of the surrounding more powerful communities.

We have thus reviewed all the languages of modern Europe, excepting, first, the Albanian, which is the living representative of the ancient Illyrian, and of which the connections are doubtful (although it is likely to be yet proved to belong with the rest, as a branch of the same stock); secondly, the Basque, in the Pyrenees, a wholly isolated and problematical tongue; thirdly, the Hungarian, with its relatives, the Finnish and Lappish of the extreme north, and other languages spoken by scattered tribes in northern and eastern Russia; and finally, the Turkish and its congeners, which do but overlap slightly the south-eastern frontier. These two last groups, as we shall see hereafter (in the eighth lecture  ), are of a kindred that occupies no small part


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Davy and the Goblin/Chapter VI

Chapter VI. The Giant Badorful. “Goblin,” said Davy, very seriously, as the little man jumped down from off his back, “if you are going to play such tricks as that upon me I should like to go home at once.”

“Where’s the harm?” said the Goblin, sitting down on the grass with his back against a wall and smiling contentedly.

“The harm is that I thought it was Gobobbles,” said Davy, indignantly.

“Oh, you needn’t be afraid of Gobobbles!” said the Goblin. “He’s got all that he can attend to, taking care of himself. You see, he’s wanted for Christmas, but why anybody should want him to eat is more than I can understand. Why, he’s seventy years old if he’s a day, and as indigestible as an old cork.”

Just at this moment a loud, rumbling noise, like distant thunder, came from behind the wall against which the Goblin was leaning, followed by a tremendous sneeze, that fairly shook the ground.

“What’s that?” whispered Davy to the Goblin, in great alarm.

“It’s only Badorful,” said the Goblin, laughing. “He’s always snoring and waking himself up, and I suppose it’s sleeping on the ground that makes him sneeze. Let’s have a look at him;” and the Goblin led the way along the wall to a large grating.

Davy looked through the grating, and was much alarmed at seeing a giant, at least twenty feet in height, sitting on the ground, with his legs crossed under him like a tailor. He was dressed in a shabby suit of red velveteen, with a great leathern belt about his waist and enormous boots, and Davy thought he looked terribly ferocious. On the grass beside him lay a huge club, thickly studded at one end with great iron knobs; but Davy noticed, to his great relief, that some little creeping vines were twining themselves among these knobs, and that moss was growing thickly upon one side of the club itself, as though it had been lying there untouched for a long time.

The giant was talking to himself in a low tone, and after listening attentively at the grating for a moment, the Goblin shrieked: “He’s making poetry!” and, throwing himself upon the ground, kicked up his heels in a perfect ecstasy of delight.

“Oh, hush, hush!” cried Davy, in terror. “Suppose he hears you!”

“Hears me!” said the Goblin, discontinuing his kicking and looking very much surprised. “What if he does?”

“Well, you know, he might not like being laughed at,” said Davy, anxiously.

“There’s something in that,” said the Goblin, staring reflectively at the ground.

“And, you see,” continued Davy, “a giant who doesn’t like what’s going on must be a dreadful creature.”

“Oh! there’s no fear of him” said the Goblin, contemptuously, motioning with his head toward the giant. “He’s too old. Why, I must have known him, off and on, for nearly two hundred years. Come in and see him.”

“Will he do anything?” said Davy, anxiously.

“Bless you, no!” said the Goblin. “He’s a perfect old kitten;” and with these words he pushed open the grating and passed through, with Davy following tremblingly at his heels. Badorful looked up with a feeble smile, and merely said, “Just listen to this:”— “Just listen to this.”

My age is three hundred and seventy-two,

And I think, with the deepest regret,

How I used to pick up and voraciously chew

The dear little boys whom I met.

I’ve eaten them raw, in their holiday suits;

I’ve eaten them curried with rice;

I’ve eaten them baked, in their jackets and boots,

And found them exceedingly nice.

But now that my jaws are too weak for such fare,

I think it exceedingly rude

To do such a thing, when I’m quite well aware

Little boys do not like to be chewed.

And so I contentedly live upon eels.

And try to do nothing amiss,

And I pass all the time I can spare from my meals

In innocent slumber—like this. Here Badorful rolled over upon his side, and was instantly fast asleep.

“You see,” said the Goblin, picking up a large stone and thumping with it upon the giant’s head, “you see, he’s quite weak here; otherwise, considering his age, he’s a very capable giant.”

At this moment a farmer, with bright red hair, thrust his head in at the grating, and calling out, “Here comes Gobobbles!” disappeared again; and Davy and the Goblin rushed out, and were just in time to see Gobobbles go by like a flash, with a crowd of people armed with pitchforks in hot pursuit. Gobobbles was going in fine style, bounding over the hedges and stone-walls like a kangaroo, and thumping vigorously, as usual, with his wings, and Davy and the Goblin were just setting off on a run to join in the chase, when a voice said, “Ahem!” and, looking up, they saw Badorful staring at them over the top of the wall.

“How does this strike you?” he said, addressing himself to Davy:— Although I am a giant of the exhibition size,

I’ve been nicely educated, and I notice with surprise

That the simplest rules of etiquette you don’t pretend to keep,

For you skurry off to races while a gentleman’s asleep.

Don’t reply that I was drowsy, for my nap was but a kind

Of dramatic illustration of a peaceful frame of mind;

And you really might have waited till I woke again, instead

Of indelicately pounding, with a stone, upon my head.

Very probably you’ll argue that our views do not agree,—

I’ve often found that little boys have disagreed with me,—

But I’m properly entitled, on the compensation plan,

To three times as much politeness as an ordinary man.

Davy was greatly distressed at having these severe remarks addressed tohim.

“If you please, sir,” he said earnestly, “I didn’t pound you.”

At this the giant glared savagely at the Goblin, and continued:— My remarks have been directed at the one who, I supposed,

Had been violently thumping on my person while I dozed;

By a simple calculation, you will find that there is due

Just six times as much politeness from a little chap like you.

“Oh! you make me ill!” said the Goblin, flippantly. “Go to sleep.”

Badorful stared at him for a moment, and then, with a sickly smile, murmured, “Good-afternoon,” and disappeared behind the wall.

Davy and the Goblin now hurried off in pursuit of Gobobbles, and presently came upon the crowd of farmers who had joined hands in a ring, and were dancing around a large white object lying on the ground. Davy pushed his way eagerly through the crowd, expecting to see Gobobbles; but the white object proved to be the Cockalorum hemmed in by a ring of pitchforks sticking in the ground, and with his feathers more rumpled than ever. Cockalorum hemmed in by a ring of pitchforks.

“Dear me!” exclaimed Davy, perfectly amazed, “I thought we were chasing Gobobbles!”

“Of course you did,” said the Goblin, complacently; “but in this part of the world things very often turn out to be different from what they would have been if they hadn’t been otherwise than as you expected they were going to be.”

“But you thought so yourself,” began Davy, when, to his distress, the Goblin suddenly faded into a dull pinkish color, and then disappeared altogether. Davy looked about him, and found that the Cockalorum and the dancing farmers had also disappeared, and that he was quite alone in a dense wood.

title: Davy and the Goblin/Chapter VI


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Davy and the Goblin/Chapter VII

Chapter VII. The Moving Forest. “Oh, dear!” cried Davy, speaking aloud in his distress, “I do wish people and things wouldn’t change about so! Just so soon as ever I get to a place it goes away, and I’m somewhere else!”—and the little boy’s heart began to beat rapidly as he looked about him; for the wood was very dark and solemn and still.

Presently the trees and bushes directly before him moved silently apart and showed a broad path beautifully overgrown with soft turf; and as he stepped forward upon it the trees and bushes beyond moved silently aside in their turn, and the path grew before him, as he walked along, like a green carpet slowly unrolling itself through the wood. It made him a little uneasy, at first, to find that the trees behind him came together again, quietly blotting out the path; but then he thought, “It really doesn’t matter, so long as I don’t want to go back;” and so he walked along very contentedly.

By and by the path seemed to give itself a shake, and, turning abruptly around a large tree, brought Davy suddenly upon a little butcher’s shop, snugly buried in the wood. There was a sign on the shop, reading, “,” and Robin himself, wearing a clean white apron over his suit of Lincoln green, stood in the door-way, holding a knife and steel, as though he were on the lookout for customers. As he caught sight of Davy he said, “Steaks? Chops?” in an inquiring way, quite like an every-day butcher.

“Venison is deer, isn’t it?” said Davy, looking up at the sign.

“Venison is deer, isn’t it?” said Davy, looking up at the sign.

“Not at all,” said Robin Hood, promptly. “It’s the cheapest meat about here.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” replied Davy; “I meant that it comes off of a deer.”

