Part 5

Before he found out what these taps really meant Moriyama returned to town. Tom greeted him heartily enough, and as they went into the house together that morning the porter struck, first two taps, then one.

“What is that banging for?” cried Tom. “I’ve been trying to find out ever so long, but it’s too much for me.”

“Why two taps are for me and one is for you,” said Moriyama.

“How’s that?”

“He taps once for a citizen or a merchant,” said Moriyama, “and twice for an officer or an interpreter—I didn’t tell you I had been appointed an interpreter since I returned—and for a governor or a consul he’d strike three times, and four times for an admiral or higher officer.”

“Once for me and twice for you,” said Tom. “What a fool the man must be!”

“He does what he has to do, according to our laws,” said Moriyama.

“But anybody ought to know better than that,” cried Tom. “Look here! I’m going to talk to him and then you can interpret what I say, Mr. Two-taps.”

So Tom stepped up to the porter and remarked:

“I say old shaven head——how many bangs would he give for the Prince of Wales, Moriyama?”

“Four, I think.”

“Well then, old fellow, princes belong to the set that they take kings from, and I belong to the set that they take presidents from, and so we’re even, and I want you to pound four times every time I come in the house. Do you hear that? Tell him it, upside down, Moriyama.”

Moriyama, who was laughing at this speech, said something to the porter in Japanese, but I do not think that he translated Tom’s words.

But Tom never got but one bang when he came in, though he used to shake his fist at the porter every time he heard it.

Moriyama was very anxious that Tom should visit Yedo with him, and so after a few days spent in further sight-seeing in Yokohama, the two friends set off for the metropolis of Japan.

They traveled on horseback accompanied by their bettos and other servants. They rode along the Tokaido, or great highway of Japan, and they were by no means the only travelers, for the road was crowded with foot passengers, men on horseback, and people in palanquins. The whole road was one lively scene, and to Tom it was a very interesting one. And the best of it was, that there was nothing, no matter how curious or outlandish, that Moriyama could not explain to him.

They stopped on the way at a tavern, which was rather different from anything of the kind that Tom had ever imagined.

When they reached the door they found a group of three or four persons examining the goods of a man who seemed to be a peddler. He was very anxious that his goods—and he did not seem to have many of them—should be appreciated, and the bystanders were quietly and earnestly listening to what he had to say.

But no one took notice of the newly arrived party.

After a little while, the landlord made his appearance, and though he seemed glad to see them, and brought them a few eggs and some other trifling refreshments, he soon went away again, and they saw no more of him until several hours later when they took their leave.

But their own servants cooked them a good dinner of things they had with them, and seemed to make themselves perfectly at home in the household of the tavern.

Tom said it was a good deal like working your passage on a ship, but Moriyama could see no objection to it. He was sure, he said, that he would rather be waited on by his own servants than by any one likely to be found at a roadside tavern, and he was sure their own provisions were better than anything likely to be found there.

This was all true enough, but Tom could not help thinking what a row would be kicked up in an American tavern, no matter how small and mean it might be, if the guests brought their own provisions, and cooked them in the tavern kitchen.

They stopped at other places, at one tea-house in particular, where there were plenty of waiters, plenty of guests, and a very great plenty of tea.

They were two days on the road, although the distance was only about thirty miles.

It is impossible to tell one half that these two boys did and saw in Yedo.

They saw all sorts of shops, with curious signs, tea-houses thronged with customers; people at work at various trades—in workshops that were entirely exposed to the view of passers-by, and almost everything arranged in a different way from what Tom thought was right and proper.

Here were a couple of blacksmiths with scarcely a stitch of clothes on, sitting down to their work, and one of them blowing the bellows with his heel.

Then they came upon a troupe of boy-jugglers directed by a man who sang horribly sounding words in a rasping voice, while he played upon a tambourine with two drum-sticks.

The boys’ heads were stuck into bags surmounted by hideous masks, and as they twisted themselves into all sorts of distorted positions, one of them standing on his hands on the stomach of another, who leaned backwards until his hands touched the ground, Tom thought they would certainly dislocate their spines.

He had turned many a handspring, and was quite expert on the horizontal bar at the gymnasium, but he never saw such body-twisting as this.

He would have watched these boys as long as they chose to perform, if Moriyama had not forced him away to look at other things.

They visited the parade ground, where they saw the soldiers drilling and practising with swords and muskets. The Japanese soldiers now use firearms, but they still carry one or two of their old-fashioned swords, and when they are in full costume they wear paper hats. Some of the fencing was very interesting to Tom. He had fenced a little at home, himself, but this vigorous work with swords was new to him.

