The Life Cycle of Language: Past, Present, and Future 0192845810, 9780192845818

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The Life Cycle of Language

The Life Cycle of Language Past, Present, and Future Edited by

D A R YA K AV I T SK AYA AND AL AN C. L. Y U

Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, OX2 6DP, United Kingdom Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and in certain other countries © editorial matter and organization Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu 2023 © the chapters their several authors 2023 The moral rights of the authors have been asserted All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by licence or under terms agreed with the appropriate reprographics rights organization. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data Data available Library of Congress Control Number: 2023935893 ISBN 9780192845818 DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.001.0001 Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY Links to third party websites are provided by Oxford in good faith and for information only. Oxford disclaims any responsibility for the materials contained in any third party website referenced in this work.

To our teacher, Andrew Garrett

Contents Acknowledgments Preface List of Figures and Tables List of Abbreviations The Contributors

x xi xiv xviii xxii

I . R E C O NST RU C T I N G T H E PA ST 1. The fall and rise of vowel length in Bantu Larry M. Hyman

3

2. The rise and fall of rounding harmony in Turkic Darya Kavitskaya and Adam McCollum

23

3. The life cycle of the Kuuk Thaayorre desiderative Alice Gaby

34

4. Akan morphological ‘reversal’ in historical context Mary Paster

51

5. Increasing morphological mismatch via category loss: The Spanish Future Subjunctive Matthew L. Juge

68

6. Toward a non-teleological account of demonstrative reinforcement David Goldstein

85

7. Typology and history of unusual traits in Nivacle´ Lyle Campbell

99

8. Greek ἔγνωκα and the perfect of PIE ∗ ǵneh3 - ‘know’ Jay H. Jasanoff

118

9. The surface position of Hittite subordinating kuit H. Craig Melchert

125

10. PIE ∗ meh2– ‘grow, be fruitful’ and Proto-Basque ∗ ma, ∗ maha ‘fruit’: An apple by any other name… Juliette Blevins

137

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CONTENTS

I I . PH I L O L O GI C A L A N D D O C UM EN TA R Y PA ST A N D P R E SEN T 11. Paradigm structure in Sanskrit reduplicants Donca Steriade

155

12. Sound symbolic words in Séliš-Ql’ispé Sarah Thomason

173

13. Tone and morphological structure in a documentationbased grammar of Choguita Rarámuri Gabriela Caballero

198

14. The structure of dialect diversity in Mono: Evidence from the Sydney M. Lamb Papers Hannah J. Haynie and Maziar Toosarvandani

214

15. Recovering prosody from Karuk texts: Deciphering J. P. Harrington’s diacritics Clare S. Sandy

233

16. Stylistic differentiation in California Dene texts Justin Spence

254

17. Winter story themes in Meskwaki: Familiar creatures seen with new eyes Lucy Thomason

268

18. The material and the textual in documentation of Native American languages Lisa Conathan

280

19. Community-participatory orthography development in the Máı´jùnà communities of Peruvian Amazonia Christine Beier and Lev Michael

291

20. The value of family relations for revitalization Marianne Mithun

315

I I I . L O O K I N G F O RWA R D : N EW A PPR O A C H E S 21. Sound structure and the psycholinguistics of language contact Molly Babel and Melinda Fricke 22. Child-directed speech as a potential source of phonetic precursor enhancement in sound change: Evidence from Cantonese Alan C. L. Yu, Carol K. S. To, and Yao Yao

339

354

CONTENTS

ix

23. Paradigmatic heterogeneity and homogenization: Probing Paul’s principle Chundra Cathcart

371

24. Language change in small-scale multilingual societies: Trees, waves, and magnets? Jeff Good

386

25. Gradualness and abruptness in linguistic split: A Nyulnyulan case study Claire Bowern

399

References Language Index Subject Index

412 457 461

Acknowledgments This book would not have come to fruition without the encouragement and help from many. We would like to first thank the external reviewers for all their efforts: Kathryn Franich, David Harrison, José Hualde, Brian Joseph, Hannah McElgunn, and Armin Mester. Special thanks to Henry MacKall for his assistance in compiling the references. Many thanks also to the contributors of this volume not only for their chapters, but also for the timeliness of their efforts!

Preface Historical linguistics is a dynamic and vibrant field with multifaceted goals. Historical linguists reconstruct a language’s linguistic past and reveal the history of its speakers. They elucidate mechanisms underlying language change and unravel complex interactions between people throughout the ages and space. Yet, and perhaps somewhat surprisingly, historical linguistics is not a field that concentrates exclusively on past histories, it also addresses questions concerning the development of language, be it in the past, in the present, or in the future, as it addresses questions of language change and evolution. Thus, historical linguistics deals with not only languages from a bygone past, but also languages that are still evolving. What is learnt about the past helps elucidate what the future might hold. This volume brings together 25 chapters by an international group of linguists with diverse research backgrounds and at different stages of academic careers. The all-encompassing nature of historical linguistic research necessarily invites diverse perspectives and methodological concerns. This volume highlights this multifaceted nature of language change research with contributions from IndoEuropeanists, philologists, fieldworkers, language documentarians, theoreticians (e.g. phonologists, syntacticians, and semanticists), and experimentalists (e.g. laboratory phonologists and psycholinguists). This volume features languages from the distant past (e.g. Hittite, Sanskrit, Proto-Indo-European, Proto-Turkic, Proto-Bantu) to the present (e.g. Cantonese, Meskwaki, Mono, Nivaclé, and Séliš-Ql’ispé). It covers languages from all continents other than Antarctica. The book is organized into three parts. The first part, “Reconstructing the past,” focuses on contributions that address the bread and butter of historical linguistics. They deal with phonological, morphological, syntactic, and semantic changes that affect language development from a diachronic perspective. The first two chapters focus on sound change. Hyman addresses the history of length contrast in Bantu, distinguishing four vowel length systems. Hyman proposes that positional restrictions resulted in the loss of the vowel length contrast, and the shift of the type of prominence contributed to the creation of the contrast. Kavitskaya and McCollum provide an analysis of the rise and fall of rounding harmony in Turkic, suggesting that the loss of harmony in Turkic involves the contraction of the prosodic domain and the proliferation of invariant suffixes. Chapter 3 from Gaby deals with semantic change, discussing the co-existence of 12 desiderative constructions in Kuuk Thaayorre, which are argued to be the result of several successive waves of conventionalization. Chapters 4 and 5 concentrate on morphological change.

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PREFACE

Paster talks about the reversal of past and perfect morphology in the negative in Akan, and Juge addresses a morphological mismatch in Spanish future subjunctive, which is attributed to category loss. Goldstein follows with a discussion of the non-teleological nature of the definiteness cycle in Romance, which refers to the development of a definite article from a demonstrative, followed by demonstrative reinforcement. Campbell addresses several unusual traits in Nivaclé at the phonological, morphological, and morphosyntactic levels. Jasanoff focuses on the development of the perfect of Greek ‘recognize, know.’ This chapter shows the importance of understanding the historical development in making claims about synchronic morphological irregularities. Melchert addresses the syntactic position of Hittite subordinating conjunction ‘because.’ Finally, Blevins argues that the source for one of the reconstructed forms for ‘apple,’ ∗ méh2 l-o-, is not Proto-Indo-European, but Proto-Basque. The second part, titled “Philological and documentary past and present,” includes chapters that focus on the study of linguistic features on the basis of textual materials from the past or on the creation of documentary evidence that are crucial for historical and comparative research. Steriade offers new insights into the nature of reduplication in Sanskrit through the lens of modern day linguistic theory. Sarah Thomason examines the nature of sound symbolic words in SélišQl’ispé, which provides an important empirical basis for the comparative study of Salishan languages. Caballero offers a meditation on the nature of grammar writing, focusing on the description of the interaction between tone and morphological structure in Choguita Rarámuri. Particularly for under-documented languages like Choguita Rarámuri, reference grammars often serve as the primary documentary evidence for historical and comparative work and are instrumental in many language reclamation efforts. Haynie and Toosarvandani examine Mono dialectology based on Sydney Lamb’s fieldnotes and offer new insights into the internal subgroupings among Mono varieties. A significant part of historical linguistic research focuses on deciphering textual materials. Several contributions in Part II of this volume offer important insights in this endeavor. Sandy’s contribution examines the transcriptional practice of J. P. Harrington, the prodigious fieldworker whose voluminous work on Native American languages is largely unpublished and is in often cryptically transcribed fieldnotes. Sandy focuses on Harrington’s work on Karuk in particular, illuminating the many different uses of diacritics in his Karuk fieldnotes. Another dimension of philological examination of textual records involves the classification and contextualization of the textual materials themselves. Spence examines stylistic differences across texts from Athabaskan languages in California, while Lucy Thomason focuses on a set of texts from Meskwaki that share the same theme, but exhibit diverse linguistic as well as stylistic features. Conathan’s chapter examines the creation of linguistic texts, problematicizing modern practices of language documentation. The case in point comes from the Massachusetts language where she examines the interactions

PREFACE

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among oral discourse, textual documentation, and contemporary native language reclamation. Studies regarding language change encompass not only the past and present, but also the future. Questions regarding the future trajectory of change are most pertinent in endangered language communities where the future survival and vibrancy of a language is most precarious. Part II of this volume includes contributions from scholars who are actively involved in revitalization and reclamation efforts in such communities, discussing not only the changes that endangered languages are experiencing, but also the scarce nature of the materials communities with few or no fluent speakers often have to confront and work with, and the ideological backdrop that sustains efforts of language maintenance and revitalization. Beier and Michael look at the intricacies of orthography design in Máı´jùnà, proposing a model for community-participatory orthography development that emerged from collaboration between linguists and members of the communities of Peruvian Amazonia. Many languages left behind scant documentary footprints in the annals of time. Mithun suggests that impoverished historical records can be greatly enhanced if information from related languages are brought to bear. The third part of the book, titled “Looking forward: New approaches,” features contributions focusing on the theoretical and methodological basis of language change research. Babel and Fricke argue for the value of incorporating psycholinguistic findings in language contact research. Specifically, they look at how processes of cross-language interaction within an individual speaker shape sound patterns in the context of languages in contact. Yu, To, and Yao investigate the role of child-directed speech in sound change, showing that some, but not all, sound changes in progress in Hong Kong Cantonese exhibit enhancement effects, which have been hypothesized to be a source of incrementation in language change. Cathart analyzes the temporal dynamics of the leveling of vocalic and consonantal patterns of allomorphy in Middle and Early New High German using Bayesian modeling. Good studies how language change operates in small-scale multilingual societies, arguing that linguistic convergence and divergence may look different when the community exhibits what he refers to as a magnetic sociohistorical dynamics. Bowern examines changes in Nyulnyulan languages, where both gradual diffusionistic tendencies and abrupt splits are observed. These changes reflect complex sociohistorical patternings which strictly tree or wave models of language changes have difficulties capturing. We titled this book “The Life Cycle of Language,” to reflect the all-encompassing nature of historical linguistics and language change research. The goal is not to produce a handbook of historical linguistics, but to showcase the dynamism and inherently interdisciplinary nature of the field. We also want to take this opportunity to dedicate this volume to our mentor, colleague, and friend, Andrew Garrett. There is no one who better embodied the scope and spirit reflected in the contributions in this volume than Andrew.

