say that a tiger can hide itself in places where a rat could hardly find cover.

Practised hunters are always on the look-out for indications of the tiger's presence, one of which is a bush covered with berries. If no tiger were hidden there, the monkeys would not have left a berry on the bush, but as from their strongholds in the treetops they can see the enemy, they take care to keep their distance, and so let the berries remain on the branches.

Peacocks, again, are mostly found in places where the tiger lives. The bodies and feathers of dead peafowl are sometimes found strewn about a tiger's den. The natives account for this fact by saying that the tigress teaches her growing cubs how to hunt prey for themselves, and that they practise on peafowl before they can aspire to antelopes or cattle.

As to the size of a full-grown tiger, it varies almost as much as does the height of man. The average

The colour of its

more graceful in its movements. fur is a bright golden yellow, closely studded with rosette-shaped dark spots.

A few leopards have been occasionally found whose fur was so dark as to earn them the title of Black Leopards, which were for some time supposed to constitute a separate species. However, it was found that the dark spots were still dimly visible, and that, except in point of colour, there were no particular differences between these black leopards and the ordinary animal, and that therefore they could only be considered as a mere variety of the common species.

To the leopard belongs a power which is not possessed by the lion and tiger-namely, the ability to climb trees. So quick and agile are its movements among the branches that it is even able to chase and capture the various tree-frequenting animals in their native haunts.

In some ways the leopard is even more dreaded

length of an adult male tiger is about nine feet six inches, measured from the tip of the snout to the end of the tail. A ten-feet male is as unusual an exception to the ordinary dimensions of tigers as is a man six feet three inches in height among ourselves. Measurements of the skin after it is removed from the animal are quite fallacious, a skin being capable of almost any amount of extension by stretching. To be worth anything, the measurements should be made before, and not after the skin has been taken off.

It is a curious fact that the mother does not seem so careful for the welfare of her offspring as is usual among animals, but, if she suspect danger, will often send her cubs on first, in order to see whether the path be clear. Experienced hunters, aware of this, refrain from firing at the young, knowing that the mother is behind, and will soon make her appearance.

NEXT in order is the Leopard (Leopardus varius), which is found both in Asia and Africa. It is by no means as large and powerful as the tiger, but is even

than its larger and more savage relatives, especially by the farmers, who suffer greatly from its depredations among their flocks. Combined with great agility, it possesses the craft and cunning of the fox, and, like that animal, usually selects the hen-houses of the neighbourhood for its nocturnal raids. In these it commits the greatest havoc, striking the birds to the ground before they are even aware of the presence of their enemy, and following them into the trees should they roost among the branches.

The mischief he commits is rendered even greater by his custom of storing up provisions for a rainy day. For this purpose he usually selects the junction of a large branch with the tree-trunk, and constitutes this his larder, which he carefully conceals by means of dead leaves, etc. He has even been known to carry the body of a slain child into the fork of a tree, and hide it there.

When on the look-out for prey, the leopard generally conceals himself among the branches of some tree be neath which game is likely to pass. From his leafy

retreat he can then leap down upon the unfortunate animal, and bring it to the ground merely by the force of his spring. When hunted, too, he almost always takes refuge among the boughs of a tree, and displays great sagacity in selecting a spot where he is protected from the aim of his pursuers.

On ordinary occasions the leopard is a much more timid animal than most of his relatives, and is easily frightened if taken by surprise. When driven to bay, however, he fights with the greatest ferocity and desperation, dashing savagely at his foes, and wreaking his vengeance upon them with tooth and claw.

In consequence of this fierce disposition, a native who has killed one of these animals is held in the highest esteem by the rest of his tribe, who regard with envy the necklace of the teeth and claws, and the 'kaross,' or cloak, which he forms from the skin. The tail, too, is carefully preserved, and dangles from the string which passes round the waist of the successful hunter.

During all its ravages, the animal behaves with a caution which renders it a very difficult matter even to trace the marauder.

He will not approach a farm where he can detect the least sign of the presence of danger, and is even cunning enough to take up his quarters near one village, and commit his depredations in another at a considerable distance, in order to lessen the chance of his retreat being discovered. He often removes to a distant part of the country, too, if he has committed many ravages in his old locality, and fears that he may be in danger in consequence.

