did not see, would certainly hear the group of girls, some thirty in number, that occupied one end of the brick-paved verandah. All, whether seated on the floor, or standing to recite, use their lungs most faithfully, and almost without cessation. The little ones, five or six years old, dressed simply in a skirt of calico reaching to the ankles, with their jet-black hair neatly combed, sit tailor-wise on the floor, with white sand from the beach spread on the bricks before them. One of their number sits opposite to them, and with her fore-finger writes a letter of the Tamil alphabet in the sand, at the same time singing out its name in a loud monotonous chaunt. The class then take up the sound and repeat it, as they write with their fingers the same letter in the sand. The monitor, with the palm of her hand, rubs the letter out, and smoothing the sand, writes the next letter, calling out its name. The class follow, and so the lesson goes on, the girls keeping time with their voices while they form the letters with their fingers, thus learning to read and write at once. Hour after hour, the sound of
А̄nă, ănă, ā-ā-ā-n-ă; ānă, ānă, (short a,)
А̄-věnă, āvěnă; ā-ā-ā-věnă, āvěnă, (long a,)
Eē-nă, eē-nă; eē-eē-nă, eē-nă, (short i,)