List of Figures and Tables Figures 1.1. Languages which have lost the PB vowel length contrast (shaded) Source: Guthrie (1967: 66)

7

1.2. Languages which have introduced penultimate lengthening (Dark gray squares)

14

3.1. Putative etymology of subjunctive coding of desire

46

3.2. Putative etymology of associated motion coding of desire

46

3.3. Continuum between PCIs and GCIs

48

4.1. The Tano languages Source: Adapted from Williamson and Blench (2000)

53

5.1. Tense, aspect, and mood in non-imperative, non-anterior (non-perfect) forms in Spanish

71

5.2. The role of the Spanish Indicative and Subjunctive in asserting propositions

71

5.3. Tense, aspect, and anteriority in Greek verbs

73

5.4. The five major Romance languages in Comrie’s typology of future-time protases

81

13.1. Location of Choguita (Guachochi municipality, Chihuahua, Mexico)

199

14.1. Mono dialects according to Lamb (1957: 14–15)

215

14.2. Mono-speaking areas (modified from Babel et al. 2013: 452)

216

14.3. Page 1 from Notebook A, recording a meeting with Annie Wenz, in the Sydney M. Lamb Papers (Kinsman and Lamb 1953)

217

14.4. Approximate geographic extents of Lamb’s dialect areas and distribution of speakers in Lamb’s Mono field notes

219

∗

∗

14.5. Distribution of selected features: A shows reflexes of ɲj in pohniɲya ‘skunk’ and ∗ tɨhɨɲya ‘deer’; B shows reflexes of ∗ ŋw in ∗ paŋwi ‘fish’; C shows reflexes of ∗ mp in ∗ tɨmpi ‘rock’; D shows stem for the meaning ‘horse’

222

19.1. Locations of the four Máı´jùnà communities in Loreto Peru (west to east): Puerto Huamán, Nueva Vida, Sucusari, and Totoya. Source: Modified from the base map in Gilmore et al. (2010, 299)

294

20.1. Map by Charles Edward, Public Domain Source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Beaver_wars_ map.jpg

316

20.2. Susquehannock Numerals: Campanius 1696: 160

317

20.3. Basic Verb Template: Iroquois Proper

326

LIST OF FIGURES AND TABLES

xv

22.1. Average vowel triangles (solid lines) for ADS and CDS across all the speakers, shown against each speaker’s mean [a]/[i]/[u] formant values

360

22.2. Average tone triangles (solid lines) for ADS and CDS across all the speakers, shown against each speaker’s mean T1/T2/T4 F0 onset and offset

361

22.3. Model predictions of the likelihood of (a) syllable-initial /n/ being pronounced as [n] and (b) labiovelars being pronounced as labio-velars

363

22.4. Word-specific percentages of labiovelars being pronounced as labiovelars

364

22.5. Model predictions of sibilant spectral mean before rounded and unrounded vowels as modulated by the speaking-rate-residualized duration of the sibilant. Error bars indicate 95% confidence intervals

367

22.6. “Caterpillar plots” for the conditional modes of the by-subject random slopes for the interaction between CONDITION and ROUND the 28 mothers. The participants are ordered by the conditional modes of the by-subject slope

368

22.7. Each panel shows a mother’s the sibilant spectral means before rounded and unrounded in ADS and CDS conditions

369

23.1. Chronology of selected analogical changes represented by generalized additive model (GAM) smooth curves. Values of 1 correspond to the sound on the right-hand side of the arrow

379

23.2. Posterior estimates of trends for levels of LEMMA×MACRO-INFLECTIONAL CLASS×CHANGE. For readability, PretSg represents 1/3sg.pret.ind. and PretPl represents 2sg/1-3pl.pret.ind. Verbs that do not survive paste MHG are in parentheses

382

23.3. Relative chronologies of change types inferred from model results. For clarity, only intra-lemma chronologies are provided. Solid lines represent precedence relationships supported by 95% or more of samples (85% for dashed lines). For readability, PretSg represents 1/3sg.pret.ind. and PretPl represents 2sg/1-3pl.pret.ind

383

24.1. Lower Fungom and the surrounding region Source: Map created by Pierpaolo Di Carlo

388

25.1. Two types of tree topologies: rakes and consistent splits

401

25.2. Rapid multiple migrations

402

25.3. Map of the Nyulnyulan languages Source: Bowern (2012a)

404

25.4. Cognate counts across Nyulnyulan languages

408

Tables 2.1. Counts of harmony and disharmony aggregated over the entire Crimean Tatar corpus in Radlov (1896)

28

2.2. Percent harmony by preceding vowel aggregated over the entire Crimean Tatar corpus in Radlov (1896)

29

2.3. Counts and percent harmony for each town and syllable number in Radlov (1896)

30

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LIST OF FIGURES AND TABLES

3.1. Summary of constructions used to express desiderative mood

36

4.1. Constraints yielding morphological reversal in Ofori (2006a, 2006b)

55

4.2. Past, perfect, and negative markers in Tano languages Source: Classifications from Stewart (1989: 225)

57

4.3. Morphological changes from Proto-Tano to Asante Twi

65

5.1. Third person plural subjunctive forms of Spanish tener ‘to have’

71

5.2. Third-person singular forms of the active forms of Greek γráfo ‘I write’

73

5.3. Mood distinctions in the Portuguese Future

75

5.4. Mood distinctions in the Catalan Preterit

76

5.5. Ibero-Romance Future Subjunctive forms of ser ‘to be’/ir ‘to go’ and their Latin antecedents

78

5.6. Conditional and aspect in Romance

80

5.7. Latin and Romance tense/mood categories in conditional sentences

82

5.8. Tense and mood in subordinate clauses in Spanish and Portuguese

82

5.9. Loss of the synthetic perfective past indicative in French and Italian

83

6.1. Romance definite articles, distal demonstratives, and their precursors

88

6.2. The reinforcement of demonstratives in Romance

92

6.3. Demonstrative inventories in archaic Indo-European

93

6.4. Demonstrative inventories in Tocharian A and B

94

6.5. Demonstrative reinforcement in archaic Indo-European

95

6.6. Reinforced demonstratives in classical Greek

96

7.1. Nivaclé phonemic inventory

100 ∗

7.2. Some Matacoan cognates illustrating reflexes of Proto-Matacoan l

101

7.3. Cognates in Matacoan languages of Nivaclé -eš ‘valency increasing affix’

104

7.4. Basic demonstratives in Nivaclé

105

7.5. Potential cognates of tense or tense-like markers in Matacoan languages

107

10.1. Proto-Basque/Proto-Indo-European sound correspondences after Blevins (2018)

143

13.1. Morphologically conditioned stress patterns of inflected verbs

204

13.2. Lexical and grammatical tone interaction in CR inflected verbs

207

13.3. The structure of the Prosody chapter in the CR reference grammar

210

14.1. Mono language data in the Sydney M. Lamb Papers The ‘ID’ refers to an Item Number in the Survey of California and Other Indian Languages at the University of California, Berkeley

218

14.2. The 37 Mono speakers represented in the Sydney M. Lamb Papers ‘Location’ is a geographic location corresponding to where the speaker was raised through age 18, as described in Lamb’s notebooks or determined by census or other public records. ‘Data’ is a count of the total data points that served as the input to our analysis; for many speakers, there is likely more data available though it is less readily analyzed (e.g. it is included in a text)

220

LIST OF FIGURES AND TABLES

xvii

15.1. Comparison of segmental transcriptions

235

15.2. Karuk word prosody examples

237

15.3. Most common diacritics used by Harrington

238

15.4. Summary of correspondences

252

19.1. Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì vowel phonemes and corresponding graphemes in the MP and Velie orthographies

295

19.2. Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì consonant phonemes, allophones, and corresponding graphemes in the MP and Velie orthographies; where the orthographies differ, MP is in the top cell and Velie in the bottom cell

295

23.1. Leveling of stem alternation between aim- and am- in the Old French present paradigm of amer ‘love,’ adapted from Trask 1996, Garrett 2008 Source: adapted from Trask 1996; Garrett 2008

372

23.2. Selected Middle and New High German Class I, II, and III preterite paradigms, displaying patterns found before and after the operation of leveling of allomorphy in stem vowels and stem-final consonants, with vowels and consonants affected by leveling shown in bold. Note that the t ~ d variation found in MHG vinden is unlikely to reflect variation brought about via VL (see Jones & Jones 2019: 123ff.)

376

23.3. Reflexes of verlieren ‘lose,’ ziehen ‘pull,’ and frieren ‘freeze’ in Central Bavarian, East Franconian, and East Swabian dialects, coded according to expected (unbolded) or innovated (bolded) features that are displayed

377

24.1. Independent pronouns across the five Mungbam varieties

390

24.2. Mundabli possessive pronouns and determiners

392

24.3. Sample Fang noun class agreement patterns

393

24.4. Mundabli noun class system

395

24.5. Buu noun class system

395

24.6. Abar noun class system

396

List of Abbreviations 1 1CON 2 3 A ABL ACC ACT ADS ADV AGT AOR ART B BEN.APPL BGD CAUS CDS CISL CLF CM COMP COND CONJ DAT DEF DEF DEM DEM: SP.PRX DEP DIR DN DU DUB DV EHHE ENHG ERG

first person first conjugation second person third person Alavese ablative accusative active adult-directed speech adverb grammatical agent aorist article Basque benefactive applicative Becerro Galicano Digital causative child-directed speech cislocative classifier combining form complementizer conditional conjunction dative definite definite article demonstrative speaker-proximal demonstrative dependent direction toward divine name dual dubitative duplicative Euskal Hiztegi Historiko-Etimologikoa (Lakarra et al. 2019) Early New High German ergative

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS F FEM FUT G GEN GN GO& HAB HKC HN HORT HUM IDS IE IMP IMPER IMPF IMPFV IMPV INCL IND INDEF INST L LAT LN LOC M MASC MB MED MHG MID MP N NEG NHG NHUM NMZ NOM NOM NPOS NPST NVIS OBJ

feminine feminine future Gipuzkoan genitive place name associated motion habitual Hong Kong Cantonese High Navarese hortative human infant-directed speech Indo-European imperative imperative imperfect imperfective imperative inclusive indicative indefinite instrumental Lapurdian Latin Low Navarrese locative masculine masculine Medieval Basque mediopassive Middle High German middle Máı´jì-kì Project neuter negative/negation New High German non-human nominalizer nominal suffix nominative non-possessed nonpast demonstrative ‘not visible’ object

xix

xx

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS

OBL OEH P P.IPFV P.PFV PASS PAT PB PCPL PERI PIE PL PLPF PN POS POSS PRAG PRES PRET PRF PRFV PROHIB PRT PTCL PTCP R RDP REFL REL REL.PROP REM REP REP RS S S SBJV SG SPPAS ST SUBJ TAM TOP V V∧

oblique Orotariko Euskal Hiztegia (Michelena & Sarasola 1987–2005) plural past imperfective past perfective passive grammatical patient Proto-Basque participle periphrastic Proto-Indo-European plural pluperfect personal name possessive possessive discourse pragmatic morpheme present preterit perfect perfective prohibitative partitive particle participle Roncalese reduplication reflexive relative relational proprietive demonstrative ‘no longer extant (removed)’ demonstrative ‘reported’ repetitive read speech Salazarese singular subjunctive singular SPeech Phonetization Alignment and Syllabification stative subjunctive tense/aspect/mood toponym Bizkaian valence increase

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS VAL VIS VL VOT Z

valency-changing demonstrative ‘visible’ Verner’s Law voice onset time Zuberoan

xxi

The Contributors Molly Babel is Associate Professor in Linguistics at the University of British Columbia, where she is the director of the Speech in Context Lab. Babel’s research circles around questions related to variability in sound structure. At its core, Babel’s research is phonetic in nature and is cross-pollinated by empirical and theoretical insights from a range of disciplines, notably, psycholinguistics, sociolinguistics, and the cognitive sciences. Interacting language systems within-individuals (e.g. accent, dialect, and language contact; the perception-production link) and across-individuals (e.g. adaptation and accommodation) are a constant focus of her work. Christine Beier is an Assistant Adjunct Professor in the Department of Linguistics at the University of California, Berkeley and a co-founder of Cabeceras Aid Project. Her work focuses on the documentation, description, revitalization, and revalorization of endangered languages, primarily in Peruvian Amazonia, in tandem with humanitarian work promoting the well-being of local participants and communities. Juliette Blevins is Presidential Professor of Linguistics at the Graduate Center, CUNY where she continues research and teaching in phonology, morphology, linguistic typology, and historical linguistics, and heads the Endangered Language Initiative. Her influential book Evolutionary Phonology (CUP 2004) presents an explanatory theory of sound patterns and sound change, and is the foundation of subsequent research, including Advances in Proto-Basque Reconstruction with evidence for the Proto-Indo-European-Euskarian Hypothesis (Routledge 2018). Blevins holds a Ph.D. in Linguistics from MIT, and has taught at the UT Austin; the University of Western Australia; Stanford; the University of California, Berkeley; and the University of Leipzig. Claire Bowern is Professor of Linguistics at Yale University. Her research focuses on the languages and history of Indigenous Australia. She has been working with speakers of endangered, Indigenous languages since 1998, both through fieldwork with Northern Australian communities and through archival work with historical records. Her work combines traditional methods of language documentation and reconstruction with computational and statistical phylogenetic methods. She is the editor of the journal Diachronica. Gabriela Caballero received her BA in Linguistics from Universidad de Sonora (Mexico) and her Ph.D. in Linguistics from UC Berkeley. Her research focuses on the description and documentation of indigenous languages of the Americas (especially Uto-Aztecan languages) and the nature of intralinguistic and crosslinguistic variation in morphology and phonology. She has a deep commitment both to the careful study of particular languages and to bring data from lesser-studied languages to bear on topics in formal phonology and morphology. She is especially interested in linguistic description and collaborative language documentation projects whose products serve both academic linguists and indigenous communities.