“Wrong again!” said Robin Hood, triumphantly. “It comes on a deer. I cut it off myself. Steaks? Chops?”

“No, I thank you,” said Davy, giving up the argument. “I don’t think I want anything to eat just now.”

“Then what did you come here for?” said Robin Hood, peevishly. “What’s the good, I’d like to know, of standing around and staring at an honest tradesman?”

“Well, you see,” said Davy, beginning to feel that he had, somehow, been very rude in coming there at all, “I didn’t know you were this sort of person at all. I always thought you were an archer, like—like William Tell, you know.”

“That’s all a mistake about Tell,” said Robin Hood, contemptuously. “He wasn’t an archer. He was a cross-bow man,—the crossest one that ever lived. By the way,” he added, suddenly returning to business with the greatest earnestness, “you don’t happen to want any steaks or chops to-day, do you?”

“No, not to-day, thank you,” said Davy, very politely.

“To-morrow?” inquired Robin Hood.

“No, I thank you,” said Davy again.

“Will you want any yesterday?” inquired Robin Hood, rather doubtfully.

“I think not,” said Davy, beginning to laugh.

Robin Hood stared at him for a moment with a puzzled expression, and then walked into his little shop, and Davy turned away. As he did so the path behind him began to unfold itself through the wood, and, looking back over his shoulder, he saw the little shop swallowed up by the trees and bushes. Just as it disappeared from view he caught a glimpse of a charming little girl, peeping out of a latticed window beside the door. She wore a little red hood, and looked wistfully after Davy as the shop went out of sight.

“I verily believe that was Little Red Riding Hood,” said Davy to himself, “and I never knew before that Robin Hood was her father!” The thought of Red Riding Hood, however, brought the wolf to Davy’s mind, and he began to anxiously watch the thickets on either side of the path, and even went so far as to whistle softly to himself, by way of showing that he wasn’t in the least afraid. He went on and on, hoping the forest would soon come to an end, until the path shook itself again, disclosing to view a trim little brick shop in the densest part of the thicket. It had a neat little green door, with a bright brass knocker upon it, and a sign above it, bearing the words:—

”.”

“Well!” exclaimed Davy, in amazement. “Of all places to sell watches in that’s the preposterest!”—but as he turned to walk away he found the trees and bushes for the first time blocking his way, and refusing to move aside. This distressed him very much, until it suddenly occurred to him that this must mean that he was to go into the shop; and, after a moment’s hesitation, he went up and knocked timidly at the door with the bright brass knocker. There was no response to the knock, and Davy cautiously pushed open the door and went in.

The place was so dark that at first he could see nothing, although he heard a rattling sound coming from the back part of the shop; but presently he discovered the figure of an old man, busily mixing something in a large iron pot. As Davy approached him he saw that the pot was full of watches, which the old man was stirring with a ladle. The old creature was very curiously dressed, in a suit of rusty green velvet, with little silver buttons sewed over it, and he wore a pair of enormous yellow-leather boots; and Davy was quite alarmed at seeing that a broad leathern belt about his waist was stuck full of old-fashioned knives and pistols. Davy was about to retreat quickly from the shop, when the old man looked up, and said, in a peevish voice:—

“How many watches do you want?”—and Davy saw that he was a very shocking-looking person, with wild, staring eyes, and with a skin as dark as mahogany, as if he had been soaked in something for ever so long.

“How many watches do you want?” said Sham-Sham, in a peevish voice.

“How many?” repeated the old man, impatiently.

“If you please,” said Davy, “I don’t think I’ll take any watches to-day. I’ll call”—

“Drat ’em!” interrupted the old man, angrily beating the watches with his ladle; “I’ll never get rid of ’em—never!”

“It seems to me”—began Davy, soothingly.

“Of course it does!” again interrupted the old man, as crossly as before. “Of course it does! That’s because you won’t listen to the why of it.”

“But I will listen,” said Davy.

“Then sit down on the floor and hold up your ears,” said the old man.

Davy did as he was told to do, so far as sitting down on the floor was concerned, and the old man pulled a paper out of one of his boots, and, glaring at Davy over the top of it, said, angrily:—

“You’re a pretty spectacle! I’m another. What does that make?”

“A pair of spectacles, I suppose,” said Davy.

“Right!” said the old man. “Here they are.” And pulling an enormous pair of spectacles out of the other boot he put them on, and began reading aloud from his paper:—

My recollectest thoughts are those

Which I remember yet;

And bearing on, as you’d suppose,

The things I don’t forget.

But my resemblest thoughts are less

Alike than they should be;

A state of things, as you’ll confess,

You very seldom see. “Clever, isn’t it?” said the old man, peeping proudly over the top of the paper.

“Yes, I think it is,” said Davy, rather doubtfully.

“Now comes the cream of the whole thing,” said the old man. “Just listen to this:”—

And yet the mostest thought I love Is what no one believes—

Here the old man hastily crammed the paper into his boot again, and stared solemnly at Davy.

“What is it?” said Davy, after waiting a moment for him to complete the verse. The old man glanced suspiciously about the shop, and then added, in a hoarse whisper:—

That I’m the sole survivor of The famous Forty Thieves!

“But I thought the Forty Thieves were all boiled to death,” said Davy.

“All but me,” said the old man, decidedly. “I was in the last jar, and when they came to me the oil was off the boil, or the boil was off the oil,—I forget which it was,—but it ruined my digestion, and made me look like a gingerbread man. What larks we used to have!” he continued, rocking himself back and forth and chuckling hoarsely. “Oh! we were a precious lot, we were! I’m Sham-Sham, you know. Then there was Anamanamona Mike,—he was an Irishman from Hullaboo,—and Barcelona Boner,—he was a Spanish chap, and boned everything he could lay his hands on. Strike’s real name was Gobang; but we called him Strike, because he was always asking for more pay. Hare Ware was a poacher and used to catch Welsh rabbits in a trap; we called him ‘Hardware’ because he had so much steal about him. Good joke, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, very!” said Davy, laughing.

“Frown Whack was a scowling fellow with a club,” continued Sham-Sham. “My! how he could hit! And Harico and Barico were a couple of bad Society Islanders. Then there was Wee Wo,—he was a little Chinese chap, and we used to send him down the chimneys to open front doors for us. He used to say that sooted him to perfection. Wac—”

At this moment an extraordinary commotion began among the watches. There was no doubt about it, the pot was boiling, and Sham-Sham, angrily crying out, “Don’t tell me a watched pot never boils!” sprang to his feet, and, pulling a pair of pistols from his belt, began firing at the watches, which were now bubbling over the side of the pot and rolling about the floor; while Davy, who had had quite enough of Sham-Sham by this time, ran out of the door.

Sham-Sham, exclaiming “Don’t tell me a watched pot never boils!” began firing at the watches.

To his great surprise he found himself in a sort of underground passage, lighted by grated openings overhead; but as he could still hear Sham-Sham, who now seemed to be firing all his pistols at once, he did not hesitate, but ran along the passage at the top of his speed.

Presently he came in sight of a figure hurrying toward him with a lighted candle, and, as it approached, he was perfectly astounded to see that it was Sham-Sham himself, dressed up in a neat calico frock and a dimity apron, like a house-keeper, and with a bunch of keys hanging at his girdle.

 The cockalorum is ill. The old man seemed to be greatly agitated, and hurriedly whispering, “We thought you were never coming, sir!” led the way through the passage in great haste. Davy noticed that they were now in a sort of tunnel made of fine grass. The grass had a delightful fragrance, like new-mown hay, and was neatly wound around the tunnel, like the inside of a bird’s-nest. The next moment they came out into an open space in the forest, where, to Davy’s amazement, the Cockalorum was sitting bolt upright in an arm-chair, with his head wrapped up in flannel.

It seemed to be night, but the place was lighted up by a large chandelier that hung from the branches of a tree, and Davy saw that a number of odd-looking birds were roosting on the chandelier among the lights, gazing down upon the poor Cockalorum with a melancholy interest. As Sham-Sham made his appearance, with Davy at his heels, there was a sudden commotion among the birds, and they all cried out together, “Here’s the doctor!” but before Davy could reply the Hole-keeper suddenly made his appearance, with his great book, and, hurriedly turning over the leaves, said, pointing to Davy, “He isn’t a doctor. His name is Gloopitch.” At these words there arose a long, wailing cry, the lights disappeared, and Davy found himself on a broad path in the forest, with the Hole-keeper walking quietly beside him.

title: Davy and the Goblin/Chapter VII


text:
Davy and the Goblin/Chapter VIII

Chapter VIII. Sindbad the Sailor’s House. “You had no right to tell those birds my name was Gloopitch!” said Davy, angrily. “That’s the second time you’ve got it wrong.”