Although the size of the leopard is far inferior to that of the lion or tiger, its strength is very great when the dimensions of the animal are taken into account. One of these creatures has even been known to drag a couple of wolf-hounds, which were tethered together, for a considerable distance into the bush, in spite of their struggles. Animals far larger and heavier than itself, too, fall victims to its attacks, and are carried away without apparent difficulty.

The muscular force which is compressed into a leopard's body is really amazing. In his "Eight Years in Ceylon," Sir H. Baker has the following remarks on it :

"The power of the animal is wonderful in proportion to its weight. I have seen a full-grown bullock with its neck broken by a leopard. It is the popular belief the effect is produced by a blow of the paw: this is not the case; it is not simply the blow, but the combination of the weight, the muscular power, and the momentum of the spring, which render the effects of a leopard's attack so surprising.

"The immense power of muscle is displayed in the concentrated energy of the spring. The leopard flies through the air, settles on the throat, usually throwing his own body over the animal, while his teeth and claws are fixed on the neck. This is the manner in which the spine of an animal is broken, viz., by a sudden twist, and not simply by a blow."

The same author mentions that he once found a Malabar lad sitting under a tree and looking very weak and ill. He sent some of his men to bring the lad to his house, but when they reached him they found that he was dead. He was buried by the roadside, but a few days afterwards it was found that the leopards had discovered the buried body, dug it up, and devoured it. The footprints, which were quite

fresh upon the damp soil, afforded unmistakable evidence against the offenders.

Leopards seem to be one of the many hindrances to agriculture in Ceylon.

They are so cunning that it is hardly possible to take effectual precautions against them, and they can hide themselves so easily in the almost impenetrable jungle, that to extirpate them is a hopeless task, unless the whole of the jungle be cleared away. Even then, so great is the power of vegetation, that the neglect of two or three months will permit the jungle to replace itself by fresh growths.

Cattle can hardly be considered safe even when fastened into their houses, for the leopards will clamber on the roof, tear away the thatch, and so gain admission to the shed. Once inside, a leopard will kill every animal in the shed, not for the purpose of satisfying its hunger, but from the mere lust of slaughter.

One

The cunning of the man-eaters is proverbial. favourite manoeuvre is for the animal to show itself at one end of a village, and make a sham attack upon it. When it has drawn all the armed men in pursuit, it quietly sneaks away, skirts the village under cover, slips in at the other end, pounces upon one of the inhabitants-generally a child-and escapes with its prey into the bush.

The young of the leopard vary from one to five in number. They are pretty little creatures, and as playful as kittens, gambolling with their mother in just the same manner. For the first few weeks of their life the markings are very indistinct, but become more conspicuous as the animals grow older.

Like most of the members of the cat tribe, the leopard has occasionally been tamed, and has sometimes even been allowed to range the house at will, after the manner of a favourite cat. All these animals, however, have been captured when very young, before their savage instincts have had time to show themselves.

This animal is sometimes known as the Panther, the two being merely very slight varieties of the same species.

(To be continued.)

How I Teach Elementary Science.'
SUBJECTS:

FOURTH-SCHEDULE

I

IN

MECHANICS.

BY RICHARD BALCHIN.

last month's issue the reader will find a detailed course of lessons in the first stage of this subject. purpose in this article reproducing, as far as I am able to remember, one of these lessons, given by me before certain members of the London School Board, H.M. Inspector, and others interested in scienceteaching. Subject: Matter.' The class consists of about sixty boys in Standards V. and VI. The classroom is light and airy, and the sun is shining brightly through one of the windows. In another room the girls are singing; we can just hear them, for their window is opposite ours. Their voices sound very sweetly. The song happens to be 'Catch the sunshine.' On the table before the boys I have a piece of chalk, a piece of quartz-rock, and a small bundle of

loose wool, such as the School Board for London supply with their specimens for object-teaching. The blackboard is up, and empty. I begin the lesson.