THE CONTRIBUTORS

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Lyle Campbell (Ph.D. UCLA) is professor of Linguistics University of Hawai'i Mānoa (emeritus). He has been professor or visiting professor in Australia, Brazil, Canada, Finland, Germany, Mexico, and Spain, and has held appointments in Linguistics, Anthropology, Spanish, Behavioral Research, and Latin American Studies. He has published 24 books and c.200 articles, and won the Linguistic Society of America’s “Leonard Bloomfield Book Award” twice, for American Indian Languages (1997) and Historical Syntax in Crosslinguistics Perspective (1995, by Alice Harris & Lyle Campbell). His specializations include: language documentation and revitalization, historical linguistics, indigenous languages of the Americas, typology, fieldwork, and Uralic languages. Chundra Cathcart is a senior researcher in the Department of Comparative Language Science at the University of Zurich. His research deals with issues in diachronic linguistics and evolutionary linguistics, and he employs a wide range of quantitative and computational tools to address questions regarding language change. Lisa Conathan is Head of Special Collections at Williams College, overseeing the Chapin Library of Rare Books and the College Archives. Her research centers on the creation and reuse of endangered language documentation, focusing on vernacular literacy and the revival of textual documentation. She teaches workshops that equip participants to liberate documentation through archival methods, and is on the faculty of the Rare Book School. She holds a BA in Linguistics from Dartmouth College, a Ph.D. in Linguistics from the University of California, Berkeley, and a Master of Library Science from the University of Maryland. Alice Gaby is Associate Professor of Linguistics at Monash University, Australia. Her research focuses on three interrelated domains: semantic and structural typology; the relationship between language, culture and cognition; grammatical description and language reclamation. She has collaborated with speakers of various Paman languages (Cape York Peninsula, Australia) since 2002, producing, e.g. A Grammar of Kuuk Thaayorre (2017). She is Vice-President of the Australian Linguistics Society and Deputy Chair of Living Languages (formerly, RNLD). David Goldstein is Professor of Linguistics, Indo-European Studies, and Classics at the University of California, Los Angeles. He is the author of Classical Greek Syntax: Wackernagel’s Law in Herodotus (Brill 2016) and numerous articles spanning syntax, semantics, lexicography, linguistic variation, and phylogenetics. His research has been supported by the Fulbright Program, the National Endowment for the Humanities, and the John Simon Memorial Guggenheim Foundation. Jeff Good is a Professor in the Department of Linguistics at the University at Buffalo, the State University of New York. His research interests center on morphosyntactic typology, language documentation, and the comparative linguistics of the Niger-Congo language family, with an emphasis on Bantu languages and their closest relatives. He is presently engaged in documentation projects focused on a number of endangered Bantoid languages of Cameroon and the multilingual practices of their speakers. Hannah J. Haynie is Assistant Professor of Linguistics at the University of Colorado, Boulder. Her interests include linguistic diversity and language change, and she incorporates ideas and methods from geography, ecology, and biology into her research on language and

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THE CONTRIBUTORS

linguistics. Her work has investigated global patterns in morphosyntactic diversity as well as spatial patterns in California language diversity and genealogical relationships between California languages. Larry M. Hyman, Professor of Linguistics at the University of California, Berkeley and Director of the France-Berkeley Fund, has worked extensively on phonological theory, tone systems, linguistic typology, and the descriptive, comparative and historical study of Bantu and other African languages within the Niger-Congo family. His publications cover both general and African linguistics including several descriptive grammars as well as theoretical, typological, and historical articles in phonology, morphology, and syntax. A past Guggenheim Fellow, Larry Hyman chaired the Berkeley Department of Linguistics from 1991 to 2002, has directed the France-Berkeley Fund since 2010, and served as 2017 president of the Linguistic Society of America. Jay Jasanoff earned his Ph.D. at Harvard, where he is Diebold Professor of Indo-European Linguistics and Philology He has taught at Berkeley (1969–70), Harvard (1970–78, 1998–), and Cornell (1978–98). He is a historical linguist who specializes in the early IndoEuropean languages and their prehistory. His book, Hittite and the Indo-European Verb (Oxford, 2003), proposes the first major revision of the Proto-Indo-European verb system since the decipherment of Hittite in 1915. His more recent The Prehistory of the Balto-Slavic Accent (2017) tries to show how the PIE accentual system was transformed into the much more complicated systems of Lithuanian, Latvian, and Slavic. Matthew L. Juge is an Associate Professor of Linguistics at Texas State University. His research primarily addresses morphological and semantic factors in the development of verb systems, especially suppletion and grammaticalization. He is working as co-editor on a volume on the diachrony of suppletion and is writing a monograph on the typology and development of morphological mismatch. His most cited publications concern the development of suppletion in verbs (1999, 2013), the development of the Catalan periphrastic preterit (2006, 2008), and the role of metaphor and teleology in grammaticalization (2007). Darya Kavitskaya is an Associate Professor in the Department of Slavic Languages and Literatures and in the Linguistics Department at the University of California, Berkeley. Her main research interests are the preservation and loss of contrast and opacity. The phonological phenomena she has worked on most extensively are palatalization and vowel harmony. Areally, her work is concentrated on the phonological issues in Slavic, Turkic, and Uralic. Her work in phonology is connected to other linguistic fields such as historical linguistics, phonetics, and language acquisition. Adam McCollum (Ph.D. 2019, University of California San Diego) is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Linguistics at Rutgers University. Drawing on experimental, computational, and fieldwork methodologies, his research program examines the representational structure and complexity of phonological patterns. H. Craig Melchert is Distinguished Professor of Linguistics and A. Richard Diebold Professor of Indo-European Studies Emeritus, University of California, Los Angeles. He previously taught at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill, for 29 years. His research centers on historical linguistics, especially the Anatolian sub-family of Indo-European. His interests include the modeling of language change and the application of modern linguistic

THE CONTRIBUTORS

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formal theories to ancient Indo-European languages and their prehistory. Major publications include Anatolian Historical Phonology, A Dictionary of the Lycian Language, and (with Harry A. Hoffner Jr.) A Grammar of the Hittite Language. Lev Michael is a Professor in the Department of Linguistics at the University of California, Berkeley. His research focuses on the documentation and description, typology, and historical and contact linguistics of Amazonian languages. Marianne Mithun is Professor of Linguistics at the University of California, Santa Barbara. Her interests range over the areas of morphology, syntax, discourse, prosody, and their interrelations; typology; language contact and language change, especially the development of grammar; language documentation; languages indigenous to North America, especially Iroquoian (Mohawk, Cayuga, Tuscarora, Seneca, Oneida, Onondaga), Pomoan (Central Pomo), Yupik-Inuktitut-Unangan (Central Alaskan Yup’ik), Dene (Navajo), and Siouan (Dakota/Lakota, Tutelo); and Austronesian languages (Kapampangan, Hiligaynon). Mary Paster, Professor of Linguistics and Cognitive Science at Pomona College, is a phonologist and morphologist whose research is both theoretical and descriptive. She is best known for her contributions to the theory of the phonology–morphology interface and for her descriptive work, primarily on languages of sub-Saharan Africa. Her work appears in journals such as Natural Language and Linguistic Theory, Phonology, Studies in African Linguistics, Yearbook of Morphology, and Word Structure (of which she currently serves as Editor). Clare S. Sandy is a lecturer in Linguistics and Language Development at San José State University. She received her Ph.D. in linguistics from University of California, Berkeley. Her primary research areas are phonology and morphology, and her dissertation focused on the prosody of the Karuk language. She has also worked on documentation and description of the Tupı´-Guaranı´ language Omagua. An ongoing interest is making historical linguistic documentation accessible and usable for research and revitalization. Justin Spence is Associate Professor of Native American Studies at the University of California, Davis. His research focuses on Indigenous languages of California, drawing on data from archival sources and original fieldwork with contemporary communities. He uses descriptive materials to explore historical relationships in the region, both over relatively long timespans and more recent developments due to language and dialect contact. He is also active in efforts to bridge the gap between academically oriented linguistic research and the needs of language revitalization practitioners, primarily through the development of digital resources that facilitate learning for diverse audiences. Donca Steriade is the Class of 1941 Professor of Linguistics at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. She studies the phonological influences that lexically related words exert on each other, the effects of perceptual similarity on phonology, and the representation of rhythmic units. Her contribution to this volume is a third attempt to understand reduplication in Sanskrit, after Steriade 1982, 1988. Lucy Thomason began helping with documentation of the easternmost Salish languages, Bitterroot Salish and Pend d’Oreille, in 1982. She began helping with documentation of a Central Algonquian language, Meskwaki, in 1992. Since 1998 she has been an employee

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THE CONTRIBUTORS

of the Smithsonian Institution’s National Museum of Natural History. Her dissertation (University of Texas at Austin, 2003) discussed the five different kinds of third persons in Meskwaki and their use for purposes of clarity, perspective, pathos, and drama. She has published various editions and translations of Meskwaki stories and assorted articles about aspects of Salish and Meskwaki linguistics. She co-authored, with Ives Goddard, A Meskwaki-English and English-Meskwaki Dictionary Based on Early Twentieth-Century Writings by Native Speakers (2014), and co-edited, with David Costa and Amy Dahlstrom, Webs of Relationships and Words from Long Ago: A Festschrift Presented to Ives Goddard on the Occasion of his 80th Birthday (2021). Carol K. S. To is Associate Professor and Director of Clinical Education in the Unit of Human Communication, Development, and Information Sciences at The University of Hong Kong. Carol is a qualified speech-language pathologist. She researches and teaches in the areas of speech and language acquisition and disorders in Chinese. Maziar Toosarvandani is Associate Professor of Linguistics at the University of California, Santa Cruz. His primary research interests are in syntax and semantics, and he has current projects on the principles governing the creation of meaningful discourse and the grammatical representation of reference. He has collaborated with speakers of Northern Paiute in eastern California and Zapotec varieties from the Sierra Norte of Oaxaca to develop and share knowledge about their languages with their communities. Yao Yao is Associate Professor in the Department of Chinese and Bilingual Studies at the Hong Kong Polytechnic University. She is interested in language change and variation, heritage phonological acquisition, and speech processing in bilinguals. She has worked on multiple Chinese languages (Mandarin, Shanghainese, Cantonese, etc.) and English. Alan C. L. Yu is the William Colvin Professor of Linguistics and the College at the University of Chicago. His research focuses on language variation and change, particularly from an individual-difference perspective. He is the author of A Natural History of Infixation (2007, OUP) and the editor of Origins of Sound Change: Approaches to Phonologization (2013, OUP) and co-editor, with John Goldsmith and Jason Riggle, of The Handbook of Phonological Theory, 2nd Edition (2011, Wiley Blackwell). He is co-General Editor of Laboratory Phonology, the Journal of the Association of Laboratory Phonology.

PART I

R ECONSTRU CTI NG TH E PA ST

1 The fall and rise of vowel length in Bantu Larry M. Hyman

1.1 Introduction The goal of this chapter is to trace the history of vowel length in Bantu. I will discuss the stages and processes by which the long vowels reconstructed in ProtoBantu (PB) (Meeussen 1967: 82) have been shortened and ultimately lost in many Bantu languages, most of which innovate new vowel lengthening, hence the title “fall and rise of vowel length in Bantu.” Since the status of vowel length can be rather different in one vs. another Bantu language, the survey I will present will also document some of the potential functions of vowel length not only in Bantu, but in language in general. My starting point will be to see to what extent vowel length can fulfill all the functions that have been documented for tone (§2), after which I will turn to consider length in PB (§3) and successively in different Bantu languages (§4, §5). I conclude with a return to the question of what vowel length can do in language, based on the demonstration from Bantu (§6).

1.2 The functions of tone As stated in Section 1.1, a general concern is to determine how vowel length stacks up with respect to tone, which has been claimed to be able to be the most versatile of phonological properties: tone can do everything segments and non-tonal prosodies can do, but segments and non-tonal prosodies cannot do everything tone can do. (Hyman 2011: 214; 2018: 699)

A quick example of something that only tone can do is seen in (1) from Giryama [Bantu E72a] (Volk 2011: 17).¹ ¹ Bantu languages will be cited with their Guthrie (1967–1971) referential letter and number classification as further developed by Maho (2009). Throughout this study, length is indicated by doubling the vowel.

Larry M. Hyman, The fall and rise of vowel length in Bantu. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Larry M. Hyman (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0001

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L ARRY M. HYMAN

(1) a. ni-na-mal-a ku-gul-a ŋguuwo b. a-na-mal-a ku-gul-a ŋguúwo

‘I want to buy clothes’ ‘he/she wants to buy clothes’

H In (1a) all of the tone-bearing units (TBUs) are underlyingly toneless, pronounced with default L(ow) tone. In (1b) there is a H(igh) tone on the penultimate mora, marked with an acute accent. As can also be observed, the only grammatical difference in (1b) is the subject prefix, which introduces a H tone in (1b). As seen, the underlying H of /á-/ ‘he/she (class 1)’ shifts two words to the right, landing on the penultimate mora of the phonological phrase.² No other phonological property has the ability to shift long-distance in this fashion. We also know that tone can have different functions: lexical, morphological, syntactic, pragmatic. The Luganda [JE15] examples from Snoxall (1967) in (2) show a lexical tone contrast on verb roots synchronically analyzed as /H/, as in (2a) or toneless, as in (2b) (Hyman & Katamba 2010: 70): (2) a. /-bál-/ /-síng-/ /-búul-/

‘bear fruit’ ‘surpass’ ‘propose’

b. /-bal-/ /-sing-/ /-buul-/

‘count’ ‘pledge, bet’ ‘open eyes after birth’

The morphological function of tone is seen in examples from Noni, a Bantoid language of Cameroon, where the plural of the following L tone singular class 9 nouns is expressed by H tone (Hyman 1981): (3) singular: plural:

jè còn gvùw bìè nsààn mbàsè jé cón gvúw bı´é nsáán mbásé ‘road(s)’ ‘hut(s)’ ‘chest(s)’ ‘fish’ ‘friend(s)’ ‘vegetable(s)’

An example of the syntactic function of tone can be seen in Kilega [D25] (Meeussen 1971: 20), where (in certain tenses) a H tone marks a verb followed by direct object:

‘they are pulling also’ (4) a. be-ko-bolot-a tɔŋgɔ b. be-ko-bolót-á mózígi ‘they are pulling the rope’ H

As seen, the verb is entirely toneless when followed by an adverb in (4a), but acquires a H tone when followed by an object. Finally, the pragmatic function of tone can be seen in Lusoga [JE16; Uganda] (personal notes), marking the difference between an imperative utterance which is a command vs. a suggestion: ² Volk (2011) also considers the possibility that the H shifts to the final mora, but is subsequently pulled back to the penult, a position of prominence. As we will see in Section 1.5, many Bantu languages automatically lengthen a phrase-penultimate vowel.