“Well, it’s of no consequence,” said the Hole-keeper, complacently. “I’ll make it something else the next time. I suppose you know they’ve caught Gobobbles?”

“I’m glad of it!” said Davy, heartily. “He’s worse than the Cockalorum, ten times over. What did they do with him?”

“Cooked him,” said the Hole-keeper,—“roasted him, fried him, pickled him, and boiled him.”

“Gracious!” exclaimed Davy; “I shouldn’t think he’d be good for much after all that.”

“He isn’t,” replied the Hole-keeper, calmly. “They’re going to keep him to rub out pencil-marks with.”

This was such a ridiculous idea that Davy threw back his head, and laughed long and loud.

“Do that again,” said the Hole-keeper, stopping short in his walk and gazing at him earnestly; and Davy burst into another fit of laughter.

“Do it again,” persisted the Hole-keeper, staring at him still more solemnly.

This was somewhat tiresome; and, after a rather feeble attempt at a third laugh, Davy said, “I don’t feel like it any more.”

“If I could do that,” said the Hole-keeper, earnestly, “I’d never stop. The fact is,” he continued, gravely shaking his head, “I’ve never laughed in my life. Does it hurt much?”

“It doesn’t hurt at all,” said Davy, beginning to laugh again.

“Well, there, there!” said the Hole-keeper, peevishly, resuming his walk again; “don’t keep it up forever. By the way, you’re not the postman, are you?”

“Of course I’m not,” said Davy.

“I’m glad of that,” said the Hole-keeper; “postmen are always so dreadfully busy. Would you mind delivering a letter for me?” he added, lowering his voice confidentially.

“Oh, no,” answered Davy, rather reluctantly; “not if it will be in my way.”

“It’s sure to be in your way, because it’s so big,” said the Hole-keeper; and, taking the letter out of his pocket, he handed it to Davy. It certainly was a very large letter, curiously folded, like a dinner-napkin, and sealed in a great many places with red and white peppermint drops, and Davy was much pleased to see that it was addressed:—

“What does B.G. stand for?” said Davy.

“Baldergong’s Geography, of course,” said the Hole-keeper.

“But why do you put that on the letter?” inquired Davy.

“Because you can’t find Jeran Feranderperandamam anywhere else, stupid,” said the Hole-keeper, impatiently. “But I can’t stop to argue about it now;” and, saying this, he turned into a side path, and disappeared in the wood.

As Davy walked mournfully along, turning the big letter over and over in his hands, and feeling very confused by the Hole-keeper’s last remark, he presently saw, lying on the walk before him, a small book, beautifully bound in crimson morocco, and, picking it up, he saw that it was marked on the cover:—

“Perhaps this will tell me where to go,” he thought as he opened it; but it proved to be far more confusing than the Hole-keeper himself had been. In fact it was altogether the most ridiculous and provoking book Davy had ever seen.

The first page was headed, in large capital letters:—

And it seemed to Davy that this ought to be something about cooking sausages; but all he found below the heading was:—

Never frill ’em: snuggle ’em always.

And this seemed so perfectly silly that he merely said, “Oh, bosh!” and turned impatiently to the next page. This, however, was no better. The heading was:—

And under this was—

One way:— Frumple your crumbles with rumbles.

The other way:— Frumple your crumbles: then add two grumbles of tumbles and stir rapidly.

Davy read this over two or three times, in the greatest perplexity, and then gave it up in despair.

“It’s nothing at all except a jumbly way of cooking something tumbly,” he said to himself, and then turned sadly to the third page. Alas! this was a great deal worse, being headed:—

and poor Davy began to feel as if he were taking leave of his senses. He was just about to throw the book down in disgust, when it was suddenly snatched out of his hands; and, turning hastily, he saw a savage glaring at him from the bushes.

Now Davy knew perfectly well, as all little boys should know, that when you meet a savage in the woods you must get behind a tree as quickly as possible; but he did this in such haste that he found, to his dismay, that he and the savage had chosen the same tree, and in the next instant the savage was after him. The tree was a very large one, and Davy, in his fright, went around it a number of times, so rapidly that he presently caught sight of the back of the savage, and he was surprised to see that he was no bigger than a large monkey; and, moreover, that he was gorgeously dressed, in a beautiful blue coat, with brass buttons on the tail of it, and pink striped trousers. He had hardly made this discovery when the savage vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared, and the next moment Davy came suddenly upon a high paling of logs, that began at the tree and extended in a straight line far out into the forest.

It was very puzzling to Davy when it occurred to him that, although he had been around the tree at least a dozen times, he had never seen this paling before, and a door that was in it also bothered him; for, though it was quite an ordinary-looking door, it had no knob nor latch, nor, indeed, any way of being opened that he could perceive. On one side of it, in the paling, was a row of bell-pulls, marked:— and on the door itself was a large knocker, marked:—

After examining all these Davy decided that, as he had a letter in charge, he was more of a postman than anything else, and he therefore raised the knocker and rapped loudly. Immediately all the bell-pulls began flying in and out of their own accord, with a deafening clangor of bells behind the paling; and then the door swung slowly back upon its hinges.

Davy walked through the door-way and found himself in the oddest-looking little country place that could possibly be imagined. There was a little lawn laid out, on which a sort of soft fur was growing instead of grass, and here and there about the lawn, in the place of flower-beds, little footstools, neatly covered with carpet, were growing out of the fur. The trees were simply large feather-dusters, with varnished handles; but they seemed, nevertheless, to be growing in a very thriving manner, and on a little mound at the back of the lawn stood a small house, built entirely of big conch-shells, with their pink mouths turned outward. This gave the house a very cheerful appearance, as if it were constantly on a broad grin.

To Davy’s dismay, however, the savage was sitting in the shade of one of the dusters, complacently reading the little red book, and he was just wondering whether or not he would be able to get out of the place without being seen, when the little creature looked up at him with a tremendous smile on his face, and Davy saw, to his astonishment, that he was the Goblin, dressed up like an Ethiopian serenader.

The savage was sitting in the shade of one of the dusters.

“Oh! you dear, delicious old Goblin!” cried Davy, in an ecstasy of joy at again finding his travelling-companion. “And were you the savage that was chasing me just now?”

The Goblin nodded his head, and, exclaiming “My, how you did cut and run!” rolled over and over, kicking his heels about in a delirium of enjoyment.

“Goblin,” said Davy, gravely, “I think we could have just as good a time without any such doings as that.”

“I couldn’t,” said the Goblin, sitting up again and speaking very positively; “it’s about all the fun I have.”

“Well, then,” said Davy, “I wish you wouldn’t be disappearing all the time. I think that is a very disagreeable habit.”

“Rubbish!” said the Goblin, with a chuckle. “That’s only my way of getting a vacation.”

“And where do you go?” inquired Davy; but this proved to be a very unfortunate question, for the Goblin immediately began fading away in such an alarming manner that he would certainly have gone entirely out of sight if Davy had not caught him by the coat-collar and pulled him into view again with a gentle shake.

“Oh, I beg your pardon!” said Davy, who was greatly alarmed by this narrow escape. “I really don’t care to know about that; I only want to know what place this is.”

The Goblin stared about him in a dazed manner for a moment, and then said, “Sindbad the Sailor’s house.”

“Really and truly?” said the delighted Davy.

“Really and treally truly,” said the Goblin. “And here he comes now!”

Davy looked around and saw an old man coming toward them across the lawn. He was dressed in a Turkish costume, and wore a large turban and red morocco slippers turned up at the toes like skates; and his white beard was so long that at every fourth step he trod upon it and fell flat on his face. He took no notice whatever of either Davy or the Goblin, and, after falling down a number of times, took his seat upon one of the little carpet footstools, and taking off his turban began stirring about in it with a large wooden spoon. As he took off his turban Davy saw that his head, which was perfectly bald, was neatly laid out in black and white squares like a chess-board.

“This here Turk is the most reckless old story-teller that ever was born,” said the Goblin, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder at Sindbad. “You can’t believe half he tells you.”

“I’d like to hear one of his stories, for all that,” said Davy.

“All right!” said the Goblin, promptly; “just come along with me, and he’ll give us a whopper.”

As they started off to join Sindbad, Davy was much surprised to see that the Goblin was much taller than he had been; in fact, he was now almost up to Davy’s shoulder.

“Why, I verily believe you’ve been growing!” exclaimed Davy, staring at him in amazement.

“I have,” said the Goblin, calmly. “But I only did it to fit these clothes. It’s much handier, you see, than having a suit made to order.”

“But, suppose the clothes had been too small?” argued Davy.