Listen, boys! (the boys attend, for there is something to attend to). What can you hear? Ans.-The girls singing. Where is the sound coming? Ans.-Through that window. How do you know that? Ans.-We can hear it. Can you see the sound coming through? Ans. No. Can you feel it with your hands if you hold them up to the window? Ans.-No. What is coming through the window opposite? Ans.-The sunshine. Can you see it? Ans.-Yes. Can you feel it? Ans.-No. Yes (says a boy who has just put his hand up into the rays). Some boy says he can feel the light. Can he? Ans.-No, sir, he can't feel the light; it's the heat he can feel. What is it, my boy, you can feel the heat or the light? Ans.-The heat. Can you feel the light? Ans. No, sir, but I can see it. Now, my boy, put this piece of quartz in your open hand; put your other hand in the sunshine. Can you feel the quartz? Ans.-Yes. Can you feel the heat? Ans. Yes. Now close your hand on the rock; shut your hand. Can you feel it? Ans.—Yes. Now shut your other hand on a piece of the heat. Ans.—I can't, sir. Why not? Ans. I can't lay hold of it. Listen again, boys! What are the girls singing? Ans. Catch the sunshine.' How can you catch the sunshine if you can't lay hold of it? Ans. -Mr. Forster told us that was poetry and had another meaning. Just so. It has. Tom Chumly, will you go and ask Mrs. Young to give you a piece of that sweet song that her girls have been sending through our window? Why do you smile? Couldn't you bring a piece? Ans.-No, sir. Why not, would it be too heavy for you to carry? Ans.-No, sir, not that. Mrs. Young could not get a piece, and I could not lay hold of a piece.

Then it is not because it is too heavy? Ans. No, sir, it has no weight at all. Just so, it has no weight at all. Now that boy who has been holding the piece of quartz; open your hand and move your arm up and down. Has the quartz weight? Ans.Yes. What was the other thing you felt just now? Ans.

The heat of the sun. Move your hand up and down in that. Has heat weight? Ans.-No, sir. How could I show you with this piece of rock that heat has no weight? Ans.-If you make it hot it won't be any heavier than it is now. Just so. Now, boys, we have been talking about three things: sound, heat, and light. What have we said about sound? Ans. You can hear it, but you can't see it, nor carry it about. What about heat? Ans. You can feel it, but you can't see it nor carry it about. (Another boy), Please, sir, you can carry it about. Can you? Ans.— Yes, sir. If I make a poker hot, I can carry it about. (Another boy), It's the poker he carries about, not the heat. (Another boy), Please, sir, it's the poker and the heat too; it's both. Now, my boys, we won't settle that now, because you don't know at present what heat really is. One thing you are certain about: heat has no weight. Now what have we said about light? Ans. You can see it, but can't feel it. Has it weight? Ans.-No. Tell me some other things in this room that have weight, besides that piece of quartz. Ans.-Chalk, slate, wood. Has the water in that jug weight? Ans.-Yes. Now is there anything in this room that you can feel and it has weight, and yet you can't see? No answer? (I wave my hand about.) What is it I feel? Ans.-The air. Yes, you can't

But

see air, but you can feel it, and it has weight. (A boy puts up his hand.) Well? Please, sir, you can't weigh a bit of air! (Another boy), He says you can't weigh a bit of hare, but you can. Yes, he sounded an 'h,' but he meant the air we breathe; and he says you can't weigh it. But we can. And all the air around our earth presses with a very great weight upon the earth. I have told you before what that pressure is. (A boy), It is 15 lbs. on every square inch. Yes. Now you have told me of many things that have weight, such as chalk, wood, water, air. I will write on the board a word which means having weight: 'Ponderable.' Chalk is: (boys ans.) ponderable; wood, water, and air are: (boys ans.) ponderable. I will write under that word another, which means not ponderable, or not having weight. Perhaps, however, some of you can tell me the word I want. Ans.'Light.' No, that is not the word. Ans.-'Unponderable.' Ah! that is very near. This is the word: 'Imponderable.' Now tell me some things that are imponderable. Ans.-Sound, heat, light. (A boy), Please, sir, is electricity imponderable? Well, what do you think yourself? Ans.-I think it has no weight. Why do you think so? Ans.-Because when you charge a Leyden-jar, or fill it with electricity, the jar is no heavier. (Another boy), Please, sir, he says when you fill a Leyden-jar with electricity, as if you put something into the jar when you charge it. Mr. Allen told us you don't put anything in at all, you only change something that is already in, so of course it does not weigh any heavier. Well, boys, so far as we know at present we can say that electricity, like sound, heat, and light, is imponderable. Now I will write another word in a line with ponderable, the word 'Material'; and opposite Imponderable, I will write 'Immaterial.' 'Material' means nearly the same as ponderable, and 'immaterial' nearly the same as imponderable, so that we can call chalk, wood, water, and so on, material things,' and sound, heat, light, and electricity, 'immaterial things.' Now what parts of speech are all those words I have written on the board? Ans.-Adjectives. I will now write upon the board a noun, which will include all ponderable material things. This is the word, 'Matter.' Tell me now what things are included under the term matter. Ans.-Chalk, wood, slate, water, air, and many others. Now tell me some things that you would not call matter. Ans.-Sound, heat, light, and electricity. Look here, boys. Here is a small piece of chalk in my right hand, and a large piece of loose wool in my left. Tell me which hand holds the most matter. Ans.-Left. Right. Most of you say left hand. Frank Hawkins, you said left hand; why do you think so? Ans. Because the piece of wool is larger than the piece of chalk. Well, then I will roll up and squeeze the wool into a very small space. Is there now less matter in my left hand than there was before? Ans. -No, sir, just the same. Very well. Now, suppose I were to press the piece of wool into a very little bit, no larger than the piece of chalk, then which hand would hold the most matter? Ans.-Both the same. Ah! But are you sure of that? (Another boy), Please, sir, you can't tell by looking at them. Why not? Ans. You must weigh them and see which is the heavier. Just so, and the one that is the heavier has the greatest amount of matter. What does, therefore, the amount of matter in anything depend upon? Ans.-Weight. What does it not depend upon?