THE FALL AND RISE OF VOWEL LENGTH IN BANTU

(5) a. gùl-à è-kì-tàbò b. gùl-à è-kí-tábó

5

‘buy a book!’ (a command) ‘buy a book!’ (a suggestion)

H When the imperative is a command, as in (5a), the toneless noun e-ki-tabo ‘book’ is realized all L; when it is instead a suggestion, e.g. as an answer to the question, ‘what should I do?,’ a H% boundary tone is realized on the last three TBUs of the noun. The weaker imperative in (5b) corresponds tonally to an ordinary declarative utterance which also takes the H%: /a-gul-a e-bi-tabo/ → a-gúl-á é-bı´-tábó ‘s/he buys books.’ The above examples illustrate the versatility of tone, the various functions tone can have within Bantu and in language in general. To repeat, “tone can do everything segments and non-tonal prosodies can do, but segments and non-tonal prosodies cannot do everything tone can do,” raising the question of whether vowel length can do ALMOST everything tone can do? I will come back to the extent to which the same functions can be fulfilled by vowel length in §6, after we have considered the rather disparate manifestations of vowel length in the Bantu family of ca. 500 languages.

1.3 Vowel length in Proto-Bantu Proto-Bantu (PB) is generally assumed to have had a contrast between long and short root vowels (Meeussen 1967, 1969, 1980). Examples from Bastin et al. (2002) are given in (6). (6)

∗

tɪ́ n∗ kʊ́d∗ tʊ́k-

‘cut’ ‘grow up’ ‘abuse’

∗

vs. vs. vs.

tɪ́ ɪnkʊ́ʊd∗ tʊ́ʊk-

∗

‘fear, run away’ ‘pull out’ ‘come from’

However, Meeussen (1979[1954]) pointed out that many of the long vowel reconstructions are verb forms, some of which may have had an internal CV-VC- bound root+suffix structure: (7)

∗

dìik-

‘bury’


V in first position” (vol. 2, p. 56, §51.31). Non-etymological vowel length contrasts generally result from the loss of an intervocalic consonant. Thanks to Thilo Schadeberg for discussion of this issue.

THE FALL AND RISE OF VOWEL LENGTH IN BANTU

7

Figure 1.1 Languages which have lost the PB vowel length contrast (shaded). Source: Guthrie (1967: 66).

(10) Type 1:

Type 2: Type 3: Type 4:

the ∗ V/∗ VV contrast survives and is extended without restrictions on where long vowels can occur (as just seen in Lulamogi)⁴ the ∗ V/∗ VV contrast survives with restrictions on where long vowels can occur the ∗ V/∗ VV contrast is lost (with or without creation of new long vowels) the ∗ V/∗ VV contrast is lost with predictable penultimate lengthening being introduced

To consider these types, we recognize the following traditional structure of the Bantu verb (Meeussen 1967).

⁴ I know of no Bantu language that contrasts vowel length only on the root syllable and allows the length to surface without restriction. Cf. the discussion of type 2 systems in Section 1.4.

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L ARRY M. HYMAN

word

(11)

inflectional prefixes (subject-TAM-object- etc.)

stem

base

inflectional final vowel (FV)

root derivational extensions (CVC-, CVVC-) (causative, applicative, reciprocal, passive, etc.) Type 1 languages are those which have preserved the ∗ V/∗ VV contrast on roots and have typically extended the contrast to other positions as well. Again, Lulamogi [JE10] can serve as a typical example supporting long vowels in all positions: (12) a. b. c. d.

prefixes: root: extensions: final vowel:

tw-aa aaká-βál-á aa ó-ku-huu uum-úl-á uu áá ó-ku-lir-áá áán-á ó-ku-tiis-y-áá áá =ku

‘we have just counted’ ‘to rest’ ‘to become near, be close’ ‘to frighten a little’

The long vowel in (12a) is from the gliding of the /u/ of /tu-aka-/ with the following /a/ undergoing compensatory lengthening (CL). While it is common, not all Bantu languages accompany gliding with CL. The root length in (12b) is as we saw in (8b). In (12c) we see a derivational suffix of the shape -aan- which likely comes from the loss of an intervocalic consonant, possibly a reduplicated -an-an- or -agan- (earlier ∗ -a(n)g-an-) which otherwise exists as the reciprocal extension, e.g. ó-ku-βon-ágán-á ‘to see each other.’ Lastly, in (12d) the inflectional final vowel is long as a result of the gliding of the causative -i- suffix accompanied by CL.⁵ In the following sections we will consider first type 2 systems (Section 1.4) and then types 3 and 4 (Section 1.5).

1.4 Type 2: Systems with vowel length restrictions A number of Eastern and Western Bantu languages maintain the PB vowel length contrast on roots, but do not allow the length to be realized if the root is followed by too many syllables within the word or phrase. As seen in (13), depending on the language, vowel length may be restricted to occurring only in penultimate position, or it may be allowed if it is either penultimate or antepenultimate: (13) a. penultimate syllable only, e.g. Cokwe [K11] (van den Eynde 1960: 17) ku-huul-a ‘peel off ’ vs. ku-hul-il-a ‘to peel off for/at’ (-il- ‘applicative’) ⁵ The infinitive in (12d) is shown accompanied by the class 17 enclitic =ku ‘a little’ since the final vowel would otherwise undergo final vowel shortening in word-final position: ó-ku-tiis-y-á ‘to frighten.’

THE FALL AND RISE OF VOWEL LENGTH IN BANTU

9

b. antepenultimate or penultimate syllables only, e.g. Lunda [L52] (personal notes from work with Boniface Kawasha) áa ku-kwáa áat-a ‘to hold, arrest’ áa ku-kwáat-ish-a ‘to make hold, arrest’ vs. ku-kwáát-ish-il-a ‘to make hold áa for/at’ Such restrictions exemplify three different general tendencies in languages. The first is the tendency for there to be more contrasts and contrast-preservation in “strong” or prominent positions, e.g. root and (ante-)penultimate syllables. In Punu [B43] not only are long vowels restricted to the root, but this also is the only position where the five vowels /i, ɛ, u, ɔ, a/ contrast (Kwenzi Mikala 1980: 8; Hyman 2019: 67–69). The second tendency is the widely reported process of “compensatory shortening” studied mostly in European languages: as more syllables are added, the stressed syllable is shortened, both at the word level (speed vs. speedy, speedily) and in syntactic combinations (speed kills) (Lehiste 1972). Punu is also susceptible: u-wέ:l-a ‘to marry’ vs. u-wέl-↓ án-a ‘to marry each other,’ mi:la ‘rivers’ vs. milá mya:mi ‘my rivers.’ The third tendency is the targeting of phrase-level shortening on the head noun or verb in specific syntactic contexts. A good case in point comes from Kimatuumbi [P13] which has contrastive vowel length but two rules that shorten long vowels depending on position. The first, which Odden (1996: 157–162) terms “stem shortening,” affects long vowels in pre-antepenultimate position within the word. This first process is consistent with “compensatory shortening”: (14) a. penultimate VV vs. pre-antepenultimate V káat-a ‘cut’ kát-anik-a ‘be cuttable’ nóol-a ‘sharpen’ nól-eyelw-a ‘be sharpened up’ b. antepenultimate VV vs. pre-antepenultimate V búund-ik-a ‘store bananas’ búnd-ikiy-a ‘store bananas to complete ripeness’ chɪ́ ɪl-ɪy-a ‘be late’ chɪ́ l-ɪkɪy-a ‘be late for’ In addition, there is a second syntactically conditioned rule of phrasal shortening (Odden 1996: 218–233) which (among other things) affects nouns when followed by modifiers. The examples in (15) show such shortening occurring before a possessive pronoun, an adjective, a relative clause, and a determiner: (15) a. ki-kóloombe

‘cleaning shell’

b. mi-kaáte

‘loaves’

c. lu-kaámba

‘string’

d. m-boópo

‘machete’

ki-kólombe chaángʊ mi-katé mikʊ́lʊ mikʊ́lʊ́ lu-kambá lwalúpʊwáaniiké mbopó ye

‘my cleaning shell’ ‘large loaves’ ‘string which broke’ ‘the machete’

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L ARRY M. HYMAN

The last example shows that shortening is not by syllable position, since the long vowel in the input /m-boópo ye/ should otherwise be allowed in phraseantepenultimate position. The process is thus syntactically determined. In the case of nouns, it is clear that the “modifier” has to be within the same noun phrase, as in (16a), where ki-kóloombe ‘cleaning shell’ is shortened before the modifying adjective kikʊ́lʊ́ ‘large’: (16) a. n-aa-m-péi I-PAST-OP1-gave b. n-aa-m-péi I-PAST-OP1-gave

ki-kólombe shell

kikʊ́lʊ́ large

‘I gave him a large shell’

ki-kóloombe shell

kikʊ́lʊ́ large

‘I gave the large one a shell’

In (16b), on the other hand, the same word kikʊ́lʊ́ occurs in its own (headless) noun phrase and ki-kóloombe is not shortened.⁶ Verb stems also shorten their vowel when followed by an object (Odden 1996: 225–231). Prefixal length is not affected⁷: (17) a. n-aa-kálaang-ite ‘I fried’ b. n-aa-kálang-ite chóolyá ‘I fried food’ I-PAST-fry-APPL.PFV food c. n-aa-n-kálaang-iile ‘I fried for him’ d. n-aa-n-kálang-ile lı´ ‘I didn’t fry for him’ I-PAST-OP1-fry-APPL.PFV NEG In (17a) we see that n-aa-kálaang-ite ‘I fried’ has both a prefixal and stem long vowel. (17b) shows that only the latter is shortened when the object chóolyá is added. In the corresponding applicative verb form in (17c), there are two long stem vowels, both of which shorten in (17d). The fact that phrase-antepenultimate -iile is affected before the negative marker lı´ again shows that the process targets a nonfinal verb independent of the syllable position in which the long vowel appears. Crucially, as Odden (1996: 222) points out, only the head N of an NP, as in (16), or the head V of a VP, as in (17), can undergo shortening. Thus, in (18), the long vowel of the adjective ki-keéle ‘red’ is not affected, since it is not the head of the (zero-headed) noun phrase: (18) a. ki-keéle red b. ki-keéle red

chaángʊ my ki-kʊ́lʊ́ large

‘my red (thing)’ ‘large red (thing)’

⁶ As seen, a class 7 noun (phrase) that refers to an animal optionally takes class 1 agreement, here the class 1 object prefix (OP1 ) (Odden 1996: 32). ⁷ Odden (1996: 225n) suggests that this is because the long vowel of n-aa- derives from ni+a(1sg + past), with vowel coalescence counterfeeding the shortening rule. In the above and elsewhere OP1 stands for object prefix class 1, APPL = applicative, PFV = perfective.

THE FALL AND RISE OF VOWEL LENGTH IN BANTU

11

This obligatory head-targeting property guarantees that there can be only one occurrence of phrasal shortening per immediate XP. Thus while ki-kóloombe undergoes vowel shortening in (19), neither ki-keéle nor yaángʊ do. (19) a. ki-kólombe shell b. i-kólombe shells

ki-keéle red yaángʊ my

chaángʊ ‘my red shell’ my yanaachímá ‘my many shells’ many

While the verbal examples show that prefixal length is not affected by shortening in Kimatuumbi, prefixes do undergo shortening in Safwa [M25] when followed by three or more moras (Voorhoeve, n.d.): (20) a. a-gaa-gúzy-a b. a-ga-buúzy-a c. a-ga-buzy-aág-a

‘he can sell’ ‘he can ask’ ‘he may ask’

These facts suggest a succession of changes as summarized in Hypothesis 1: (21) Hypothesis 1: Positional effects and categorical VV > V started out at the stem level and only later generalized to the word and “tight” head+modifer/complement constituents. According to this view, Kimatuumbi represents an earlier stage, which Safwa takes one step further by shortening vowels in the prefix domain. The last stage is to generalize to less tight phrasal configurations. In support of this direction of change, Kifuliiru [JD63] can be cited, where “any long vowel is shortened if it is followed by three or more morae within the domain of the phonological word,” whether that word is phrase-final or not (van Otterloo 2011: 59): (22) a. kú-húúmb-à b. kú-húúmb-ír-à c. kú-húmb-írír-à

‘to dig up something’ ‘to dig up sth. for someone’ ‘to dig up intensively’

As seen, the long vowel of the root -húúmb- ‘dig up’ is maintained in penultimate (22a) and antepenultimate (22b), but not preantepenultimate position (22c). The same facts are seen in (23), where the length appears in the prefixal domain on /-gáá-/ ‘distant future’: (23) a. à-gáà-ly-à b. à-gáá-hík-à c. à-gá-bàlàm-à

‘he will eat’ ‘he will arrive’ ‘he will travel’

Van Otterloo (2011: 60) is unequivocal concerning the domain in which shortening occurs: “The fact that this rule does not apply across word boundaries

