[Illustration: Decorative I]
t was a very pleasant evening in July. Hans Pumpernickel, who had just
laid down the duties of Mayor of Schnitzelhammerstein-on-the-Zugvitz,
after having filled that lofty office for eight years, was walking with
me along the river-front at its busiest point.
"Let us go out on the wharf," said Hans, as we neared its entrance.
"When I was a small boy I used to take pleasure in sitting upon the
twine-piece of the wharf and letting my legs dingle over."
I scratched my head for a moment before I saw exactly what he meant by
"twine-piece" and "dingle."
"You speak English very well, Pumpernickel," said I; "but what you
should have said was 'string-piece' and 'dangle,' not 'twine-piece' and
'dingle.'"
"But," he protested, "is not a piece of twine a piece of string?"
"Yes," I replied; "but--"
"Then why may not a 'twine-piece' be a 'string-piece'? And as for
'dingle,' is it not the present tense of the verb 'to dingle'? Dingle,
dangle, dungle--like sing, sang, sung? You would not say 'letting him
sang'--it would be 'letting him sing'; wherefore, why not say 'letting
my legs dingle over,' and avoid saying 'letting my legs dangle over'?"
"Oh, well, have it your own way," said I; and, having reached the end of
the wharf, we sat down there, and shortly found our legs "dingling" over
the water in the most approved style.
"It is a hard sort of a seat," said I, after a moment or two of silence,
as we gazed upon the river flowing by.
"True," said Hans, philosophically, "though it is not made of hard wood.
Let us take a boat and have a row."
I agreed, and we hired a small skiff and paddled idly down the stream.
We had not gone far when the bow of our craft bumped up against
something which scraped against the side of the boat as we passed.
"What was that?" said Pumpernickel.
"I don't know," said I, indifferently. "Nothing, I guess."
"What nonsense you talk sometimes!" he retorted. "It must have been
something. We'll retreat and see."
Suiting the action to the words, Hans backed water with his oars, and in
the dim light of the moon we soon descried the object of our search--a
curious old earthen vessel floating in the river, bobbing up and down
very much like a buoy. It looked like a water-bottle of two centuries
ago, and, indeed, upon investigation turned out to be such.
"Aha!" cried Hans, triumphantly, as I lifted the bottle into the boat,
"it _was_ something, after all. I knew it could not be nothing. Is it
empty of contents?"
I turned the vessel bottom side up, and nothing came out of it, but
there was a distinct thud within which betrayed the presence of some
solid substance.
"It is not empty of contents," said I, giving it another shake, "but it
hasn't any table to show what those contents are."
"Oh, we don't need a table," said Hans, failing to appreciate the subtle
humor of my remark. "Just shake it out."
With a sigh over my lost joke, I did as I was bidden, and soon, after a
vigorous shaking and the removal of a cork which I had not previously
noticed, the substance within issued forth through the bottle's neck.
"Dear me," said I. "It appears to be manuscript."
"Let me see," said Hans. "Ah," he observed, "it is writing. Why did you
say it was manuscript?"
"That is writing," I explained.
"That may be," said he, "but why waste your tongue on three syllables
when two will do?"