“Then I’d have grown the other way,” replied the Goblin, with an immense smile. “It doesn’t make a bit of difference to me which way I grow. Anything to be comfortable is my rule;” and as he said this they came to where Sindbad was sitting, busily stirring with his great spoon.

As Davy and the Goblin sat down beside him, Sindbad hastily put on his turban, and, after scowling at Davy for a moment, said to the Goblin, “It’s no use telling him anything; he’s as deaf as a trunk.”

“Then tell it to me,” said the Goblin, with great presence of mind.

“All right,” said Sindbad, “I’ll give you a nautical one.”

Here he rose for a moment, hitched up his big trousers like a sailor, cocked his turban on one side of his head, and, sitting down again, began:—

 He played hop-scotch with the starboard watch.

A capital ship for an ocean trip

Was “The Walloping Window-blind;”

No gale that blew dismayed her crew

Or troubled the captain’s mind.

The man at the wheel was taught to feel

Contempt for the wildest blow,

And it often appeared, when the weather had cleared,

That he’d been in his bunk below.

The boatswain’s mate was very sedate,

Yet fond of amusement, too;

And he played hop-scotch with the starboard watch

While the captain tickled the crew.

And the gunner we had was apparently mad,

For he sat on the after-rail,

And fired salutes with the captain’s boots,

In the teeth of the booming gale.

The captain sat in a commodore’s hat,

And dined, in a royal way,

On toasted pigs and pickles and figs

And gummery bread, each day.

But the cook was Dutch, and behaved as such;

For the food that he gave the crew

Was a number of tons of hot-cross buns,

Chopped up with sugar and glue.

And we all felt ill as mariners will,

On a diet that’s cheap and rude;

And we shivered and shook as we dipped the cook

In a tub of his gluesome food.

Then nautical pride we laid aside,

And we cast the vessel ashore

On the Gulliby Isles, where the Poohpooh smiles,

And the Anagazanders roar.

Composed of sand was that favored land,

And trimmed with cinnamon straws;

And pink and blue was the pleasing hue

Of the Tickletoeteaser’s claws.

And we sat on the edge of a sandy ledge

And shot at the whistling bee;

And the Binnacle-bats wore water-proof hats

As they danced in the sounding sea.

On rubagub bark, from dawn to dark,

We fed, till we all had grown

Uncommonly shrunk,—when a Chinese junk

Came by from the torriby zone.

She was stubby and square, but we didn’t much care,

And we cheerily put to sea;

And we left the crew of the junk to chew

The bark of the rubagub tree.

Here Sindbad stopped, and gazed solemnly at Davy and the Goblin.

“If you please, sir,” said Davy, respectfully, “what is gummery bread?”

“It’s bread stuffed with molasses,” said Sindbad; “but I never saw it anywhere except aboard of ‘The Prodigal Pig.’”

“But,” said Davy, in great surprise, “you said the name of your ship was”—

“So I did, and so it was,” interrupted Sindbad, testily. “The name of a ship sticks to it like wax to a wig. You can’t change it.”

“Who gave it that name?” said the Goblin.

“What name?” said Sindbad, looking very much astonished.

“Why, ‘The Cantering Soup-tureen,’“ said the Goblin, winking at Davy.

“Oh, that name,” said Sindbad,—“that was given to her by the Alamagoozelum of Popjaw. But speaking of soup-tureens, let’s go and have some pie;” and, rising to his feet, he gave one hand to Davy and the other to the Goblin, and they all walked off in a row toward the little shell house. This, however, proved to be a very troublesome arrangement, for Sindbad was constantly stepping on his long beard and falling down; and as he kept a firm hold of his companions’ hands they all went down in a heap together a great many times. At last Sindbad’s turban fell off, and as he sat up on the grass, and began stirring in it again with his wooden spoon, Davy saw that it was full of broken chessmen.

He gave one hand to Davy and the other to the goblin.

“It’s a great improvement, isn’t it?” said Sindbad.

“What is?” said Davy, very much puzzled.

“Why, this way of playing the game,” said Sindbad, looking up at him complacently. “You see, you make all the moves at once.”

“It must be a very easy way,” said Davy.

“It’s nothing of the sort,” said Sindbad, sharply. “There are more moves in one of my games than in twenty ordinary games;” and here he stirred up the chessmen furiously for a moment, and then triumphantly calling out “Check!” clapped the turban on his head.

As they set out again for the little house Davy saw that it was slowly moving around the edge of the lawn, as if it were on a circular railway, and Sindbad followed it around, dragging Davy and the Goblin with him, but never getting any nearer to the house.

“Don’t you think,” said Davy, after a while, “that it would be a good plan to stand still and wait until the house came around to us?”

“Here, drop that!” exclaimed Sindbad, excitedly; “that’s my idea. I was just about proposing it myself.”

“So was I,” said the Goblin to Sindbad. “Just leave my ideas alone, will you?”

“Your ideas!” retorted Sindbad, scornfully. “I didn’t know you’d brought any with you.”

“I had to,” replied the Goblin, with great contempt, “otherwise there wouldn’t have been any on the premises.”

“Oh! come, I say!” cried Sindbad; “that’s my sneer, you know. Don’t go to putting the point of it the wrong way.”

“Take it back, if it’s the only one you have,” retorted the Goblin, with another wink at Davy.

“Thank you, I believe I will,” replied Sindbad, meekly; and, as the little house came along just then, they all stepped in at the door as it went by. As they did so, to Davy’s amazement, Sindbad and the Goblin quietly vanished, and Davy, instead of being inside the house, found himself standing in a dusty road, quite alone.

title: Davy and the Goblin/Chapter VIII


text:
Page:Language and the Study of Language.djvu/214

192 of northern and central Asia. But before we have gathered in all the members of the great family we are seeking to establish, we must cross the border of Europe, and enter southern Asia.

Asia Minor is chiefly in the hands of Turkish tribes, who have crowded themselves in there in comparatively modern times, driving out, or subjecting and assimilating, the previous occupants. The same races stretch eastward, across the southern extremity of the Caspian sea, intervening between Europe and the countries whose speech shows affinity with that of Europe. But within, in the hilly provinces of Media and Persia, and on the great Iranian table-land, which stretches thence to the Indus, we find again abundant traces of a linguistic tradition coinciding ultimately with our own. The Persian, with all its dialects, ancient and modern, and with its outliers on the north-west and on the east—as the Armenian, the Kurdish, the Ossetic, and the Afghan—constitutes a branch of our family, the Persian or Iranian branch. And yet one step farther we are able to pursue the same tie of connection. The Iranian languages conduct us to the very borders of India: beyond those borders, in Hindustan, between the bounding walls of the Himalayas and Vindhyas, and eastward to the mouths of the Ganges, lies the easternmost branch of that grand division of human speech to which our own belongs, the Indian branch, comprising the ancient Sanskrit, with its derived and kindred languages.

The seven groups of languages at which we have thus glanced—namely, the Indian, the Persian, the Greek, the Latin, the Slavonic (including the Lithuanic), the Germanic, and the Celtic—each made up of numerous dialects and sub-dialects, are the members composing one vast and highly-important family of human speech, to which, from the names of its two extreme members, we give the title of "Indo-European." It is known also by various other designations: some style it "Japhetic," as if it appertained to the descendants of the patriarch Japhet, as the so-called "Semitic" tongues to the descendants of Shem; "Aryan" is a yet more popular and customary name for it, but is liable to objection, as being more especially appropriate to the joint Indo-Persian branch of


text:
Davy and the Goblin/Chapter IX

Chapter IX. Lay-Overs for Meddlers. As Davy stood in the road, in doubt which way to go, a Roc came around the corner of the house. She was a large bird, nearly six feet tall, and was comfortably dressed, in a bonnet and a plaid shawl, and wore overshoes. About her neck was hung a covered basket and a door-key; and Davy at once concluded that she was Sindbad’s house-keeper.

Davy meets the Roc.

“I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” said the Roc, leading the way along the road; “but I declare that, what with combing that lawn every morning with a fine tooth comb, and brushing those shells every evening with a fine tooth-brush, I don’t get time for anything else let alone feeding the animals.”

“What animals?” said Davy, beginning to be interested.

“Why, his, of course,” said the Roc, rattling on in her harsh voice. “There’s an Emphasis and two Periodicals, and a Spotted Disaster, all crawlin’ and creepin’ and screechin’”—

Here Davy, unable to control himself, burst into a fit of laughter, in which the Roc joined heartily, rolling her head from side to side, and repeating, “All crawlin’ and creepin’ and screechin’,” over and over again, as if that were the cream of the joke. Suddenly she stopped laughing, and said in a low voice, “You don’t happen to have a beefsteak about you, do you?”