The weather was quite warm during Tom’s visit to Yedo, and about the middle of the day the streets—especially the canals which take the place of streets, presented a very peculiar scene. Scarcely a soul was visible. Empty boats were fastened all along the shores, and all the houses, glistening in the hot sun, seemed as if they had been deserted. Not a sound was to be heard; and it was but very seldom that a moving thing was to be seen.

It was very much, as Tom said, like the enchanted city in the Arabian Nights, where all the inhabitants were changed into stone.

“But if you were to go poking about into some of those houses,” said Moriyama, “you’d soon find that these people are not changed into stone.”

Here and there the boys could see, between the screens that stood at the entrances of the houses, the people inside eating their dinners. The straw table-cloth—if there can be such a thing where there is no table—was always spread upon the floor, and the family sat around it eating rice. Sometimes they had meat or fish and vegetables, but Moriyama said their principal food was rice. And from the way they were eating it, they seemed to like it.

One night the boys went out on one of the many bridges in the city, and saw hundreds of small boats cruising about in all directions, with different colored lanterns hung about them; and besides these there were rafts from which fireworks were continually set off. The scene was charming, and Tom would have enjoyed it thoroughly had it not been for the music. This was so unearthly and hideous that poor Tom would have put his fingers in his ears had he not been afraid of offending the people around him.

But before he left Japan he became used to this music, and sometimes even fancied that he could make out some kind of a tune from the curious sounds of the _samsins_ and the _gottos_, which are Japanese guitars and harps.

One day the boys saw a very jolly sort of a game which Tom determined to introduce in his school when he returned to the United States.

A long cable was stretched over one of the bridges, and two parties were formed, with about a hundred men in each.

One of these parties went to one end of the bridge and the other to the opposite end, and then the men seized the rope, and each party endeavored to pull the other over the bridge.

They pulled and tugged and yelled, until one side, finding that it was losing ground, suddenly, at a signal, let go the rope and over backwards went every man on the other side, pell-mell in one great kicking heap. Sometimes, Moriyama said, the rope broke and then everybody went over backward.

When the game was finished, they all went off laughing to some of the nearest tea-houses, and had a jolly time together, friends and enemies, all in the same crowd.

Among the most interesting places visited was a Japanese school. This was the rarest school that Tom ever saw. The little shaven-headed boys and girls were all seated on the floor, and the master sat on the floor too. In front of him was an affair like a stunted music-stand, on which he put his book, and the old tyrant leaned forward and cracked the bad boys with his fan. Think of an American teacher whipping his scholars with a fan.

Some of the youngsters were bare-footed, and some wore stockings made something like mittens, with a separate place for the big toe. The books were full of such a curious mixture of what seemed to Tom like black blots and scratches that he thought the Japanese youngsters must be extraordinarily smart to be able to make any sense out of them.

When Tom heard that these characters were read from top to bottom of the page instead of across he expressed the opinion that the Japanese probably added up their letters as they stood in the columns so as to find out what the whole thing came to.

The more he learned about the language of Japan, its different dialects, and its two alphabets, the greater became his respect for those who obtained a Japanese education.

“It must take you all your lives to learn how to read and write,” said he to Moriyama.

“We believe,” said the Japanese boy, “that it takes all of a person’s life to learn anything.”

That this was a common opinion in Japan Tom soon found out for himself. Whatever the trade or profession in which a man was engaged, he seemed to have been at it all his life, and ten to one his father and his great-grandfather before him had followed the same business, and each one of the family had given so much time and attention to his business that he became almost perfect in it—as far as Japanese perfection went.

For instance Tom went to a wrestling match, where the wrestlers, great powerful fellows, all belonged to a tribe or guild that according to their account, had existed ever since the third year of the first Mikado, which in our chronology would be the year 658 B.C.

At any rate, they were men whose ancestors for hundreds of years had been wrestlers, and they themselves gave up all their time and thought to the attainment of perfection in their art.

Consequently they were splendid wrestlers.

Other gymnastic performers were equally proficient in different lines. Some of them had great long noses fitted to their faces, and on these noses they balanced themselves and each other, and did many other astonishing feats.

One man laid on his back supporting on one foot a fellow who stood on his nose, while, on the prostrate man’s nose, another man stood, balancing on _his_ nose an umbrella, while he kept five or six balls flying in the air, catching each one as it fell and tossing it up again, never allowing one of them to drop.

Each of these performers, no matter what else he was doing, held a fan in one hand, which was kept constantly in motion.

And in all the performances there was never a mishap or a mistake. Every man was absolutely perfect in his part.