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L ARRY M. HYMAN

in phrases shows that this rule operates over the domain of the word, at the word-building (lexical) stage.” Further evidence for the stem domain comes from Ngangela [K12b], where a vowel can be long only if all of the vowels that follow it up to the penult are also long (Maniacky 2002: 20):⁸ (24) a. -tééta

‘cut’

-teetááŋga -teetaaŋgééni b. -vuulwííθa ‘recall, remind’ -vulúka -taambwííθa ‘distribute’ -tambúla -ʃaambwííθa ‘infect, contaminate’ -ʃambúka c. -púla ‘cut with a knife’ -pulááŋga -holóka ‘cool, calm (intr.)’ -holwééθa -áʃa ‘throw, launch’ -aʃááŋga

‘share’ ‘share! (pl.)’ ‘remember’ ‘receive’ ‘be contaminated’ ‘cut into slices’ ‘cool, calm (tr.)’ ‘reach several times’

In (24a) we see that the long vowel of -tééta ‘cut’ is maintained in the related verbs to the right, since all the vowels are long up to the penult. This contrasts with (24b) where the root syllable has a long vowel in the forms on the left, which has to be shortened in the forms on the right because the penult is short. That there is no rule of lengthening of prepenultimate vowels is seen in (24c): the root vowels in the forms on the left remain short in the verbs to the right where the penultimate vowel is long. The interpretation I would like to give to the Ngangela facts is that vowel length cannot occur in a less prominent position (pre-penultimate) without it also occurring in a more prominent position (penultimate). Otherwise the long vowel shortens as in the forms to the right in (24b).⁹ The above Ngangela facts support the key idea of Hypothesis 1 that shortening begins as a stem- then word-level process. It can however potentially expand, as it optionally does to noun + possessive constituents, which have a particularly tight bond in other Bantu languages: ŋgóombe yáaŋge or ŋgómbe yáaŋge ‘my cow’ (Maniacky 2002: 20). In other words, what is systematic at the word level is transitional within the noun phrase.¹⁰ This brings us to the second hypothesis:

⁸ That the penultimate condition holds only at the stem level is seen from the fact that prefixal long vowels can surface without meeting the requirement, e.g. /tu-éé-ku-món-a/ → tw-ée-ku-món-a ‘we see’ (1PL-PRES-INF-see-FV) (Maniacky 2002: 135). ⁹ This idea of prominence would have to be scalar: the further away a syllable is from the penult, the less prominent it is. An alternative would be an ad hoc constraint against a CVV.CV.CVV sequence, i.e. a short vowel flanked by long vowels—in other words, a CVV.CV sequence would only be permitted if the long vowel is in the penultimate syllable. Under either interpretation a pre-penultimate long vowel must be followed by another long vowel. ¹⁰ This is opposite to the view I took in Hyman (2013), where I assumed that vowel shortening begins at the phrase level and gradually narrows down.

THE FALL AND RISE OF VOWEL LENGTH IN BANTU

13

(25) Hypothesis 2: Positional restrictions are subject to being generalized, ultimately leading to the loss of vowel length contrasts in all positions, as in many Bantu languages. We now turn to consider what happens in such languages.

1.5 Types 3 and 4: Systems which have lost the PB vowel length contrast I identify as Type 3 those languages which have lost the PB vowel length contrast with or without introducing new long vowels via consonant deletion and vowel assimilation. These are distinguished from type 4 systems which have also lost the PB vowel length contrast, but have introduced phrase-level penultimate lengthening. As seen in Figure 1.2, type 4 systems cluster in Eastern and Southern Bantu (the dark grey squares), while the type 3 systems are found further to the west (the light grey diamonds).¹¹ In other words most of the zone D-S Bantu languages which have lost the vowel length contrast also have phrase-level penultimate lengthening (PUL), e.g. Shona [S10], where the length on the root in (26a) is non-contrastive: (26) a. b. c. d.

ku-té:ng-á ku-téng-é:s-á ku-téng-és-é:r-a ku-téng-á za:nze

‘to buy’ ‘to sell, cause to buy’ ‘to sell for/at’ ‘to sell fruit’

(causative -es-) (applicative -er-)

As seen in (26b, c) when the causative -es- and applicative -er- suffixes are added, the suffix vowel in penultimate position is lengthened. The example in (26d) shows that PUL is a phrase-level process: only the last word in the phrase undergoes lengthening. However, the size of the phrasal domain and the application of PUL vary considerably across Bantu languages. This brings us to Hypothesis 3: (27) Hypothesis 3: PUL started out as an intonational property of utterances and then underwent “boundary narrowing”: Utterance > Intonational phrase > Phonological Phrase > Word.

¹¹ I would like to thank Guillaume Segerer for producing Figure 1.2 for publication in Hyman (2013: 312). While there is an outlier far to the west, I am still unclear as to whether (and which) Myene [B10] languages of Gabon may have penultimate lengthening. In my 2013 study I was careful to consider only languages where the lengthening was phonological, i.e. involving the insertion of a mora. In most such languages the lengthening is quite noticeable and often affects the tone patterns as well, as in Shekgalagari [S311] (see (28) below).

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L ARRY M. HYMAN

40

–20

–10

0

10

20

30

40

50

30

20

10

0

–10

–20

penultimate lengthening no penultimate lengthening

–30

Figure 1.2 Languages which have introduced penultimate lengthening (Dark gray squares).

The idea is that PUL begins as an intonational property of utterances and only later “narrows” to smaller domains—exactly the opposite of vowel shortening.¹² The first piece of evidence is that there are Bantu languages where PUL clearly is intonational. In Shekgalagari [S3111] PUL is a property of declarative utterances (Hyman & Monaka 2011), clearly visible in citation forms such as (28a) and sentences such as (28b). (28) a. b. vs. c. d.

ri-nˆaːrɪ́ a-bal-a ri-nˆaːrɪ ri-nárɪ́ a-bal-a ri-nárɪ́

‘buffalos’ ‘he is counting buffalos’ ‘buffalos?’ ‘is he counting buffalos?’

¹² Although starting from opposite domains (stem vs. utterance), a reviewer points out that the two historical developments reveal a broader generalization: Both vowel shortening and PUL eventually wind up characterizing the word domain, consistent with Myers and Padgett’s (2014) artificial language study showing that “learners are biased toward word-based distributional patterns” (p. 399).

THE FALL AND RISE OF VOWEL LENGTH IN BANTU

15

In (28a, b) the underlying form /ri-nárı´/ ‘buffalos’ undergoes both PUL and a tonal change from H-H to HL-L.¹³ In (28c, d), however, we see that PUL does not apply to yes no-questions. There also is no penultimate lengthening in the environments in (29). (29) WH questions ri-nárı´ zhé ↓ rı´hɪ́

‘which buffalos?’

ányɪ́ nárı´

a-bɔ́n-á ri-

‘who sees the buffalos?’

rı´-nárɪ́

‘count the buffalos!’

Imperatives bal-á

‘count!’

bal-á

Hortatives á ↓ hɪ́ -bál-ɛ

‘let’s count!’

á ↓ hɪ́ -bál-ɛ ri-nárɪ́

‘let’s count the buffalos!’

Vocatives mʊnaká

‘Monaka!’

ntó, Gabalʊxʊ́ŋ

‘come here, Ghabalogong!’

Exclamatives á ↓ ʃɪ́ -xʊ́lʊ́

‘what a situation!’

á ↓ ʃɪ́ -ʧʊ́ʧʊ ʃá mʊ́-khyʊ ‘what an idiot of a person!’

Monosyllabic words ri-nárɪ́ ʒé ‘these buffalos’ Ideophones y-á-rɪ bɪ́ lʊ̥

↓

a-bat-a ʃé

(with final devoicing) ‘it appeared suddenly a-rɪ bɪ́ tsɪ̥ out of water’ Paused lists (with final lengthening) a-bal-a ri-namaː ... rɪ́ -nawáː ... lɪ́ ‘he’s counting meats ... ri-nˆaːrɪ

‘he wants this one’ ‘he left in a hurry’ beans ... and buffalos’

It is interesting to note that the declarative is pragmatically unmarked, but prosodically marked (by PUL) in Shekgalagari, while the environments in (29) are pragmatically marked, but—except for ideophones and paused lists—prosodically unmarked. It is also not necessary to raise the pitch in questions, which end without PUL and with the underlying tones of the final word unmodified. Yes-no questions can therefore be said to lack intonation (see Hyman & Monaka 2011). While intonational PUL is rather restricted in Shekgalagari, other Bantu languages allow it in more, ultimately all clause types, as seen in the table in (30) (Hyman 2013: 314).

¹³ The observed lengthening cannot be attributed to the tone change, since other patterns undergo PUL without creating a contour tone: /mʊ-lɪmi/ → mʊ-lɪ:mi ‘farmer,’ /ma-rumé/ → ma-ru:mé ‘greetings,’ /mʊ-nʊ́na/ → mʊ-nʊ́:na ‘man’ (Hyman & Monaka 2011: 271).

16

L ARRY M. HYMAN

(30)

Shekgalagari Sesotho Kinande Ikalanga Ndebele Chichewa [S311] [S33] [JD42] [S16] [S44] [N31] Declaratives

+

+

+

+

+

+

Yes–No Q

–

–

–

+

+

+

WH Q

–

–

–

+

+

+

Imperatives

–

+

+

+

+

+

Hortatives

–

+

+

+

+

+

Vocatives

–

±

+

+

+

+

Exclamatives

–

–

+

+

+

+

Monosyllables

–

+

+

+

+

+

Ideophones

–

–

–

–

+

+

Paused lists

–

+

+

–

+

+

With thanks to Malillo Machobane and Katherine Demuth (Sesotho), Joyce Mathangwane (Ikalanga), Ngessimo Mutaka (Kinande), Galen Sibanda (Ndebele), and Sam Mchombo and Al Mtenje (Chichewa).

While starting as a property of utterances and the intonational phrase, in some Bantu languages PUL has been narrowed to considerably smaller phonological phrases. A particularly striking case occurs in Simakonde [P23] (Manus 2018), from which non-contrastive PUL can be observed in the following citation verb infinitive and noun forms: (31) a. kú-lúúma kú-lúmúúla kú-lúmúláánga kú-lúmúlángííla

‘to bite’ ‘to cut’ ‘to cut into small pieces’ ‘to cut into small pieces for s.o.’

b. lí-ngéela vi-loôngo i-pooso sí-lóólo

‘mango’ ‘pots’ ‘present’ ‘mirror’

As seen in (32), both a head noun and most modifiers undergo separate PUL and are hence analyzed as two phonological phrases (φ) (Manus 2003: 114): (32) noun + adjective noun + numeral noun + genitive noun + relative

: : : :

lı´-ngéela vi-loôngo lı´-ngéela vi-loôngo

lı´-kúmeêne vi-viı´li lyá nkoôngwe vyá ŋgúsúmiile

‘big mango’ ‘two pots’ ‘the woman’s mango’ ‘the pots that I bought’

Although the possessive pronouns generally phrase with the head noun, as in (33a), an alternative appositional version is also available in (33b), with separate

THE FALL AND RISE OF VOWEL LENGTH IN BANTU

17

phrasing, where the pronoun has the same tone pattern it takes in an independent noun phrase (cf. yáangu ‘mine’): (33) a. i-posó yaángu b. i-pooso yáangu

‘my present’ ‘my present’

(= ‘present mine’)

Demonstratives, on the other hand, obligatorily phrase with the head noun, which they also require to be all H tone: (34) a. í-pósó aiilá b. ví-lóngó aviilá

‘that present’ ‘those pots’

(cf. i-pooso, with all L tone) (cf. vì-loôngo, with L-LHL-L tone)

As seen in the table in (35), where 1φ and 2φ indicates one vs. two phonological phrases, Makonde dialects differ considerably in how they phrase noun modifiers (Rolle & Hyman 2019: 3): (35) Source

Dialect

POSS DEM ADJ NUM

Leach (2010)

Plateau Shimakonde

1φ

1~2φ

2φ

2φ

Devos (2004)

Makwe

1φ

1~2φ

2φ

2φ

Manus (2003, 2018)

Zanzibar Simakonde

1~2φ

1φ

2φ

2φ

Kraal (2005)

Chinnima

1φ

1φ

2φ

2φ

Liphola (2001)

Coastal Shimakonde

1φ

1φ

1φ

2φ

Odden (1990a, b)

Chimaraba

1φ

1φ

1φ

1φ

Odden (1990c)

Chimahuta

1φ

1φ

1φ

1φ

All but the last two dialects studied by Odden show a contrast between modifiers which phrase with the head noun vs. those which don’t. The generalizations from the above comparison are that possessive pronouns and demonstratives tend to form a single phonological phrase with the head noun, while adjectives and numerals tend to phrase separately, with numerals being the most prosodically independent noun modifier. The example in (36) shows that an NP can potentially consist of several phonological phrases, each undergoing PUL: (36)

NOUN (vi-loôngo)φ CL8-pot

ADJ (vı´-kúmeêne)φ CL8-big

GEN (vy-á naáswe)φ CL8-GEN white

NUM (vi-viı´li)φ

‘two big white pots’