Davy confessed that he had not, and the Roc continued, “Then I must go back. Just hold my basket, like a good child.” Here there was a scuffling sound in the basket, and the Roc rapped on the cover with her hard beak, and cried, “Hush!”

“What’s in it?” said Davy, cautiously taking the basket.

“Lay-overs for meddlers,” said the Roc, and, hurrying back along the road, was soon out of sight.

“I wonder what they’re like,” said Davy to himself, getting down upon his hands and knees and listening curiously with his ear against the cover of the basket. The scuffling sound continued, mingled with little sneezes and squeaking sobs, as if some very small kittens had bad colds and were crying about it.

“I think I’ll take a peep,” said Davy, looking cautiously about him. There was no one in sight, and he carefully raised the cover a little way and tried to look in. The scuffling sound and the sobs ceased, and the next instant the cover flew off the basket, and out poured a swarm of little brown creatures, like snuff-boxes with legs. As they scampered off in all directions Davy made a frantic grab at one of them, when it instantly turned over on its back and blew a puff of smoke into his face, and he rolled over in the road, almost stifled. When he was able to sit up again and look about him the empty basket was lying on its side near him, and not a lay-over was to be seen. At that moment the Roc came in sight, hurrying along the road with her shawl and her bonnet-strings fluttering behind her; and Davy, clapping the cover on the basket, took to his heels and ran for dear life.

title: Davy and the Goblin/Chapter IX


text:
Page:Language and the Study of Language.djvu/215

V.] the family, since it is used by them, and them alone, in designating themselves; and a few still employ the term "Indo-Germanic," which seems to savour of national prepossession, since no good reason can be given why, among the western branches, the Germanic should be singled out for representation in the general title of the family.

The languages of this whole family sustain to one another a relation which is the same in kind with that subsisting between the various Germanic dialects, and differs from it only in degree. That the signs of their relationship escape the notice of a superficial observer—that the school-boy, or even the college-student, when toiling over his Greek and Latin tasks, does not suspect, and might be hard to persuade, that the classical languages and his mother-tongue are but modified forms of the same original, is evidently no ground for discrediting the fact. The uninstructed English speaker, as we have seen, finds even the nearly kindred German as strange and unintelligible as the Turkish: both are to him in equal degree, as he says, "all Dutch," or "all Greek;" and yet, a little learning enables him to find half his native vocabulary, in a somewhat changed but still plainly recognizable form, in the German dictionary. A higher degree of instruction is required, in order to the discovery and appreciation of that evidence which proves the remoter relationship of the Indo-European tongues; a wider comparison, a more skilled and penetrating analysis, must be applied; but, by its application, the conclusion is reached just as directly and surely in the one case as in the other. The inquirer fully convinces himself that the correspondences in their material and structure are too numerous, and of too intimate a character, to be explained with any plausibility by the supposition of accidental coincidence, or of mutual borrowing or imitation; that they can only be the consequence of a common linguistic tradition.

Any complete or detailed exhibition of the evidence which shows the original unity of the languages claimed to constitute the Indo-European family is, of course, utterly impossible within the necessary limits of these lectures; but it is altogether desirable that we should direct our attention to


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Davy and the Goblin/Chapter X

Chapter X. Ribsy. The road was very dreary and dusty, and wound in and out in the most tiresome way until it seemed to have no end to it, and Davy ran on and on, half expecting at any moment to feel the Roc’s great beak pecking at his back. Fortunately his legs carried him along so remarkably well that he felt he could run for a week; and, indeed, he might have done so if he had not, at a sharp turn in the road, come suddenly upon a horse and cab. The horse was fast asleep when Davy dashed against him, but he woke up with a start, and, after whistling like a locomotive once or twice in a very alarming manner, went to sleep again. He was a very frowsy-looking horse, with great lumps at his knees and a long, crooked neck like a camel’s; but what attracted Davy’s attention particularly was the word “” painted in whitewash on his side in large letters. He was looking at this, and wondering if it were the horse’s name, when the door of the cab flew open and a man fell out, and, after rolling over in the dust, sat up in the middle of the road and began yawning. He was even a more ridiculous-looking object than the horse, being dressed in a clown’s suit, with a morning-gown over it by way of a top-coat, and a field-marshal’s cocked hat. In fact, if he had not had a whip in his hand no one would ever have taken him for a cabman. After yawning heartily he looked up at Davy, and said drowsily, “Where to?”

“To B.G.,” said Davy, hastily referring to the Hole-keeper’s letter.

“All right,” said the cabman, yawning again. “Climb in, and don’t put your feet on the cushions.”

Now, this was a ridiculous thing for him to say, for when Davy stepped inside he found the only seats were some three-legged stools huddled together in the back part of the cab, all the rest of the space being taken up by a large bath-tub that ran across the front end of it. Davy turned on one of the faucets, but nothing came out except some dust and a few small bits of gravel, and he shut it off again, and, sitting down on one of the little stools, waited patiently for the cab to start.

Just then the cabman put his head in at the window, and, winking at him confidentially, said, “Can you tell me why this horse is like an umbrella?”

“No,” said Davy.

“Because he’s used up,” said the cabman.

“I don’t think that’s a very good conundrum,” said Davy.

“So do I,” said the cabman. “But it’s the best one I can make with this horse. Did you say N.B.?” he asked.

“No, I said B.G.,” said Davy.

“All right,” said the cabman again, and disappeared from the window. Presently there was a loud trampling overhead, and Davy, putting his head out at the window, saw that the cabman had climbed up on top of the cab and was throwing stones at the horse, which was still sleeping peacefully.

The cabman had climbed up on top of the cab and was throwing stones at the horse.

“It’s all right,” said the cabman, cheerfully, as he caught sight of Davy. “If he doesn’t start pretty soon I’ll give him some snuff. That always wakes him up.”

“Oh! don’t do that,” said Davy, anxiously. “I’d rather get out and walk.”

“Well, I wish you would,” said the cabman, in a tone of great relief. “This is a very valuable stand, and I don’t care to lose my place on it;” and Davy accordingly jumped out of the cab and walked away.

Presently there was a clattering of hoofs behind him, and Ribsy came galloping along the road, with nothing on him but his collar. He was holding his big head high in the air, like a giraffe, and gazing proudly about him as he ran. He stopped short when he saw the little boy, and, giving a triumphant whistle, said cheerfully, “How are you again?”

It seemed rather strange to be spoken to by a cab-horse, but Davy answered that he was feeling quite well.

“So am I,” said Ribsy. “The fact is, that when it comes to beating a horse about the head with a three-legged stool, if that horse is going to leave at all, it’s time he was off.”

“I should think it was,” said Davy, earnestly.

“You’ll observe, of course, that I’ve kept on my shoes and my collar,” said Ribsy. “It isn’t genteel to go barefoot, and nothing makes a fellow look so untidy as going about without a collar. The truth is,” he continued, sitting down in the road on his hind legs,—“the truth is, I’m not an ordinary horse, by any means. I have a history, and I’ve arranged it in a popular form, in six canters,—I mean cantos,” he added, hastily correcting himself.

“I’d like to hear it, if you please,” said Davy, politely.

“Well, I’m a little hoarse,”—began Ribsy.

“I think you’re a very big horse,” said Davy, in great surprise.

“I’m referring to my voice,” said Ribsy, haughtily. “Be good enough not to interrupt me again;” and, giving two or three preliminary whistles to clear his throat, he began:— It’s very confining, this living in stables, And passing one’s time among wagons and carts; I much prefer dining at gentlemen’s tables, And living on turkeys and cranberry tarts.

I find with surprise that I’m constantly sneezing; I’m stiff in the legs, and I’m often for sale; And the blue-bottle flies, with their tiresome teasing, Are quite out of reach of my weary old tail.

“By the way,” said Ribsy, getting up and turning himself around, “what does my tail look like?”

“I think,” said Davy, after a careful inspection, “I think it looks something like an old paint-brush.”

“So I supposed,” said Ribsy, gloomily, and, sitting down again, he went on with his history:—

As spry as a kid and as trim as a spider Was I in the days of the Turnip-top Hunt, When I used to get rid of the weight of my rider And canter contentedly in at the front.

I never was told that this jocular feature Of mine was a trick reprehensibly rude, And yet I was sold, like a commonplace creature, To work in a circus for lodgings and food.

“I suppose you have never been a circus-horse?” said Ribsy, stopping short in his verses again and gazing inquiringly at Davy.

“Never,” said Davy.

“Then you don’t know anything about it,” said Ribsy. “Here we go again:”— Pray why, if you please, should a capable charger Perform on a ladder and prance in a show? And why should his knees be made thicker and larger By teaching him tricks that he’d rather not know?