Ans.-How big it is. Yes, that is true. Now, boys, take out your book and write down a definition of matter. I will write it on the board. You copy it. 'Matter is everything that is ponderable, and can be carried about, such as chalk, water, and air. Sound, heat, light, and electricity are not matter. The amount of matter is measured by weight, and not by volume or size.' (End of lesson.)

There are two or three points in connection with the above I should like to remark upon. It will be seen that I have tried to give the boys a conception of what is generally meant by matter, before giving a definition of it. I find that nine out of ten teachers would have begun by giving a definition of matter, and gone on explaining the definition. But surely knowledge does not enter the mind of a boy, nor indeed of anybody else, in this way. What is the use of giving a verbal definition of something of which the conception is not yet formed? What is a definition but the drawing, as it were, a line, mentally, round an idea so as to exclude other ideas? But why trouble yourself to draw a line round nothing? Again, it will be seen that I do not enter into metaphysical disquisitions about mind and matter. Nor say of mind, that it is 'no matter,' nor of matter, never mind.' These belong not to Mechanics.' I always encourage, too, a little conversation among the boys, for this brings out their intelligences.

‘A Talk about Language and Grammar.' (Continued from page 224.)

BY MARTIN F. TUPPER, D.C.L., F.R.S.,

Author of Proverbial Philosophy, etc.

Let us talk, then, about sundry other hard words, with the hope of making them easier by being understood; which means, making ourselves happy masters, rather than wretched slaves, of the uncomprehended. Knowledge is power, and he who has knowledge can stand up calm, strong, and self-possessed against the foes which ignorance alone has rendered formidable. Sometimes, one has been tempted to think of the 'good old times' gone by, learned men seem to have tried to get and to keep a monopoly (or selfish appropriation) of learning, by hiding up things that are simple and clear of themselves in words of definition that are complicated and obscure; but our day is happily the season wherein every one who can do so does his generous utmost to unveil mysteries and to destroy monopolies. It is the spirit of the age to be progressive; and, instead of trying to keep others back that we may seem to be in advance of them ourselves (however stagnant in fact and stationary), our wisdom, as our duty, is to keep the lead by a genuine progress, thus continually to be helping and urging others, especially the young, to reach us, or to beat us if they can, in the race of learning and intelligence.