CL8-two

However, all of the 1φ/2φ dialects exhibit cases of “prosodic smothering” (Bennett, Harizanov, & Henderson 2018): A 1φ modifier that targets the head noun to form a phonological phrase “entraps” intervening 2φ modifiers (Rolle & Hyman 2019). An example again comes from Simakonde (Manus 2003, 2018), when a

18

L ARRY M. HYMAN

demonstrative is added to the ADJ-GEN-NUM sequence in (36) where modifiers were seen to phrase separately: (37)

NOUN (vı´-lóngó CL8-pot

ADJ vı´-kúméné CL8-big

GEN vy-á náswé CL8-GEN white

NUM vı´-vı´lı´ CL8-two

DEM aviilá)φ

‘those two big white pots’

cl8.DEM’

Because of the requirement that a demonstrative phrase with the head noun, this overrides the separate phrasing property of the ADJ, GEN, and NUM which intervene, and PUL applies to the one φ. Note that the demonstrative, which tends to come last, also requires all of the preceding words in the NP to be all H tone, thereby confirming that a single phonological phrase has been formed. Another case of prosodic smothering is found in Coastal Shimakonde (Liphola 2001), e.g. when a 1φ adjective follows a 2φ numeral: (38) a. (NOUN ADJ)φ (má-pápájá má-ngúlúguuma) ‘round papayas’ b. (NOUN)φ (NUM)φ (ma-papáaja) (ma-taátu) ‘three papayas’ ADJ)φ c. (NOUN NUM (má-pápájá má-tátú má-ngúlúguuma) ‘three round papayas’

(1φ) (2φ) (1φ)

In this dialect, adjectives phrase with the head noun, as in (38a), while numerals phrase separately, as in (38b). However, when the adjective follows the numeral, as in (38c), a single phonological phrase is formed: the 1φ requirement of the adjective has overridden the 2φ requirement of the numeral. Finally, concerning the verb phrase, PUL is closely integrated into expressing differences in information structure, in what is known as the conjoint-disjoint distinction in Bantu (van der Wal 2017), e.g. as in the present tense in Simakonde (Manus 2017: 246, 249): (39) a. conjoint (1φ) : (á-tót-á sı´-júulu)φ ‘she is sewing a HAT’ CL1.SUBJ-sew-FV CL7-hat. b. disjoint (2φ) : (a-nku-tóót-a)φ (sı´-júulu)φ ‘she is sewing a hat’ CL1.SUBJ-PRES.DJ-sew-FV CL7-hat c. utterance: (a-nku-tóót-a)φ ‘she is sewing’ finally (∗ a-toot-a)φ As seen in (39a) the conjoint form of the verb is used when focus is on the postverbal element, and both the verb and object are phrased together. In (39b), which has more “even” focus, the disjoint form of the verb is used and the two constituents are phrased separately. (39c) shows that the conjoint verb must have something

THE FALL AND RISE OF VOWEL LENGTH IN BANTU

19

after it with which it phrases. It cannot occur at the end of a main clause utterance where the disjoint form of the verb must be used. To summarize, there is considerable evidence that PUL was originally intonational occurring at the clause level but has a tendency to be narrowed to smaller phonological phrases. In this context it should be noted that there is no evidence for word-level penultimate prominence in early Bantu that could have been “widened” to phrasal prominence. Cases in Eastern Bantu where nouns and/or verbs show a bisyllabic minimality effect are clearly innovative, e.g. Kinande [JE42], where the imperative consists of the bare verb stem (tum-à ‘send!’) unless the stem is monosyllabic, in which case the second person singular subject prefix is required (u-swa ‘grind!’) (Mutaka & Hyman 1990: 112; Mutaka 2018: 174–175). In fact, I am aware of only one language that has extended PUL to the word level, namely, Komo [D23] (Paul Thomas, pers. comm.). It would be hard to explain the limitation of Shekgalagari PUL to declarative utterances as coming from word-level penultimate stress with other factors suppressing it in non-declaratives. Finally, there is other evidence, e.g. tonal, for phrase-penultimate prominence. In this context recall the Giryama example in (1), where the H tone shifts to the penultimate mora of the phonological phrase, which also undergoes PUL. In Haya [JE22], which doesn’t have PUL, tone changes apply at the end of an intonational phrase (IP), e.g. prepausally (Byarushengo, Hyman, & Tenenbaum 1976: 201–202; Hyman 1999: 155). As seen in (40a), an IP-penultimate H tone becomes a HL falling tone triggered by the L% phrasal boundary tone:

(40) a. e-m-búzi

→

e-m-bûzi ‘goat’

H L% H (cf. e-m-búzi yange ‘my goat’)

b. o-mu-tí

→

o-mú-ti ‘tree’

H H L% (cf. o-mu-tí gwange ‘my tree’)

(40b) shows that the same L% causes an utterance-final H to shift to the penult. The forms in parentheses show that these processes do not occur phrase-internally. Finally note in (41) that the L% boundary tone is clearly related to information structure: (41) a. base sentence:

b. nested IPs:

a-ba-kázi ni-ba-bal-ı´l-a ó-mw-ána é-m-bûzi]IP H H H HL% ‘the women are counting the goats for the child’ ni-ba-zi-mu-bal-îl-a]IP á-ba-kˆazi]IP ó-mw-ˆana]IP HL% HL% HL% é-m-bûzi]IP HL% ‘they are counting them for him, the women, the child, the goats’

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L ARRY M. HYMAN

In the base sentence in (41a) each of the four words has an input penultimate H tone, only the last of which receives the L% boundary tone. In (41b), on the other hand, where the three nouns ‘women,’ ‘child,’ and ‘goats’ are right-dislocated (with the pronominal marking -ba-zi-mu- referring to them, respectively), each constituent receives the L% boundary tone. Such tonal examples provide further evidence for the innovative nature of penultimate marking and indirect support for the intonational origin of PUL as per Hypothesis 3.

1.6 Discussion To summarize, we have seen that although Proto-Bantu had a vowel length contrast on roots, many of the daughter languages have introduced significant changes. In some of the languages which keep the contrast, long vowels may be shortened in either word- or phrase-(ante-)penultimate position or on head nouns and verbs when followed by a constituent within their XP. In other languages which have lost the contrast, some have introduced phrase-level penultimate lengthening with different functions, e.g. marking declaratives in Shekgalagari, phrasing and focus in Makonde, word demarcation in Komo. As seen in Kimatuumbi and Simakonde, the head noun or verb is often prevented from phrasing separately, hence from having a long vowel. This can be viewed as an instantiation of a general linguistic process where the head noun or verb is a locus of prosodic unmarkedness, in these cases either losing length or not gaining penultimate length—just as heads are targeted for deaccenting and tonal mergers (cf. Selkirk 1984; Gussenhoven 2006; Harry & Hyman 2014; McPherson 2014; Rolle 2018, among others). Again, Haya [JE22] examples are instructive (Hyman & Byarushengo 1984: 57, 69): (42) a. o-mú-ti ‘tree’ vs. H b. ba-jún-a ‘they help’ vs. H

o-mu-ti gwaa= Káto ‘Kato’s tree’ Ø H ba-jun-a Káto ‘they help Kato’ Ø H

In (42a) the stem H of /-tı´/ ‘tree’ is deleted before the possessive noun phrase gwaa= Káto ‘of Kato,’ while in (42b) the H of the final vowel /-á/ of the head verb ‘they help’ is lost when followed by an object noun phrase Káto.¹⁴ In both cases the outer (dependent) trigger affects the inner (head) target, something which Rolle (2018: 5) terms “the outer dominance principle.” Which brings us back to tone. I began by referring to the different functions of tone: lexical, morphological, syntactic, pragmatic. Clearly length can match tone in these functions: ¹⁴ These final Hs are realized on the penultimate syllable before pause.

THE FALL AND RISE OF VOWEL LENGTH IN BANTU (43) a. b. c. d.

lexical: morphological: syntactic: pragmatic:

21

e.g. Lulamogi examples in (8) e.g. Tiene in (44) below e.g. Haya in (45) below e.g. Shekgalagari declarative intonation in (28)

The lexical and pragmatic functions of vowel length have already been seen. As an example of the morphological function, Tiene [B81] marks the applicative by lengthening the vowel of a root ending in a coronal consonant (Ellington 1977; Hyman 2010: 147), which we can refer to as “length ablaut”:¹⁵ (44) bót-a bel-a kas-a sɔ́n-ɔ koɲ-a

‘give birth’ ‘speak’ ‘fight’ ‘write’ ‘nibble’

→ → → → →

bóot-ε beel-a kaas-a sɔ́ɔn-ɔ kooɲ-ε

‘give birth for’ ‘speak to’ ‘fight on behalf of ’ ‘write for’ ‘nibble for’

As an example of a syntactically conditioned length fact, the long vowel of the Haya [JE22] today past tense marker /-áa-/ seen in (45a) shortens when the verb is non-final, as in (45b) (Hyman 1999: 160)¹⁶: (45) a. y-áá-léet-a ‘he brought’ b. y-a-leet-a Káto ‘he brought Kato’ What’s important is that shortening is not an automatic consequence of phrasing since it is limited to this tense and, as seen in (45b), the length of the root is not shortened. It is thus clear that vowel length can have a variety of functions in Bantu, as it can in language in general. While vowel length can fulfill the four functions in (43), it still can’t do everything tone can do—it would be thus be quite surprising if there were a parallel case to Giryama in (1) involving vowel length: If the subject prefix has an underlying long vowel, the length shifts to the penultimate syllable of the phonological phrase. In fact, as was said, nothing but tone can do this. Another thing length cannot do is harmonize. While such features as front-back, round, height, ATR can participate in vowel harmony, a process of length harmony such as in (46) is unattested: (46) a. /lim-il-e/ b. /liim-il-e/

→ →

lim-il-e liim-iil-ee

If we assume that features “assimilate by spreading” (Hayes 1986), vowels cannot assimilate in length because length is not a feature—there is no [+long] that could assimilate, rather a long vowel has two moras (vs. a short vowel which has one).

¹⁵ Roots ending in a non-coronal take an infix with /l/, e.g. yók ‘hear’ → yólek-ɛ ‘listen to.’ ¹⁶ The H tones are also reduced, as per the process seen earlier in (42).

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L ARRY M. HYMAN

I know of only one case of apparent length agreement in Leggbó [Cross-River; Nigeria], which affects verb roots (Hyman & Udoh 2007: 79). (47) ff ìn-à tùm-à mān-ā

‘touch’ ‘stop’ ‘hold’

+ -ε¯ ‘him, her’ + -ɔ́ ‘you sg.’ ff ììn-ε¯ε¯ ff ììn-ɔˋɔ́ tùùm-ε¯ε¯ tùùm-ɔˋɔ́ māān-ε¯ε¯ māān-ɔˋɔ́

The verbs in the left column consist of a CVC root with a lexicalized /-a/ suffix. As seen, when one of the two object pronouns having the shape -V is added, fusion takes place: /a+ɛ/ → ɛɛ, /a+ɔ/ → ɔɔ. When (and only when) this happens, the vowel of the root is also lengthened. The question is whether this should be seen as a process of length harmony. Unfortunately the language conspires against testing whether the process is iterative (unbounded), since it does not provide appropriate inputs. While Hyman & Udoh (2007) consider several different analyses of the above root vowel lengthening, the interpretation I’d like to give to it is similar to the interpretation given of the Ngangela data in (24): Vowel length cannot occur in a less prominent position (here, suffixal) without it also occurring in a more prominent position (root). Otherwise, the root vowel lengthens. Whereas Ngangela shortens a vowel in weak position to avoid such a conflict, Leggbó lengthens a vowel in strong position. We thus once again note the versatility of vowel length which can mark positional prominence, clause types, syntactic headedness, and linguistic and paralinguistic intonation by itself. In the Bantu case, what is especially striking is the shift from the paradigmatic function of tone distinguishing lexical morphemes to various types of syntagmatic functions. Whereas segmental features cannot as readily do everything that length can do, the functions of length line up more along the lines of what tone and stress can do. While each has its own properties and limitations, length is probably second only to tone.

Acknowledgment Earlier versions of this chapter were presented at the University of California, Berkeley (February 11, 2019), the Philological Society Meeting at SOAS, University of London (February 15, 2019), the 14th Annual Joshua and Verona Whatmough Lecture, Harvard (April 29, 2019), and the Laboratoire de Phonétique et Phonologie, Paris 3 (May 24, 2019). I am grateful to those audiences for their helpful questions and comments.