When Tom went back to Yokohama he told his father that he had made up his mind that he was going to be absolutely perfect in some one thing. If the Japanese could succeed in this, he was sure he could.

He had not made up his mind what he would do, but it was to be something.

His father commended this resolution, and suggested arithmetic.

Tom did not feel altogether certain about arithmetic, but as soon as he could think of a good thing, he intended to commence the study of perfection.

When his father laughed a little at his enthusiasm Tom said that one great difficulty would be that he was afraid he could not find out what his father and grandfather had been perfect in. If he could do that, it would help him very much.

But we cannot mention all the curious things that Tom and Moriyama saw in Japan.

It would require a book to tell about the wonderful processions, such as that of the white elephant, which, by the way, Tom thought was a real animal, until he saw that its legs did not move, and that under each of its feet were two human legs belonging to the men who carried the huge stuffed creature—and the many other strange things that they saw in the streets and houses of Japan.

Suffice it to say, that since Tom came home—and it has been some years since his trip to Japan—he has earnestly endeavored to discover what particular thing it would be best for him to learn thoroughly and completely.

I am not sure that he has even yet made up his mind upon the subject, but he is convinced that if his experience among the Japanese had no better effect than to teach him that to know how to do something perfectly well, it is greatly to be desired, and well worth striving for—no matter how much time and toil it may require.

LUMINOUS INSECTS.

The fire-flies that flit about so merrily on our pleasant summer evenings, emit little sparkles of light, that seem like tiny stars, shining among the grass and trees. Sometimes the air is full of these twinkling lights, which are very pretty, though not sufficiently brilliant to help us to find our way on a dark night, or to bring into our houses to save the expense of candles or kerosene.

Occasionally we see, at night, in the grass by the roadside, or in a field, a very small trail of a bright-green light; and, on stooping down to examine into this singular appearance, we find on the ground an insignificant little ugly worm, to which Nature has given the power of producing a lovely colored light. These glow-worms are somewhat rare in this country, but are common in England, where our fire-fly is unknown. The glow-worms of tropical countries are as large as good-sized caterpillars, and give out a light of corresponding size.

Some of the beetles of tropical countries are much more radiant than the glow-worms. They have a bright ring around their bodies, which sheds such a light that it is said that the negroes use them for lamps. These negroes we are told by travelers make small round cages of thin wooden slats placed near each other, and closed at the top and bottom. In these they put several beetles, and thus light up their rooms free of cost.

But the most splendidly illuminated insect in the world is the great lantern fly. Its monstrous head is a blaze of light. When it flies through the air it is like a streamer of fire. When it alights upon a leaf, with its beautiful wings outstretched, and its head gleaming with star-like rays, that light up everything for some little distance, it is a gorgeous sight indeed.

But, although this insect is so bright-headed it is not so wise as some others whose heads are not brilliant at all. Perhaps this head is like some shops we have seen, where pretty much all the furniture is on the outside.

OWLS ON A FROLIC.

The owls are abroad on a mad carouse, Waking the echoes far and wide; They whirl in a crowd through the ruined church, Or up to the belfry glide.

The little screech-owl makes a horrid din; While the great white owl looks wise; And the horned owl nods his head, and blinks; As around the lamp he flies.

The lamp is a cup, half filled with oil, That swings from a broken beam; And, over the traveler sleeping below, It throws but a dusky gleam.

The owls have no fear of the burning wick— ’Tis only a cotton loop— They’re after the oil in the swinging cup, And down on its brim they swoop.

The weary traveler, sound asleep, Hears naught of the noise o’erhead, A rickety chair as a bedstead serves, His overcoat is his bed.

With the sweep of the wings the lamp upsets, While the gurgling oil o’erflows With a drip, and a rush, on the great owl’s tail, A splash on the traveler’s nose.

He’s up in a trice, and, seizing a broom, He arms himself for a fight. But all is still in the ruined church; For the owls are out—and his light.

COMMON AND UNCOMMON SPONGES.

They are all wonderful enough, no matter how common they may be. It takes thousands and thousands of minute creatures, to make a sponge, and these creatures are so little understood that about all we know of them is that they must belong to the very lowest order of animal life, and that they do build sponges. That is not much to know, but it is not long since the sponge was first known to be an animal production at all, and our scientific men may yet find out something more definite about these curious little architects. Perhaps they may have lately found out something, and I have not heard of it. This would be the least wonderful thing about sponges.

The ordinary form of the sponge is familiar to nearly everybody who has ever been washed, and this picture gives a good idea of a fine large one, as it is found growing at the bottom of the sea. I say growing, because it seems to be growing there, like a vegetable. But it does not grow, in the ordinary sense of the word, any more than a wasp’s nest grows.