Syntax: there's a terrible word, that utterly puzzled me for years, and has never been systematically explained to me to this hour. A poor little schoolboy on his hard bench on a cold winter's morning gets mystified as to the combination of vague thoughts about sin and tax,-and to him those six letters are fearsome, because unintelligible. Let me make the

hard word clear to you at once: it simply means combined arrangement; 'syn' in Greek being 'together,' and taxis,' drill or order. So, then, the syntax of grammar is the order of language or the drill of words; and its rules are the regulations of the drillfor instance, a verb must agree with its nominative in number and in person, that is to say, it is according to law to say I run, and not I runs; he runs, and not he run. If I is the first person, run must agree with it; if I is a noun singular, then run must be a verb singular, and so on. Sundry grammar-makers head lists of exercises with this learned-looking brace of words, Parsing Praxis,'-a contemptible alliteration, or play upon letters. But it is easy to kick over this stumbling-block by telling you that Praxis means practice (a word derived from the Greek 'prasso,' I do, or I make), so now you need not be afraid of Praxis; and Parsing is a corrupt Latin-English word explained before. Exercise' is a word familiar to your ear, but it will be clearer to your mind by the explanation that 'Exercitus' in Latin means an army, -a combination of 'ex,' out, and 'arceo,' I drive, also perhaps, arcus,' a bow; exercise, then, in its first or literal intention, means drill, or regular motions proper to good soldiership; in its second, or figurative intention, it signifies systematic exertions leading to good scholarship. I wonder whether boys are still as bothered as I was in my young day by the unexplained words Prosody, Dactyl, Spondee, and the like. A few sentences in plain English will clear them up for us here.

As Syntax regards the order and character of words generally, so Prosody regards the order and structure of words, with a special reference to what we call poetry, or rhyme and rhythm; whereof I have somewhat to say presently. Prosody is a word which conveys two ideas to the ear of a Greek, according as the second 'o' in the word is pronounced with a long sound or a short one, and spelt with omega or omicron. In the first case, Prosody means an introduction to poetry, 'pros,' to, and 'ode,' an ode; in the second, Prosody means introduction to the way, as if leading up by a path to the hill of Parnassus, where the old poets fabled the Muses to live, 'pros,' to, and 'odos,' a way. Temples of yore were placed usually on the top of some hill, and when the procession went up the hill with a hymn or a chant, it was called a Prosodia. Hence the word used, so enigmatically to the uninstructed schoolboy (ay, and the usher too, in our grammars.

Now, as to the common words poetry, rhyme, and rhythm, let me give you a thought or two. The term Poetry is a Greek noun, 'poiēsis,' an acting or making, from 'poieo,' I do; Poet, 'poietes,' means a maker or creator. So Poetry, as a word, involves a creation, which is a caution' (as our American cousins say) to a great many rhymers who think themselves poets. I have no time nor space, in this discursive talk, to give you an essay about every topic that arises, so we mustn't digress (or step aside) to enlarge upon such a wide subject as Poetry; only a word or two about rhyme as different from rhythm. Rhyme is the characteristic of most of our modern poetry-blank verse of course excepted-and rhythm is exclusively the characteristic of the ancient, which, inexplicably enough, was (until comparatively recent times) ignorant or contemptuous of the art of rhyming. Rhyme aims at a special melody or similarity at the

end of lines, the key to it in English being consonantal and not vowelic; and we in England reject exact similarities, while the French approve them. Rhythm aims at melody throughout, and is, when well done, intentionally diversified to escape monotony or sameness, by variations or modulations; of course, both rhyme and rhythm being best exhibited in the choicest forms of poetry. Milton's Paradise Lost is a rhythmical poem; his L'Allegro, a rhymed one. Virgil's poetry, as also Ovid's, Homer's, Sophocles', and the rest of the classics are exclusively rhythmical. Many old monkish hymns (as Dies ira, dies illa, solvet sæclum in favillâ, etc.) are rhymed; the art appearing first as a modern discovery, quite unknown to the ancients, somewhere about a thousand years after Christ, and probably found out in chantries, or by wandering troubadours; but of this large and curious subject I may possibly write a paper hereafter by itself.

I have now, however, to explain the common words so frequently used in prosody (along with sundry others less common-as 'iambus,' a halting, and 'trochee,' a running metre)-as, let us instance, dactyl and spondee. They are excellently welladapted names, when one knows the reasons for them. Dactylus' is the Greek for a finger, made up, as we all know, of one long joint and two short ones : so with the syllables of dactylic words: Omnibus (a Latin word meaning 'for all,' and now adopted as English for a public conveyance) is a dactyl. 'Spondee' is the name given to all words made up, as the word spondee itself is, of two long syllables; its adaptation is curious, and you will be interested to know about this word something that very few of the old schoolmasters even were aware of. Spondee in Greek means a libation, or religious outpouring; the hymn with which it was poured out was of long-drawn syllables, in psalm-tune or minim slow-time style, and was called 'Spondœum melos;' so the bars, or feet, or sections of the hymn came to be called spondees-in English, such a word as railroad, or steamboat, or concord is a spondee. Of other measures and verses I may possibly talk hereafter. It is a pity for English learners, be they older or younger, when a teacher does not habitually expound to them all such difficult words; half the obscurities of any science lie in the terms wherein knowledge is mysteriously hidden.