2 The rise and fall of rounding harmony in Turkic Darya Kavitskaya and Adam McCollum

2.1 Introduction It has been proposed that vowel harmony in general arises through the phonologization of vowel-to-vowel coarticulation (e.g. Ohala 1994; Hyman 2002; Przezdziecki 2005; Barnes 2006). In a similar manner Johanson (1979a) argues that the evolution of rounding harmony in Turkish is attributable to the reduced phonetic quality, [ə], of [+high] suffixes. Given these claims, the null hypothesis is that the loss of phonological harmony would affect the domain of harmony as a whole, resulting in phonetic vowel-to-vowel coarticulation. More generally, this predicts three kinds of languages relevant for vowel harmony, (1) those with coarticulation, which sows the seeds for harmony, (2) those with harmony, and (3) those with coarticulation as the residue of lost vowel harmony. In this chapter, drawing on nineteenth-century texts and our own fieldwork, we argue that both the emergence and decay of rounding harmony in numerous Turkic languages crucially involves stages between these endpoints. In fact, if harmony is lost via a one-step change from iterative harmony to phonetic coarticulation we can collapse (1) and (3) above, predicting that there should only be two types of languages—those with harmony and those without. However, this claim is immediately falsified by the dialects of Crimean Tatar, which exhibit three different stages of the decline of rounding harmony. In the southern dialect, rounding harmony iterates throughout the word. In the central/standard dialect, rounding harmony affects a single syllable after a triggering round vowel. In the northern dialect, harmony is absent, and rounded vowels are licensed only in the first syllable, with the occasional loss of rounding even there (Samoilovich 1916; Sevortjan 1966; Kavitskaya 2010). These dialects suggest the need for intermediate stages between fully functioning harmony and coarticulation. In tandem with the differences in the harmonic domain seen in Crimean Tatar, the literature on Turkic rounding harmony has repeatedly noted the lexically specific nature of harmony in the family (Johanson 1978–1979b; Anderson 1996;

Darya Kavitskaya and Adam McCollum, The rise and fall of rounding harmony in Turkic. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Darya Kavitskaya and Adam McCollum (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0002

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DARYA KAVITSKAYA AND ADAM MCCOLLUM

Erdal 2004). Herein we demonstrate that the emergence as well as the decay of harmony are marked by lexical diffusion. As an example, in Radlov’s (1896) Crimean Tatar texts, the accusative and genitive suffixes regularly alternate for harmony but in modern Crimean Tatar these two affixes are immune to rounding harmony. Similar patterns are evident in the transition from lexically specific harmony in Chaghatay to no harmony in modern standard Uzbek (Sjoberg 1963; Eckmann 1966; Bodrogligeti 2001). Thus, there is a need to motivate intermediate stages between no harmony and robust harmony, and these intermediate stages must reference both phonological and lexical information. The chapter is structured as follows. In Section 2.2, we discuss the emergence of rounding harmony from Old Turkic to its various instantiations in contemporary Turkic languages. In Section 2.3, we describe the decay of rounding harmony in some Turkic languages. This general description is followed by a corpus analysis of Radlov’s (1896) Crimean Tatar texts, and the discussion of recent changes across Crimean Tatar dialects. Finally, in Section 2.5 we discuss the general implications of the history of rounding harmony in Turkic for general diachronic work on vowel harmony.

2.2 The emergence of harmony Research on the runiform inscriptions in the Orkhon tablets, as well as Buddhist and Manichaean texts from Central Asia, indicates that rounding harmony was not robustly represented in Old Turkic, a classification that roughly spans from the seventh to the tenth century (see Erdal 2004 for a more inclusive definition). Two general constraints on rounding harmony in Old Turkic have been noted. First and most significantly, the alternation of non-initial high vowels was governed by lexical factors. As Anderson (1996) observes, there appear to be three classes of suffixal high vowels in Old Turkic. One class consisted of vowels that were invariantly [+round], another consisted of vowels that were invariantly [-round], and a third class alternated for rounding (see also Erdal 2004: §2.2). We can thus conclude that the application of harmony was delimited by lexical specification. Anderson (1996: 126) observes that the same type of lexeme-specific harmony attested in Old Turkic is present in some of the modern Turkic languages spoken in southern Siberia, specifically Khakas, Shor, and Altai. Moreover, the suffixes that fail to undergo harmony in these languages are direct inheritances from non-alternating morphemes in Old Turkic, further supporting the significance of lexical information for the emergence of harmony. Note that the fact that the non-alternating suffixes in these languages are a subset of the non-alternating suffixes in Old Turkic suggests that rounding harmony in these languages is likely still emerging, not decaying. In addition to these lexical forces, phonological factors also affect the application of harmony in Old Turkic. It is well known that the class of alternating vowels

THE RISE AND FALL OF ROUNDING HARMONY IN TURKIC

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did not include any CV suffixes, that is, alternating vowels did not appear in CV suffixes (Tekin 1967; Kondrat’ev 1981: 19), and some modern Turkic languages still exhibit restrictions on the application of rounding harmony in word-final open syllables (e.g. Nadzhip 1971: 52). Along with the syllable structure of the target morpheme, Kondrat’ev (1981: 19) observes that the application of harmony may fail if two consonants intervene between trigger and target, a fact also observed in Modern Ili Turki (Xiāngrú & Hahn 1989: 273). Thus, the segmental distance between trigger and target influences the application of harmony in Old Turkic and in Ili Turki. Variation is also conditioned by distance from the original trigger. Tenishev (1984: 446) notes that the rate of harmony in Old Turkic diminishes as distance between the initial trigger increases. This sort of optionality is also reported in a number of contemporary Turkic languages, such as Shor, Karakalpak, and Khakas (e.g. Dyrenkova 1941: 15; Menges 1947: 61–62; Baskakov 1975: 25; Kirchner 1998: 320–321). Work on the development of rounding harmony in Ottoman and modern Turkish supports the role of lexical and phonological factors. Johanson’s analysis (1978–1979b, 1979a) of the time course of the emergence of harmony in Turkish explicitly relies on these two forces to motivate the multiple stages in the emergence of robust rounding harmony (see also Kerslake 1998). First, he argues that despite the existence of a class of alternating suffixes in Old Turkic, no such coherent class exists in Anatolian texts from the thirteenth century. He thus concludes that harmony decayed from a lexically specific pattern in Old Turkic to the nonharmonic pattern in these later Anatolian texts. From this disharmonic stage, he suggests that harmony evolved due to the reduction of suffix vowels, making them susceptible to influence from the lip rounding of the preceding vowel.¹ Johanson (1978–1979b) suggests that the current emergence of rounding harmony in Turkish occurred after the seventeenth century. However, Jankowski (2012) contends that harmony developed earlier in colloquial Turkish, but later in literary Turkish. Indeed, drawing on data from Viguier’s compendium (1790), Duman (1999) argues that rounding harmony was operative in colloquial Turkish, although it was less entrenched in the written language. Observe the differences between the two. First, Viguier (1790: 287) reports pairs like oldu˘gi icˇu¨n (literary) vs. oldu˘gu icˇin (colloquial), and vu¨cu¨di ‘his/her body’ (literary) vs. vu¨cu¨du¨ (colloquial). In the literary version, harmony extends to the second syllable only in oldu˘gi, while in the colloquial version harmony iterates throughout the word. In addition, some forms show evidence for more conservatism in the literary language, specifically invariantly round non-initial vowels both within roots e.g. icˇu¨n ‘for’ (literary) vs. icˇin (colloquial), and in suffixes,

¹ Whether harmony decayed and then emerged again, or simply continued evolving from Old Turkic is immaterial for our purposes. Regardless of the specific path taken, all extant evidence suggests that its development follows lexical and phonological lines.

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e.g. san-ur ‘count-AOR’ (literary) vs. san-ır (colloquial). Finally, Viguier’s data supports the existence of morpheme-specific restrictions on harmony, e.g. the possessive suffix -in in o¨zinde ‘in essence’ (literary) vs. -u¨n in o¨zu¨nde (colloquial). Viguier’s data suggests that colloquial Turkish was more innovative than the literary language, which is not in and of itself surprising. Interestingly though, the more conservative literary variants in these texts suggest an older form of the language, which exhibits morpheme-specific harmony and a larger number of invariantly round non-initial high vowels. In sum, evidence from Viguier’s texts supports the existence of both non-iterativity, or at minimum optionality, as well as lexeme-specific harmony in eighteenth-century Turkish. As such, this is the first evidence supporting a potential non-iterative stage in the development of rounding harmony in a Turkic language. Despite the tenuousness of our current understanding of rounding harmony’s emergence in Turkic, we can make a few generalizations. One, there is no evidence for an incremental, syllable-based emergence of harmony. There are no cases where harmony affects a second syllable only, and then at some later stage affects second and third syllables, and at a later stage affects second, third, and fourth syllables. Two, the development of harmony appears to involve some degree of lexical diffusion, as more and more suffixes began to alternate. This would explain the change from the highly lexically specific pattern in Old Turkic to the more common contemporary pattern, which assimilates all (or almost all) noninitial high vowels. As an aside, there is another development in the emergence of rounding harmony in the family, rounding of non-high suffixes. In most Turkic languages, rounding harmony affects high vowels only, but in some Siberian and Central Asian members of the family, e.g. Yakut, Altai, Kyrgyz, harmony produces alternations on non-high vowels, too. We leave the development of this particular pattern for future discussion, noting only that these patterns are likely the product of extended contact with Mongolic languages, in which rounding harmony operates only on non-high vowels.

2.3 The decay of harmony Generally, there is very little work on the diachronic decay of vowel harmony (cf. McCollum 2015, 2019; Sandstedt 2018, 2020). In Turkic, there is comparatively more, although the notable lack of research in this vein is striking. Extant work in Turkic argues that the decay of vowel harmony, both backness and rounding, depends on sociolinguistic and phonological factors (e.g. Laude-Cirtautus 1977; Binnick 1991; Johanson 1998; Harrison et al. 2002; Dombrowski 2013). Most work discussing the loss of harmony in modern standard Uzbek argues that long-term contact with Persian contributed significantly to the erosion of the pattern, and Dombrowski (2013) argues that the loss of harmony in West Rumelian

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Turkish similarly derives from contact-induced change. However, Binnick (1991) challenges the primacy of sociolinguistic factors, suggesting that vowel harmony may be inherently unstable and that diachronic loss of harmony may be the cumulative effect of smaller, often phonetic tendencies in the family rather than the result of external forces. Binnick’s proposal does not distinguish, however, triggers from pathways of decay. Independent of the forces that trigger the loss of harmony, it is crucial to understand the ways in which harmony is lost. McCollum (2015) argues that the weakening of harmony in Kazakh is associated with a contraction of the harmonic domain. This is evident in the variable contraction of the harmonic domain within and across Noghay dialects. Baskakov (1940: 11) describes three domains of rounding in Noghay, exemplified by /kyn-lAr-ImIz-GA/ ‘day-PL-POSS.1P-DAT’: the first syllable only [kynlerimizge], the first two syllables [kynlørimizge], and all syllables [kynlørymyzgø]. These three types of rounding harmony are not just characteristic of Noghay, but of the larger family. Iterative harmony patterns are attested in many languages (e.g. Turkish, Kyrgyz). Non-iterative patterns are attested in a number of the Kipchak subfamily (e.g. Kazakh, Karakalpak). As an example, the Kazakh described in Radlov (1870) involves very consistent rounding of all non-initial high vowels and non-high front vowels (/qol-ImIzGA/ [qol-umuz-ʁɑ] ‘hand-POSS.1P-DAT’ (p. 64). In contrast, Balakaev (1962: 102) observes that harmony in contemporary Kazakh extends rightward only one syllable, e.g. /qol-ImIz-dIŋ/ [qol-ʊmɯz-dɯŋ] ‘hand-POSS.1P-GEN’ (see Menges 1947: 610–662 for Karakalpak). As such, one can characterize the change in Kazakh as being from iterative to non-iterative harmony. In addition to domain contraction, McCollum (to appear) indicates that harmony may decay via several other pathways, notably lexeme-specificity and optionality. Lexeme-specific behavior is evident in Chaghatay, the written language of fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Central Asian Turkic (Boeschoten & Vandamme 1998). In Chaghatay, approximately half of [+high] suffixes alternate for rounding harmony (Eckmann 1966; Bodrogligeti 2001), but in the modern language most closely related to Chaghatay, standard Uzbek, there is only sporadic rounding harmony (Sjoberg 1963: 54).² In the Osh dialect of Uzbek, preliminary fieldwork suggests that harmony targets a relatively small set of suffixes. If some Uzbek dialects exhibit differing restrictions on the morphemes that alternate for harmony, lexical diffusion is a reasonable speculation as to how harmony has decayed in Uzbek. In tandem with lexeme-specificity, there is variation attested in Chaghatay, e.g. /jyz-IŋIz/ [jyzyŋyz] ~ [jyzyŋiz] ‘face-POSS.2PL’ (Eckmann 1966:36). Variation is also reported for other languages (Korn 1969; Kirchner 1998; McCollum 2018). ² There is, however, more widespread rounding harmony in various Uzbek dialects (Jarring 1937; Ibrohimov 1967; Reshetov & Shoabdurahmanov 1978; Razhabov 1996).