''Oh! why should a horse, for society fitted,'' Be doomed to employment so utterly bad, And why should a coarse-looking man be permitted To dance on his back on a top-heavy pad?

Here Ribsy paused once more, and Davy, feeling that he ought to make some sort of an answer to such a lot of questions, said helplessly, “I don’t know.”

“No more do I,” said Ribsy, tossing his head scornfully.

It made me a wreck, with no hope of improvement, Too feeble to race with an invalid crab; I’m wry in the neck, with a rickety movement Peculiarly suited for drawing a cab.

They pinch me with straps, and they bruise me with buckles, They drive me too rapidly over the stones;— A reason, perhaps, why a number of knuckles Have lately appeared on my prominent bones.

“I see them,” cried Davy, eagerly; “I thought they were corns.”

“Thank you,” said Ribsy, haughtily. “As the next verse is the last you needn’t trouble yourself to make any further observations.”

I dream of a spot which I used to roam over In infancy’s days, with a frolicsome skip, Content with my lot, which was planted with clover, And never annoyed by the crack of a whip.

But I think my remarks will determine the question, Of why I am bony and thin as a rail; I’m off for some larks, to improve my digestion, And point the stern moral conveyed by my tail.

Here Ribsy got upon his legs again, and, after a refreshing fillip with his heels, cantered off along the road, whistling as he went. Two large blue-bottle flies were on his back, and his tail was flying around, with an angry whisk, like a pin-wheel; but, as he disappeared in the distance, the flies were still sitting calmly on the ridge of his spine, apparently enjoying the scenery.

Davy was about to start out again on his journey, when he heard a voice shouting “Hi! Hi!” and, looking back, he saw the poor cabman coming along the road on a brisk trot, dragging his cab after him. He had on Ribsy’s harness, and seemed to be in a state of tremendous excitement.

As he came up with Davy the door of the cab flew open again, and the three-legged stools came tumbling out, followed by a dense cloud of dust.

“Get in! Get in!” shouted the cabman, excitedly. “Never mind the dust; I’ve turned it on to make believe we’re going tremendously fast.”

Davy hastily scrambled in, and the cabman started off again. The dust was pouring out of both faucets, and a heavy shower of gravel was rattling into the bath-tub; and, to make matters worse, the cabman was now going along at such an astonishing speed that the cab rocked violently from side to side, like a boat in a stormy sea. Davy made a frantic attempt to shut off the dust, but it seemed to come faster and faster, until he was almost choked, and by this time the gravel had become as large as cherry-stones, and was flying around in the cab and rattling about his ears like a little hail-storm. Now, all this was a great deal more than Davy had bargained for, and it was so very unpleasant that he presently sat down on the floor of the cab in the hope of getting a little out of the way of the flying gravel. As he did this the rocking motion became less violent, and then ceased altogether, as though the cabman had suddenly come to a stop. Then the dust cleared away, and Davy, to his surprise, found himself sitting in the road directly in front of the little house that Jack built.

The cabman and his cab had vanished entirely, but, curiously enough, the cab door was standing wide open in the wall of the house, just above the porch, and in the opening stood the red Cow gazing down upon him, and solemnly chewing, as before. The house had such a familiar look to him that Davy felt quite at home; and, moreover, the Cow seemed quite like an old acquaintance, compared with the other creatures he had met, and he was just about to begin a friendly conversation with her, when she suddenly stopped chewing, and said, “How did you get here?”

“I came in a cab,” said Davy. “We came along just behind the horse.”

“People in cabs usually do,” said the Cow; “leastwise I never heard of any of ’em being ahead of him.”

“But this horse was running away, you know,” said Davy.

“Where was the cabman?” said the Cow, suspiciously.

“He was drawing the cab,” said Davy.

“What!” exclaimed the Cow,—“while the horse was running away? Oh, come, I say!”

“He was, truly,” said Davy, laughing; “you never saw anything half so ridiculous.”

“I certainly never did—that I can remember,” said the Cow; “but then, you see, I haven’t always been a cow.”

“Really?” said Davy.

“Really,” said the Cow, very solemnly. “The fact is, I’ve been changed.”

“And what did you use to be?” said Davy, who was now fully prepared for something marvellous.

“A calf,” said the Cow, with a curious rumbling chuckle.

“I don’t think that’s a very good joke,” said the disappointed little boy.

“It’s a deal funnier than your cab story,” said the Cow. “And, what’s more, it’s true! Good-afternoon.” And with this the Cow disappeared from the opening, and the cab door shut to with a loud bang.

Davy sat still for a moment, hoping that Mother Hubbard, or perhaps the dog, or even the cat, would appear, so that he might explain his story about the cab. None of them came; but meanwhile a very extraordinary thing happened, for the house itself began to go. First the chimneys sank down through the roof, as if they were being lowered into the cellar. Then the roof itself, with its gables and dormer windows, softly folded itself flat down upon the top of the house, out of sight. Then the cab door and the latticed windows fluttered gently for a moment, as if rather uncertain how to dispose of themselves, and finally faded away, one by one, as if they had been soaked into the bricks. Then the porch gravely took itself to pieces and carried itself, so to speak, carefully in through the front door; and finally the front door went in itself, and nothing was left of the house that Jack built but a high brick wall, with the climbing roses running all over it like a beautiful pink vine. All this was so unexpected and so wonderful that Davy sat quite still, expecting something marvellous of this wall; but it proved to be a very matter-of-fact affair, with no intention whatever of doing anything or going anywhere, and, after watching it attentively for a few moments, Davy got up and resumed his journey along the road.

title: Davy and the Goblin/Chapter X


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Page:Language and the Study of Language.djvu/216

194 at least a few samples of the correspondences from which so important a truth is derived. It will be allowable to do this the more succinctly, inasmuch as the truth is one now so well established and so generally received, and of which the proof is already familiar to so many. We may fairly claim, indeed, that it is denied only by those who are ignorant of the facts and methods of linguistic reasoning, or whose judgments are blinded by preconceived opinion.

I shall not strive after originality in my election of the correspondences which illustrate the common origin of the Indo-European tongues, but shall follow the course already many times trodden by others. This is one which is marked out by the circumstances of the case. It would be extremely easy, choosing out any two from among the languages which we wish to compare—as the Latin and Greek, the Greek and Sanskrit, the Latin and Russian, the Lithuanian and German—to draw up long lists of words common to both, out of every part of their respective vocabularies; especially, if we were to take the time and pains to enter into a discussion of the laws governing their phonetic variations, and so to point out their obscure as well as their more obvious correspondences: and we might thus satisfactorily prove them all related, by proving each one related with each of the rest in succession. When, however, we seek for words which are clearly and palpably identical in all or nearly all the branches of the family, we have to resort to certain special classes, as the numerals and the pronouns. The reason of this it is not difficult to point out. For a large portion of the objects, acts, and states, of the names for which our languages are composed, it is comparatively easy to find new designations: they offer numerous salient points for the names-giving faculty to seize upon; the characteristic qualities, the analogies with other things, which suggest and call forth synonymous or nearly synonymous titles, are many. Hence a language may originate a variety of appellations for the same thing—as, for horse, we have also the almost equivalent names steed, nag, courser, racer; and further, for the different kinds and conditions of the same animal, the names stallion, mare, gelding, filly, colt,


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Davy and the Goblin/Chapter XI

Chapter XI. Robinson Crusoe’s Island. “This is a very sloppy road,” said Davy to himself, as he walked away from the Bean-stalk farm; and it was, indeed, a very sloppy road. The dust had quite disappeared, and the sloppiness soon changed to such a degree of wetness that Davy presently found himself in water up to his ankles. He turned to go back, and saw, to his alarm, that the land in every direction seemed to be miles away, and the depth of the water increased so rapidly that, before he could make up his mind what to do, it had risen to his shoulders, and he was carried off his feet and found himself apparently drifting out to sea. The water, however, was warm and pleasant, and he discovered that, instead of sinking, he was floated gently along, slowly turning in the water like a float on a fishing-line. This was very agreeable; but he was, nevertheless, greatly relieved when a boat came in sight sailing toward him. As it came near, it proved to be the clock, with a sail hoisted, and the Goblin sitting complacently in the stern.

“How d’ye do, Gobsy?” said Davy.

“Prime!” said the Goblin, enthusiastically.

“Well, stop the clock,” said Davy; “I want to get aboard.”

“I haven’t any board,” said the Goblin, in great surprise.

“I mean I want to get into the clock,” said Davy, laughing. “I don’t think you’re much of a sailor.”

“I’m not,” said the Goblin, as Davy climbed in. “I’ve been sailing one way for ever so long, because I don’t know how to turn around; but there’s a landing-place just ahead.”

