in the Siddhanta Siromani by Bhaskara, one of their number: "But what does a man of genius want with instruments, about which numerous works have treated? Let him only take a staff in his hand and look at any object along it, casting his eye from its end to the top. There is nothing of which he will not then tell, its altitude, dimensions, etc." In striking contrast is the practice of the great Maharajah Jai Singh of Jaipur (1686-1743 A. D.), whose five observatories are still among the most remarkable sights of India. Although a Hindu, he studied Moslem and European methods impartially, and his enormous instruments are copies or developments of those of Ulugh Bey, of Greek and Moslem origin. The oldest of the celebrated Chinese instruments in Pekin are of Mongol origin, as they were built in 1279 A. D., on Greek models, for Ko Show King, the astronomer of the great Mongol conqueror Koblai Khan. THE MOSLEM PERIOD pointed at the celestial object (Fig. 10).* Its obvious limitations when supported by the hand led to the provision by the Greeks of more stable mountings and a progressive increase in the size of the circle, illustrated by the great astrolabes of Jai Singh. A Moslem writer, Ibn Carfa, remarked that if he could do so, he would construct a circle supported on one side by the Great Pyramid and on the other by the Mokattam Hills, eight miles away across the Nile! TYCHO BRAHE Perhaps the most striking tribute to the skill of their early designers is afforded by the fact that practically all of the instruments of the Danish astronomer Tycho Brahe, the last great observer prior to the invention of the telescope, are of Greek model. He devoted himself to their improvement, and the elaborate equipment built in his own shops for the great Observatory of Uranibourg embodies valuable advances, such as his method of transversals for subdividing the graduations of circles. Thanks to these, and to his skill and assiduity as an observer, the greatly increased precision of his star places enabled Kepler to discover his celebrated laws of planetary motion. But like all his predecessors, he was still confined by the limitations of the naked eye, and he could see no farther into the depths of space than the earliest star-gazers of paleolithic times. A radical advance, embodying a new but simple principle, was needed, and this he missed, though it lay within his very grasp. Spectacles had been known for three centuries, and may have been worn by members of his observatory staff. But neither the lucky chance in combining two lenses that first revealed the powers of the telescope, nor the knowledge of optics that enabled Galileo instantly to design his own instrument, came to Tycho's aid. Surrounded by the perfected instruments of the Alexandrian School, which he used so long and so effectively, he stands as the last great observer before the dawn of the telescopic age. A striking chapter in the history of science is that of the Moslem period, following in the wake of their conquests from Arabia eastward to Persia and westward through Egypt and the whole north African coast into Spain. Their careful measurements of the sun, moon, planets, and stars led to important advances, and we are also indebted to them for their contributions to the development of algebra and trigonometry. Best of all, they kept science alive, and maintained a high level of civilization while most of Europe was at the lowest ebb. The Almagest was their great work of reference, and their instruments were modelled after those of the Greeks. In their hands the astrolabe, of antiquity so great that Gallucci (1595) repeats the tradition that it was made by Adam for the instruction of his children, was so universally and persistently employed that it can still be purchased in the bazaars of India, where it is in common use by the astrologers. It consists of a graduated circle on which a revolving diametral arm, furnished with pinnules or sights at its extremities, is his son. Chaucer's "The Conclucions of the Astrolabie" quaintly sets forth the many uses of this instrument for the benefit of Bachelors on Horseback BY ROGER BURLINGAME Author of "You Too" ILLUSTRATIONS BY REGINALD BIRCH He Caldwell was a manufacturer. made the tops and brushes for mucilage bottles. The glass bottoms were achieved elsewhere, I understand, Caldwell's interest being solely metallic. I actually cannot remember where or how I first met him; our lives drifted together, somehow, in the realm of horses. We may have met riding in Central Park or scraped acquaintance at a polo game. He was rich and I was poor. But horses are a leveller of such things; they levelled our ages too for Caldwell was in the forties and I was a boy beginning work. We must have talked of horses at the very start when I was enthusiastic about a Mexican border expedition I had just made with the cavalry of the state guard. Soon