But there are sponges with which we are not at all familiar, and which are curious, apart from the manner of their construction. Such a one is the sponge called the “Cup of Neptune.”

This is several feet high, and is formed like a great goblet. It would make a very good cup for Neptune, if he drank brandy or rum, for it would soak up all that he poured into it, and he could not get a drop, unless he squeezed his cup pretty hard—and even then the liquor might all run out of the bottom.

As a rule, civilized and well educated people are more easily surprised and astonished at uncommon and wonderful works of nature than uncivilized or ignorant people, for the latter do not know enough to be astonished. They see nothing strange in the development of a plant from its seed—nothing grand in a high mountain, nor anything very beautiful in a flower. They look at these things as a child looks at his hand. The hand is a very curiously constructed instrument, full of intricate mechanism, but the child does not know or think of that. It is not until he grows older and his mind is cultured that he appreciates the wonderful construction and the varied action of his hand.

So it is with savages. They do not comprehend that many strange works of nature are worthy of admiration, and they take it for granted that things are as they are because they ought to be, just as they think of their own bodies, if they think of them at all.

But this great goblet-like sponge is strange enough to astonish even a savage.

MAGHAR’S LEAP.

It chanced upon a time, a very great many years ago, while fairies and magicians still dwelt upon earth, that a youth and maiden—brother and sister—were walking in a forest, talking about their recent misfortunes, and laying plans for their future. The youth was clad in armor, according to the warlike fashion of those times. But he had under his arm a book, which was not in accordance with the fashion of those times. The maiden wore a dress of some coarse woolen stuff; and, in her hands she held a sheet of parchment, and a pen.

Suddenly there broke into their quiet talk the sound of clashing arms, and the mad plunging of horses. Sybil, the maiden, stopped terrified.

“Oh!” she cried, “it is the noise of battle! Too well I know those sounds. Let us go quickly back!”

“Let us go forward a little way,” said Maghar, the youth, “to yon opening in the woods. Or, stop here, if you fear, and I will go alone and look out.”

“No,” said Sybil, “if you go I will follow.”

Together they looked out upon the open plain. Two hostile armies had met unexpectedly, and a fierce conflict had commenced.

“Alas!” said Sybil, shuddering. “There are the savage infidels that laid waste our home!”

“Yes,” said Maghar, excitedly, “and here, on this side, are our countrymen, and neighbors! I must bear a hand in this fight!”

“And leave me alone!” cried Sybil. “I have only you left! Your single arm will not count for much in a battle!”

“It would be a shame to me,” said Maghar, “to sneak off, like a coward, and leave our friends and Christian soldiers, when their forces are few, and every warrior counts. Have I not my armor? I shall find shield and spear on the battle-field on some poor fellow who has already fallen in the fray. Do not fear, sister! Go back to Christern’s cottage. There you will be safe; and I will return in a few hours.”

So saying, he led Sybil back into the forest to the path leading to Christern’s cottage; gave the book into her hands; and, kissing her good-bye, he ran out of the woods as fast as the weight of his armor would allow.

But Sybil did not return to the cottage. She was too anxious about her brother; and, going to the entrance of the wood, she crouched among the trees, where she was hidden from view, and watched the progress of the fight. She was ready to fly if the tide of battle brought the armies too near. But they seemed to be gradually moving away from her. She soon singled out her brother. He had secured a spear and shield, and mounted a riderless horse. In a few minutes he was lost in the throng, and she saw him no more.

Her mind was filled with sad forebodings. This Infidel army had invaded the country, and laid it waste; had killed her parents, and overthrown, and utterly ruined the beautiful castle that had been her home. A few things had been saved by old Christern, a much loved servant of the family, and these constituted the property of Maghar and Sybil. Old Christern’s cottage, in the depths of the forest, was the refuge of the orphans. There they had lived for several weeks, and no way of retrieving their fortunes seemed open to them. Maghar was a fine scholar. His father had had him taught to read his own language and Latin, and to write a very beautiful hand. That was the extent of his knowledge; and it was a great deal at a time when very few of the richest people knew their letters.

And now, in their poverty, there seemed to be very little use for his learning. Nobody cared anything about it. He might copy manuscript for some learned man, and get a living this way, for printing and paper had not then been invented; and all books were written on parchment. But Maghar had a contempt for a _clerk_, as he called a copyist, and did not fancy this method of supporting his sister and himself. Nevertheless, the two were that day on their way to the abode of a great and learned man to see if he wished anything of this kind done; and if he would buy their only book—a Latin volume, written on parchment, and beautifully illuminated and bound in wooden covers.