Davy looked over his shoulder and found that they were rapidly approaching a little wooden pier, standing about a foot out of the water. Beyond it stretched a broad expanse of sandy beach.

“What place is it?” said Davy.

“It’s called Hickory Dickory Dock,” said the Goblin. “All the eight-day clocks stop here;” and at this moment the clock struck against the timbers with a violent thump, and Davy was thrown out, heels over head, upon the dock. He scrambled upon his feet again as quickly as possible, and saw, to his dismay, that the clock had been turned completely around by the shock and was rapidly drifting out to sea again. The Goblin looked back despairingly, and Davy just caught the words, “I don’t know how to turn around!” when the clock was carried out of hearing distance, and soon disappeared on the horizon.

The beach was covered in every direction with little hills of sand, like haycocks, with scraggy bunches of sea-weed sticking out of the tops of them; and Davy was wondering how they came to be there, when he caught sight of a man walking along the edge of the water, and now and then stopping and gazing earnestly out to sea. As the man drew nearer, Davy saw that he was dressed in a suit of brown leather, and wore a high-peaked hat, and that a little procession, consisting of a dog, a cat, and a goat, was following patiently at his heels, while a parrot was perched upon his shoulder. They all wore very large linen collars and black cravats, which gave them a very serious appearance.

Davy was morally certain that the man was Robinson Crusoe. He carried an enormous gun, which he loaded from time to time, and then, aiming carefully at the sea, fired. There was nothing very alarming about this, for the gun, when fired, only gave a faint squeak, and the bullet, which was about the size of a small orange, dropped out quietly upon the sand. Robinson, for it was really he, always seemed to be greatly astonished at this result, peering long and anxiously down into the barrel of the gun, and sometimes listening attentively, with his ear at the muzzle. His animal companions, however, seemed to be greatly alarmed whenever he prepared to fire; and, scampering off, hid behind the little hills of sand until the gun was discharged, when they would return, and, after solemnly watching their master reload his piece, follow him along the beach as before. This was all so ridiculous that Davy had great difficulty in keeping a serious expression on his face as he walked up to Robinson and handed him the Hole-keeper’s letter. Robinson looked at him suspiciously as he took it, and the animals eyed him with evident distrust.

Robinson had some difficulty in opening the letter, which was sopping wet, and took a long time to read it, Davy, meanwhile, waiting patiently. Sometimes Robinson would scowl horribly, as if puzzled, and then, again, he would chuckle to himself, as if vastly amused with the contents; but as he turned the letter over, in reading it, Davy could not help seeing that it was simply a blank sheet of paper, with no writing whatever upon it except the address. This, however, was so like the Hole-keeper’s way of doing things that Davy was not much surprised when Robinson remarked, “He has left out the greatest lot of comical things!” and, stooping down, buried the letter in the sand. Then, picking up his gun, he said, “You may walk about in the grove as long as you please, provided you don’t pick anything.”

Robinson remarked “He has left out the greatest lot of comical things!”

“What grove?” said Davy, very much surprised.

“This one,” said Robinson, proudly pointing out the tufts of sea-weed. “They’re beach-trees, you know; I planted ’em myself. I had to have some place to go shooting in, of course.”

“Can you shoot with that gun?” said Davy.

“Shoot! Why, it’s a splendid gun!” said Robinson, gazing at it proudly. “I made it myself—out of a spy-glass.”

“It doesn’t seem to go off,” said Davy, doubtfully.

“That’s the beauty of it!” exclaimed Robinson, with great enthusiasm. “Some guns go off, and you never see ’em again.”

“But I mean that it doesn’t make any noise,” persisted Davy.

“Of course it doesn’t,” said Robinson. “That’s because I load it with tooth-powder.”

“But I don’t see what you can shoot with it,” said Davy, feeling that he was somehow getting the worst of the argument.

Robinson stood gazing thoughtfully at him for a moment, while the big bullet rolled out of the gun with a rumbling sound and fell into the sea. “I see what you want,” he said, at length. “You’re after my personal history. Just take a seat in the family circle and I’ll give it to you.”

Davy looked around and saw that the dog, the goat, and the cat were seated respectfully in a semicircle, with the parrot, which had dismounted, sitting beside the dog. He seated himself on the sand at the other end of the line, and Robinson began as follows:— The night was thick and hazy When the “Piccadilly Daisy” Carried down the crew and captain in the sea; And I think the water drowned ’em; For they never, never found ’em, And I know they didn’t come ashore with me.

''Oh! ’twas very sad and lonely'' When I found myself the only Population on this cultivated shore; But I’ve made a little tavern In a rocky little cavern, And I sit and watch for people at the door.

I spent no time in looking For a girl to do my cooking, As I’m quite a clever hand at making stews But I had that fellow Friday, Just to keep the tavern tidy, And to put a Sunday polish on my shoes.

I have a little garden That I’m cultivating lard in, As the things I eat are rather tough and dry; For I live on toasted lizards, Prickly pears, and parrot gizzards, And I’m really very fond of beetle-pie.

The clothes I had were furry, And it made me fret and worry When I found the moths were eating off the hair; And I had to scrape and sand ’em, And I boiled ’em and I tanned ’em, Till I got the fine morocco suit I wear.

I sometimes seek diversion In a family excursion With the few domestic animals you see; And we take along a carrot As refreshment for the parrot, And a little can of jungleberry tea.

Then we gather, as we travel, Bits of moss and dirty gravel, And we chip off little specimens of stone; And we carry home as prizes Funny bugs, of handy sizes, Just to give the day a scientific tone.

If the roads are wet and muddy We remain at home and study,— For the Goat is very clever at a sum,— And the Dog, instead of fighting, Studies ornamental writing, While the Cat is taking lessons on the drum.

We retire at eleven, And we rise again at seven; And I wish to call attention, as I close, To the fact that all the scholars Are correct about their collars, And particular in turning out their toes.

Here Robinson called out, in a loud voice, “First class in arithmetic!” but the animals sat perfectly motionless, sedately staring at him.

“Oh! by the way,” said Robinson, confidentially to Davy, “this is the first class in arithmetic. That’s the reason they didn’t move, you see. Now, then,” he continued sharply, addressing the class, “how many halves are there in a whole?”

There was a dead silence for a moment, and then the Cat said gravely, “What kind of a hole?”

“That has nothing to do with it,” said Robinson, impatiently.

“Oh! hasn’t it, though!” exclaimed the Dog, scornfully. “I should think a big hole could have more halves in it than a little one.”

“Well, rather,” put in the Parrot, contemptuously.

Here the Goat, who apparently had been carefully thinking the matter over, said in a low, quavering voice, “Must all the halves be of the same size?”

“Certainly not,” said Robinson, promptly; then, nudging Davy with his elbow, he whispered, “He’s bringing his mind to bear on it. He’s prodigious when he gets started!”

“Who taught him arithmetic?” said Davy, who was beginning to think Robinson didn’t know much about it himself.

“Well, the fact is,” said Robinson, confidentially, “he picked it up from an old Adder, that he met in the woods.”

Here the Goat, who evidently was not yet quite started, inquired, “Must all the halves be of the same shape?”

“Not at all,” said Robinson, cheerfully. “Have ’em any shape you like.”

“Then I give it up,” said the Goat.

“So do I,” said the Dog.

“And I,” said the Cat.

“Me, too,” said the Parrot.

“Well!” exclaimed Davy, quite out of patience. “You are certainly the stupidest lot of creatures I ever saw.”

At this the animals stared mournfully at him for a moment, and then rose up and walked gravely away.

“Now you’ve spoiled the exercises,” said Robinson, peevishly. “I’m sorry I gave ’em such a staggerer to begin with.”

“Pooh!” said Davy, contemptuously. “If they couldn’t do that sum they couldn’t do anything.”

Robinson gazed at him admiringly for a moment, and then, looking cautiously about him, to make sure that the procession was out of hearing, said coaxingly:—

“What’s the right answer? Tell us, like a good fellow.”

“Two, of course,” said Davy.

“Is that all?” exclaimed Robinson, in a tone of great astonishment.

“Certainly,” said Davy, who began to feel very proud of his learning. “Don’t you know that when they divide a whole into four parts they call them fourths, and when they divide it into two parts they call them halves?”

“Why don’t they call them tooths?” said Robinson, obstinately. “The fact is, they ought to call ’em teeth. That’s what puzzled the Goat. Next time I’ll say, ‘How many teeth in a whole?’“

“Then the Cat will ask if it’s a rat-hole,” said Davy, laughing at the idea.

“You positively convulse me, you’re so very humorous,” said Robinson, without a vestige of a smile. “You’re almost as droll as Friday was. He used to call the Goat ‘Pat,’ because he said he was a little butter. I told him that was altogether too funny for a lonely place like this, and he went away and joined the minstrels.”