Diphthong, for instance, an ugly-looking word enough, baffling both to spell and to enunciate, which has perplexed many a small boy, merely signifies a double sound, being the combination of two vowelsas a and e, æ; o and e, œ, and so forth; ‘Di' standing for double in Greek, and 'phthong' for voice or vowel. Even the common word 'syllable' (though tolerably well understood to mean one connected span of a vowel surrounded by its consonants) is seldom shown to a child to be made up of 'syl,' with, and 'lable,' taken, or Greek words much like these. So the word means taken with, or caught together; any vowel entangled in consonants is a syllable. Monosyllable means one such small collection of letters, monos' being the Greek for one or single— as monopoly, one trading; monolith, one stone pillar, etc. Dis-syllable means two such lots of letters; Trissyllable, three, and so on. Now, the word 'declension' will convey a truer idea to your minds than you may hitherto have had of it, when you know that it means 'a going down,' as on the steps of a ladder;

there are, as it were, five shelves of Latin and Greek nouns, ranked according to the five vowels severally influencing each of them, as before mentioned; and upon one or other of these five shelves all the classic nouns are pitched, the first declension being at the top, and the fifth at the bottom. So, likewise, with verbs, also classified by vowels, as keynotes; the word 'conjugations' may be illustrated by the word. 'bunches,' being joinings together of similar verbs in bundles; each verb also, when conjugated throughout, being like a bunch of grapes, or a genealogical tree, or bees swarming-' con,' together, and 'jungo,' I join. There is plenty of hard words about the verbs; let me, just as the thoughts occur in talking, touch some of them: for instance, a 'transitive' verb is one, the influence or action of which passes over ('trans,' over, 'it,' goes) to some noun beyond the nominative as 'John loves me;' where 'loves' is transitive, as its action extends from John to me, but if I say simply 'John loves,' without expressing whom he loves, and only as another way of saying 'John is in love,' there 'loves' is intransitive; the Latin word 'in' meaning 'not'-instance, incorruptible, innumerable. Tom killed a sparrow'-killed is transitive ; 'Tom absconded ’· absconded is intransitive. A neuter verb is one neither transitive nor intransitive, but betwixt and between-as 'I am,' 'we are,' etc. A tense means a time, corrupted from tempus; of tenses I will speak anon. A mood means a manner, modus; of the moods also hereafter. But some words, as these two, 'Gerund' and 'Supine,' are mysteries to most of us through life; they mean powers of being active or idle. The famous distich wittily expresses the three Gerunds di, do, dum :— 'When Dido saw Æneas would not come,

She wept in silence, and was Dido dumb.'

I can throw very little light on the Supine-the letter 'u seems its keynote. Now, as to tenses or times: there can be only three sorts of time-the past, the present, and the future-and in every sentence we utter, the verb or principal word in it must be used in one or other of these three. Accordingly, in every language (for Grammar is a universal science) the times or tenses are either the present-'I am doing;' the past or perfected—‘I have done;' or the future-'I will do ;' there are, also, more or less additionally, certain shades of difference as to the past, with reference to its distance from us now, as the imperfect-or less than perfected past-'I was doing;' and the pluperfect-or more than past-I had done;' the Latin word 'præter,' besides, usually prefixed to these names, meaning 'extra' tenses. The future might undoubtedly also have been endowed with similar shades of difference, affecting its nearness or distance, but, as we are none of us prophets, these could not be defined with the exactness wherewith we can contemplate the historic and completed past. As to the present, it can only be one phase in its severe simplicity.

But there are other variations of the verb, called moods or modes, methods whereby and wherein we must use them-for example, we either indicate a fact, as I run,' or command it impressively, as 'Run thou;' or express a desire with reference to it, as May I run or conditionally, 'I might run,' in a sort of subjoined fashion; or to speak of it indefinitely, as 'To run.' All these are various acknowledged

6