after, I began spending my weekends at his place in Westchester and making my pick of his stable for our long rides into late afternoons. Finding me companionable and supplying something of a hold for him on his parting youth, he had asked me to go on a vacation trip to relieve his loneliness and, as he put it, to make things easier in camp. "Two can cook better than one," he said. We went. Late every afternoon we bought our food and our horses' food for that night and the next day at some little village and camped near water. It was a beautiful free life. We talked little at first, riding, sometimes, for hours without saying a word. Yet in that silence we grew into a sort of intimacy. Caldwell was a bachelor. I have never known why, but one never knows why about such things. He would have been a good husband and sensible father and relieved his loneliness which was quite evident from the first. On our first trip I think the subject of women was never once mentioned. When, on our way, we passed a girl who peculiarly delighted me by her beauty, he made no comment, nor, in fact, seemed to notice her, differing thus from my numerous bachelor friends. This seemed to me curious. I could not imagine a man not noticing a pretty girl. "You're young," he said when, once, on our second trip, I commented on one. I laughed. "I hope I won't get over that so soon," I said. "The sooner the better." I looked at him suddenly. A curiously bitter expression had come on his face. He changed the subject almost immediately and I went on thinking. Then, in the inarticulate way that things came about with us, I learned dimly that something had happened to him. Partly, no doubt, with the aid of my quick-moving fancy, I pieced together something vaguely like a love history in Caldwell's past. And now there was left behind a bitterness toward the sex. As I look at it now Caldwell's was an old story and an exceedingly simple one. I was young then and analyzed little. My impulses were quick and direct and Caldwell's sex hatred annoyed me a little. But on the third of our trips that annoyance was unexpectedly interrupted and changed, momentarily into another kind of irritation which in turn passed (for a good reason) and left us the best of friends. And such we have remained. It was a fine, cool July that third trip; a succession of cool days with bright skies and clear, dry air. We had got, in our easy riding, into the farm country of the Green Mountain foothills and were riding along a valley road. Patches of wood alternated with open rolling farm land, and a great variety of cool greens delighted us with their succession. A stream ran by to the left of the road, bent away from us, lost itself in woods and returned again laughing, like a friendly young person keeping us company. My horse walked sleepily and contentedly, but Caldwell's horse jigged and fussed a little and seemed uncomfortable. When we stopped to rest in an especially inviting mossy bend of the brook, Caldwell said: "I believe I'll look at his back." Caldwell got his sponge out of his saddlebags and dipped it in the brook. But when he approached his horse, the horse swung away, worried and frightened. I stood at his head, but Caldwell had great difficulty and could only make little, ineffectual dabs at the sore. The horse circled about. It must have looked funny to any one not deeply concerned. Suddenly in the midst of our absorbed struggle a laugh rang out behind me. It was so unexpected that we both stopped and looked up. It was a lovely laugh, as musical as the stream laughing among its stones, but Caldwell was angry. We were "Who's that?" he said. It was an absurd remark. both looking at a girl. She was very slender and straight and young; she stood not gracefully nor awkwardly yet with a combination of both suggesting suppleness and freedom; suggesting to my city eyes something utterly of the country. Her dark brown hair hung, braided, her head was thrown back in a great abandon of laughter, and tears of laughter sparkled in her eyes. A faded blue dress hung loose to her knees, her legs were bare and tanned, her feet, a little apart, in her firm simple pose, were sunk in the green moss. Over her shoulder was a trout rod and the strap of a creel that hung by her side. Altogether she made a pleasing picture of country health and youth and a kind of beauty, perfectly part of the woods, that for me precluded all annoyance at her in He took off the saddle and disclosed a trusion or her mirth. new, raw sore. "Hell," he said without raising his voice. I looked at it and agreed that it was bad. "It will hold us up," said Caldwell. "I can't ride on that. I wish there was a farm where we could put up a day or so. I hate to impose on these farmers. They're so poor in food." A sore back is a serious thing. It brings, too, a pricking sense of shame to the rider. Yet even with good riding