Here Robinson suddenly turned pale, and, hastily reaching out for his gun, sprang to his feet.

Davy looked out to sea, and saw that the clock, with the Goblin standing in the stern, had come in sight again, and was heading directly for the shore with tremendous speed. The poor Goblin, who had turned sea-green in color, was frantically waving his hands to and fro, as if motioning for the beach to get out of the way; and Davy watched his approach with the greatest anxiety. Meanwhile the animals had mounted on four sand-hills, and were solemnly looking on, while Robinson, who seemed to have run out of tooth-powder, was hurriedly loading his gun with sand. The next moment the clock struck the beach with great force, and, turning completely over on the sand, buried the Goblin beneath it. Robinson was just making a convulsive effort to fire off his gun, when the clock began striking loudly, and he and the animals fled in all directions in the wildest dismay.

title: Davy and the Goblin/Chapter XI


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Davy and the Goblin/Chapter XII

Chapter XII. A Whale in a Waistcoat. Davy rushed up to the clock, and, pulling open the little door in the front of it, looked inside. To his great disappointment the Goblin had again disappeared, and there was a smooth, round hole running down into the sand, as though he had gone directly through the beach. He was listening at this hole, in the hope of hearing from the Goblin, when a voice said, “I suppose that’s what they call going into the interior of the country;” and, looking up, he saw the Hole-keeper sitting on a little mound in the sand, with his great book in his lap.

The little man had evidently been having a hard time since Davy had seen him. His complexion had quite lost its beautiful transparency, and his jaunty little paper tunic was sadly rumpled, and, moreover, he had lost his cocked hat. All this, however, had not at all disturbed his complacent conceit; he was, if anything, more pompous than ever.

“How did you get here?” asked Davy, in astonishment.

“I’m banished,” said the Hole-keeper, cheerfully. “That’s better than being boiled, any day. Did you give Robinson my letter?”

“Yes, I did,” said Davy, as they walked along the beach together; “but I got it very wet coming here.”

“That was quite right,” said the Hole-keeper. “There’s nothing so tiresome as a dry letter. Well, I suppose Robinson is expecting me by this time, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Davy. “He didn’t say that he was expecting you.”

“He must be,” said the Hole-keeper, positively. “I never even mentioned it in my letter; so, of course, he’ll know I’m coming. By the way,” he added, hurriedly opening his book, and staring anxiously at one of the blank pages, “there isn’t a word in here about Billyweazles. This place must be full of ’em.”

“What are they?” said Davy.

“They’re great pink birds, without any feathers on ’em,” replied the Hole-keeper, solemnly. “And they’re particularly fond of sugar. That’s the worst thing about ’em.”

“I don’t think there’s anything very wicked in that,” said Davy.

“Oh! of course you don’t,” said the Hole-keeper, fretfully. “But you see I haven’t any trowsers on, and I don’t fancy having a lot of strange Billyweazles nibbling at my legs. In fact, if you don’t mind, I’d like to run away from here.”

“Very well,” said Davy, who was himself beginning to feel rather nervous about the Billyweazles, and accordingly he and the Hole-keeper started off along the beach as fast as they could run.

Presently the Hole-keeper stopped short and said, faintly, “It strikes me the sun is very hot here.”

The sun certainly was very hot, and Davy, looking at the Hole-keeper as he said this, saw that his face was gradually and very curiously losing its expression, and that his nose had almost entirely disappeared.

“What’s the matter?” inquired Davy, anxiously.

“The matter is that I’m going back into the raw material,” said the Hole-keeper, dropping his book, and sitting down helplessly in the sand. “See here, Frinkles,” he continued, beginning to speak very thickly; “wrap me up in my shirt and mark the packish distingly. Take off shir quigly!” and Davy had just time to pull the poor creature’s shirt over his head and spread it quickly on the beach, when the Hole-keeper fell down, rolled over upon the garment, and, bubbling once or twice, as if he were boiling, melted away into a compact lump of brown sugar.

Davy was deeply affected by this sad incident, and, though he had never really liked the Hole-keeper, he could hardly keep back his tears as he wrapped up the lump in the paper shirt and laid it carefully on the big book. In fact, he was so disturbed in his mind that he was on the point of going away without marking the package, when, looking over his shoulder, he suddenly caught sight of the Cockalorum standing close beside him, carefully holding an inkstand, with a pen in it, in one of his claws.

“Oh! thank you very much,” said Davy, taking the pen and dipping it in the ink. “And will you please tell me his name?”

The Cockalorum, who still had his head done up in flannel, and was looking rather ill, paused for a moment to reflect, and then murmured, “Mark him ‘Confectionery.’”

This struck Davy as being a very happy idea, and he accordingly printed “” on the package in his very best manner. The Cockalorum, with his head turned critically on one side, carefully inspected the marking, and then, after earnestly gazing for a moment at the inkstand, gravely drank the rest of the ink and offered the empty inkstand to Davy.

The cockalorum carefully inspected the marking.

“I don’t want it, thank you,” said Davy, stepping back.

“No more do I,” murmured the Cockalorum, and, tossing the inkstand into the sea, flew away in his usual clumsy fashion.

Davy, after a last mournful look at the package of brown sugar, turned away, and was setting off along the beach again, when he heard a gurgling sound coming from behind a great hummock of sand, and, peeping cautiously around one end of it, he was startled at seeing an enormous whale lying stretched out on the sand basking in the sun, and lazily fanning himself with the flukes of his tail. The great creature had on a huge white garment, buttoned up in front, with a lot of live seals flopping and wriggling at one of the button-holes, and with a great chain cable leading from them to a pocket at one side. Before Davy could retreat the Whale caught sight of him and called out, in a tremendous voice, “How d’ye do, Bub?”

“I’m pretty well, I thank you,” said Davy, with his usual politeness to man and beast. “How are you, sir?”

“I’m pretty well, I thank you,” said Davy.

“Hearty!” thundered the Whale; “never felt better in all my life. But it’s rather warm lying here in the sun.”

“Why don’t you take off your”—Here Davy stopped, not knowing exactly what it was the Whale had on.

“Waistcoat,” said the Whale, condescendingly. “It’s a canvas-back-duck waistcoat. The front of it is made of wild duck, you see, and the back of it out of the fore-top-sail of a brig. I’ve heard they always have watches on board of ships, but I couldn’t find any on this one, so I had to satisfy myself with a bit of chain cable by way of a watch-guard. I think this bunch of seals rather sets it off, don’t you?”

“Yes, rather,” said Davy, doubtfully; “only they slobber so.”

“Ah, that reminds me that it’s wash-day,” said the Whale; and here he spouted a great stream of water out of the top of his head and let it run down in a little cascade all over the front of his waistcoat. The seals seemed to enjoy this amazingly, and flopped about in an ecstasy.

“What do whales eat?” said Davy, who thought it was a good time for picking up a little information.

“Warious whales wants warious wiands,” replied the Whale. “That’s an old sea-saw, you know. For my part I’m particularly fond of small buoys.”

“I don’t think that is a very nice taste,” said Davy, beginning to feel very uneasy.

“Oh! don’t be frightened,” bellowed the Whale, good-naturedly. “I don’t mean live boys. I mean the little red things that float about in the water. Some of ’em have lights on ’em, and them are particularly nice and crisp.”

“Is it nice being a Whale?” said Davy, who was anxious to change the subject.

“Famous!” said the Whale, with an affable roar. “Great fun, I assure you! We have fish-balls every night, you know.”

“Fish-balls at night!” exclaimed Davy. “Why, we always have ours for breakfast.”

“Nonsense!” thundered the Whale, with a laugh that made the beach quake; “I don’t mean anything to eat. I mean dancing parties.”

“And do you dance?” said Davy, thinking that if he did it must be a very extraordinary performance.

“Dance?” said the Whale, with a reverberating chuckle. “Bless you! I’m as nimble as a sixpence. By the way I’ll show you the advantage of having a bit of whalebone in one’s composition;” and with these words the Whale curled himself up, then flattened out suddenly with a tremendous flop, and, shooting through the air like a flying elephant, disappeared with a great splash in the sea.

“I’m as nimble as a sixpence” said the Whale.

Davy stood anxiously watching the spot where he went down, in the hope that he would come up again; but he soon discovered that the Whale had gone for good. The sea was violently tossed about for a few moments, and then began circling out into great rings around the spot where the Whale had gone down. These soon disappeared, however, and the water resumed its lazy ebb and flow upon the shore; and Davy, feeling quite lonesome and deserted, sat down on the sand, and gazed mournfully out upon the sea.

title: Davy and the Goblin/Chapter XII


title: User:Inductiveload/Sandbox5