I have seen sores develop under a full pack. An infinitesimal grain of sand, the least unevenness in the weight of the pack, a dozen little things that may escape the most watchful eye, will sometimes abrade a tender skin. But Caldwell was upset. His hatred of women came aptly to the surface. And his rage was a little pricked by the absurdity of his first remark. "Let's see you do it," he said. The girl stopped laughing. She looked down, reddening, and became conscious of herself. Her pose fell out of its straight simple grace. She stood a moment, digging little holes in the moss with her toes and then started away. "I better be goin'," she said. I felt suddenly desperate at losing her. "Don't go," I said. Then, thinking there had been no good reason for my saying that, I added, "Maybe you can help us." "I could talk to him." Her voice had never liked that country New England emphasis. Yet I was held by it as the horse was. Bay forgot everything but that strange rigmarole she was talking to him. Suddenly I heard Caldwell's voice. "All done." He was still brisk and sharp. "Got the ointment on and everything. He'll be right soon. Now, young lady, do you know any farm round here we might stop at a day or so?" "Yep," said the girl, patting Bay's head. "Up the road a piece. You go well-a piece right ahead. Mr. Jones's farm is on the right, the first house you come to." She stopped a moment. "I better be goin' now." "We're much obliged, young lady," said Caldwell. The girl laughed but said nothing. We led our horses back on the road. I looked round and called out, "Thanks a lot." The girl had walked into the brook and was standing in the midst of it with her feet firmly planted among the stones and the water running over her ankles. She was pulling out the line from her reel. She looked an instant over her shoulder and smiled at me. I turned back and noticed that Caldwell was watching me intently. "Nice girl," I said, but Caldwell did not reply. We found the Jones farm easily and it absorbed us immediately. Caldwell began talking as soon as we saw it and his tone carried the conviction of great relief. "Why look at that, David," he said, "it actually looks prosperous. I hate to impose on most of these people, but there's a big barn with a box stall in it, I'll bet, and probably plenty of oats and I don't doubt they can lodge and board us a couple of days without depriving them of much. Yes, David, I believe we've struck it lucky this time." I glanced up at him, surprised. It was not his habit to run on this way. "I guess that's so," I said. "And probably they won't mind our pitching our pup tents in that little pasture, and by George the stream runs right through it. And there's no reason you shouldn't turn Chesty out in the pasture. There don't seem to be any cows in it. By George, David, it seems to me we're in luck." "I believe we are," I said. He looked at me a little uneasily, but surprising nothing unusual in my face, went on. "Here, you take the horses, David, and I'll go and inquire.' I took the reins and Caldwell went up the geranium-bordered walk to the front porch. It was a nice old doorway with seats on either side the porch. The house was gentle with age, comfortably settled, and had the look of being at peace with the world after a long uneventful life. I saw a neat little woman at the door and immediate conversation. The woman seemed to talk and gesticulate a good deal with Caldwell impatiently getting in a word now and then. I saw her point toward the barn and sweep her hand over the pasture and I assumed that everything was settled. But the talk continued. I loosened Chesty's girth and waited. I waited an interminable time. Finally Caldwell started toward the barn with the woman behind him. He beckoned to me as he turned the corner of the house and I followed, somewhat puzzled, with the horses. This aggressive, commanding rôle was something new for Caldwell. Though the origin and motivating force of all our trips had been his, he had silently left all the ordering of them to me. By unspoken agreement I had always bought the food and picked our camp sites. He had deferred to my judgment on every point, surprisingly at first, since he was so much the older. I joined them at the barn and found them gesticulating at two large box stalls. Caldwell introduced me to Mrs. Jones as if he had known her all his life. "My young friend, Mr. David Martin," he said. Mrs. Jones was as garrulous as, on the doorstep, she had promised. She was the sort of woman who should have peculiarly annoyed Caldwell and reduced him to monosyllables, yet he took as active a part in the talk as she would allow. "You see sence my daughter went it ain't ben the same at all," she was saying. "Got merried a year ago, she did, an' she's got a big healthy boy of her own. A big healthy boy she hes, not as big as my boy was, but he wasn't usual he was |