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2.4 Crimean Tatar: A case study 2.4.1 Radlov (1896) In this section we describe the pattern of rounding harmony in Radlov’s (1896) corpus of Crimean Tatar texts. Radlov transcribed texts from 11 different towns in Crimea over the course of his stay in the region. Contemporary work on Crimean Tatar (Samoilovich 1916; Sevortjan 1966; Kavitskaya 2010, 2013) describes three main dialect groups—northern, central, and southern—and we adopted these three, along with the dialect borders roughly equivalent to those in Kavitskaya (2013: 89) to classify each text. We manually recorded all instances of a round vowel followed by a high vowel (N = 5,809). For each instance of (dis)harmony, we recorded the region, text, page number, trigger vowel, and syllable number. Words of up to five syllables in length were recorded, but only five pentasyllabic words were present, so these were excluded, and only words from two to four syllables in length are reported here. Consider Table 2.1, which shows the aggregated counts of harmony. First, note that the rate of harmony is exceedingly high in all syllables. Second, observe that the rate of application does not decrease in any meaningful way in later syllables.³ In all three positions, the rate of harmony exceeds 94%, suggesting that the harmony pattern was robust in the late nineteenth century. As a further examination of the aggregated data, consider the counts of harmony by preceding vowel (Table 2.2). While McCollum (2018) argues that trigger vowel quality affects the application of harmony in Kazakh, there is no obvious effect of trigger vowel here, as rates of harmony exceed 94% regardless of preceding

Table 2.1 Counts of harmony and disharmony aggregated over the entire Crimean Tatar corpus in Radlov (1896)

[+high, +round] after [+round] [+high, −round] after [+round] Total Percent [+high, +round] after [+round]

Syllable 2

Syllable 3

Syllable 4

Total

4,559 134 4,693 97.1

946 54 1,000 94.6

105 6 111 94.6

5,610 194 5,804

³ We conducted chi-square as well as regression analyses. Statistically, there is a significant effect of syllable number on the likelihood of harmony, but we believe this difference is not linguistically meaningful, or comparable to Tenishev’s (1984: 446) description of reduced rates of harmony in later syllables.

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Table 2.2 Percent harmony by preceding vowel aggregated over the entire Crimean Tatar corpus in Radlov (1896) Preceding vowel

Syllable 2

Syllable 3

Syllable 4

o ø u y

97.7 96.4 95.0 98.9

95.6 94.0

94.5 94.7

vowel and syllable number. Also, mid round vowels [ø o] are absent in non-initial syllables, a distributional restriction in the majority of Turkic languages. Thus, the data here supports the case that harmony in late nineteenth-century Crimean Tatar was neither affected by syllable number or trigger vowel quality, further suggesting the robustness of the pattern at this point in the dialects of Crimean Tatar. Additionally, one might expect significant differences across the different locations where Radlov recorded these texts. Rates of harmony by location and syllable number are presented in Table 2.3. Across all towns and regions, there is consistent application of harmony in all syllables. Like the data in Tables 2.1 and 2.2, the data presented here provides strong support for the pervasiveness of rounding harmony in Radlov’s data. Moreover, Radlov’s texts provide evidence for a uniformity in the application of rounding harmony across all three major dialect groups in the language in the late nineteenth century. This subsection has demonstrated quite clearly that rounding harmony in Radlov’s texts is consistent. Neither syllable number, preceding trigger, nor geographical location appears to systematically affect the application of harmony. The robustness of the pattern during Radlov’s visit will be contrasted to the application of harmony in each of the three main dialect groups in the contemporary language in the next section.

2.4.2 Contemporary Crimean Tatar Contemporary Crimean Tatar exhibits three stages of the decay of rounding harmony (Sevortjan 1966; Kavitskaya 2010, 2013). In the southern dialect, rounding harmony affects all high vowels in the word (1)a, just like in closely related Turkish and many other Turkic languages. The example in (1)b shows that in order to undergo the rounding harmony, the high vowel has to be preceded by a

Table 2.3 Counts and percent harmony for each town and syllable number in Radlov (1896)

Town

Region

Syllable 2 Counts Percent harmony

Syllable 3 Counts Percent harmony

Syllable 4 Counts Percent harmony

Asau Baqcˇïsarai Biyu¨k lambat (Malyi Mayak) Biyu¨k xojalar (Dolinnaya) Deir (Yantarnoe) Istile (Lesnikovo) Kefe (Feosodia) Ko¨zleve (Kezlev; Evpatoria) Misxor Özen-baš (Schastlivoe) Qaralez (Zalesnoe) Qarasu bazar (Belogorsk) Üsku¨t (Privetnoe)

Southern Central Southern Northern Northern Central Central Northern Southern Central Central Central Southern

128/167 587/604 428/439 737/762 47/48 345/351 300/301 181/184 435/446 193/199 395/397 621/628 162/167

35/35 145/155 104/107 141/153 6/6 64/69 50/54 45/49 75/80 44/44 86/90 121/127 30/32

4/4 9/10 16/16 9/9

100 90 100 100

4/4 8/8 4/4 6/7 5/5 15/15 18/18 7/7

100 100 100 85.7 100 100 100 100

76.6 97.2 97.5 96.7 97.9 98.3 99.7 98.4 97.5 97.0 99.5 98.9 97.0

100 93.5 97.2 92.2 100 92.8 92.6 91.8 93.8 100 95.6 95.3 93.8

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rounded vowel. We therefore consider the southern pattern the most conservative, operating in the same manner as in Radlov’s texts. (1) Rounding harmony: southern Crimean Tatar a. dost-um ‘friend-1SG.POSS’ tuzluɣ-um ‘salt shaker-1SG.POSS’ syrgyn-lyk ‘deportation-ADJ.SUF’ tykyr-yn-mek ‘spit-PASS-INF’ b. dost-lɑr-ɯm ‘friend-PL-1SG.POSS’ In the northern dialect, rounding harmony is lost, with rounding licensed in initial syllables only (2) and with optional unrounding of high vowels in these syllables as well (2)b. (2) Rounding harmony: northern Crimean Tatar a. bojɯn ‘neck’ (cf. southern/central [bojun]) dost-ɯm ‘friend-1SG.POSS’ (cf. southern/central [dost-um]) b. burɯn ~ bɯrɯn ‘nose’ (cf. southern/central [burun]) bulɑmɯq ~ bɯlɑmɯq ‘a type of cereal’ While southern and northern dialects represent the stages with the presence vs. the absence of harmony, there is also an attested intermediate stage in the central/standard dialect, where rounding harmony operates only in the first two syllables of a word (Samoilovich 1916; Sevortjan 1966; Kavitskaya 2010). When a monosyllabic suffix with a high vowel is added to a monosyllabic stem in the central dialect, its vowel agrees in rounding (and backness) with the vowel of the stem (3)a. When such a suffix is added to a polysyllabic stem, rounding harmony does not target the vowel in the suffix while backness harmony affects all vowels in the word, as in (3)b. This shows that the domain of rounding harmony is indeed the first two syllables of a word, regardless of its morphological composition (cf. the presence of rounding in the 1sg. possessive suffix attached to the monosyllabic root ‘friend’ in (3)a vs. the absence of rounding in the same suffix attached to a disyllabic root ‘nose’ in (3)b). (3) Rounding harmony: central Crimean Tatar a. dost-um ‘friend-1SG.POSS’ kyz-lyk ‘autumn-ADJ.SUF’ bul-un-mɑq ‘find-PASS-INF’ b. burun-ɯm ‘nose-1SG.POSS’ (cf. southern [burun-um]) tuz-luɣ-ɯm ‘salt shaker-1SG.POSS’ (cf. southern [tuz-luɣ-um]) syrgyn-lɨk ‘deportation-ADJ.SUF’ (cf. southern [syrgyn-lyk]) tykyr-ɨn-mek ‘spit-PASS-INF’ (cf. southern [tykyr-yn-mek]) Given that harmony is fully operative in all of Radlov’s texts, the contraction of the harmonic domain in the central dialect must be construed as a recent

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development. When the three dialects are compared, we see three stages in the decay of harmony: full harmony, non-iterative harmony, and no harmony. In addition to this domain-based effect, Kavitskaya (2010) reports that several high vowel suffixes systematically fail to undergo rounding harmony in the central dialect, including the accusative and genitive case suffixes, as seen in (4). (4) Suffixes with invariant rounding in contemporary Crimean Tatar a. o-nɯ ‘3s-ACC’ b. suv-nɯ ‘water-ACC’ c. søz-ni ‘word-ACC’ d. dost-nɯŋ e. suv-nɯŋ f. søz-niŋ

‘friend-GEN’ ‘water-GEN’ ‘word-GEN’

In contrast, these same suffixes alternate for rounding harmony in Radlov’s data, indicating that the invariance of these particular affixes is a recent innovation. In other words, the invariance of these suffixes is due to decay, not incomplete development of harmony (cf. Anderson’s (1996) proposal for several southern Siberian languages). (5) Alternating accusative and genitive suffixes in Radlov’s texts (with text and page number) a. o-nu ‘friend-ACC’ (Kefe, p. 134) b. su-nu ‘water-ACC’ (Suliman pai˘gambar, p. 191) c. søz-ny ‘word-ACC’ (Qarasu bazar, p. 166) d. dost-nuŋ e. su-nuŋ f. kyn-nyŋ

‘friend-GEN’ ‘water-GEN’ ‘sun-GEN’

(Ko¨zleve, p. 235) (Čorba batïr, p. 127) (Čora batïr, p. 174)

2.5 Discussion Let us now return to the claim that vowel harmony arises from vowel-to-vowel coarticulation (e.g. Ohala 1994; Hyman 2002; Przezdziecki 2005; Barnes 2006). Based on the evidence from Turkic, this claim appears to be an oversimplification of how harmony emerges, as well as how it decays, representing only a single step in a potentially more complex development. In between coarticulation and pervasive harmony one sees a variety of intermediate possibilities—lexically specific harmony, as in Old Turkic and Chaghatai, non-iterativity, as in Central Crimean Tatar and Karakalpak, optionality, as in Kazakh, as well as contextual, phonological restrictions on harmony, as in Uyghur and Ili Turki. We propose that these

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possibilities form various pathways for the emergence and decline of harmony, inferring from the history of Turkic that the transition from coarticulation to pervasive harmony must proceed via these pathways. In other words, we argue that harmony does not transition directly from coarticulation to full-fledged harmony, or from full-fledged harmony to coarticulation, but changes via the pathways sketched out above. Relatedly, if harmony may develop and decline along these lines, one expects to find many harmony patterns in these intermediate states. From a typological point of view, one can investigate the relative frequency of lexically specific, non-iterative, and optional harmonies to examine which intermediate stage is most likely. Typological research, in tandem with experimental research and formal analysis, should provide a fuller understanding of the life cycle of iterative phonological patterns.

3 The life cycle of the Kuuk Thaayorre desiderative Alice Gaby

3.1 Introduction What do a toilet and your innermost desires have in common? To talk about either, you must balance the risk of being misunderstood by your addressee(s) against the risk of offending them. This balancing act is the key to understanding a puzzling fact about desiderative encoding in Kuuk Thaayorre (a Paman language of northern Australia). Kuuk Thaayorre furnishes its speakers with no fewer than 12 distinct constructions with which to express their wants and desires (hereafter referred to as the ‘desiderative’ semantic category). Yet none of these constructions wears this function on its sleeve; the only dedicated means of unambiguously coding the (negated) desiderative category is a verbless clause containing a verbal negator (in contrast with the expected constituent negator). The most explicit desiderative strategy is thus at the same time exceedingly oblique. Through the lens of other languages, then, Kuuk Thaayorre may seem exuberant in its number of desiderative constructions, and yet lacking of an explicit marker of the desiderative function. This chapter proposes that the 12 desiderative constructions are the product of iterative conventionalization. This process is born out of the conflicting desires for communicative clarity and the plausible deniability of taboo meanings.

3.1.1 Outline Following a brief introduction to the language and its speakers (Section 3.1.2), I outline the various means of expressing desiderative mood (Section 3.2). This includes a discussion of constructions that entail desiderative mood, those that carry a generalized conversational implicature of desiderative mood, those that have a default desiderative interpretation in particular contexttypes, and those which may or may not carry a particularized conversational implicature of desiderative mood. Section 3.3 then introduces the process of

Alice Gaby, The life cycle of the Kuuk Thaayorre desiderative. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Alice Gaby (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0003

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iterative conventionalization against the backdrop of communicative norms in Pormpuraaw (where Kuuk Thaayorre is spoken). Section 3.3.1 begins by surveying the reasons why a dedicated, explicit, on-record means of expressing the desiderative mood might pose a threat to both positive and negative face. Importantly, this section argues that the face threats associated with direct requests, demands, and the expression of desires are specific to certain relationships between interlocutors. By contrast, it is normal and appropriate to make explicit demands of one’s, e.g. same-sex sibling in Kuuk Thaayorre society. Following this discussion of the social and cultural motivations for the indirect expression of desires, Sections 3.3.2 and 3.3.3 lay out the mechanics of iterative conventionalization first in general terms and then with specific reference to the development of the 12 Kuuk Thaayorre desiderative constructions. Section 3.3.4 considers in more detail the semantic/pragmatic status of the output of iterative conventionalization. Section 3.5 contrasts the processes of iterative conventionalization and grammaticalization.

3.1.2 The language and its speakers Kuuk Thaayorre is a Paman language spoken on the west coast of Australia’s Cape York Peninsula. It remains a major language of communication (along with English and several other Paman languages) in the community of Pormpuraaw and nearby outstations. A shift toward English is clearly evident among young people, however, and many in the community are concerned to support both Kuuk Thaayorre language and the culture and knowledge it expresses. Taylor (1984) discusses the cultural changes brought about by and since the establishment of Edward River mission at Pormpuraaw in 1937.

3.2 Kuuk Thaayorre expressions of wanting There is no Kuuk Thaayorre verb or noun corresponding to want, desire, wish, or hope. Instead, Kuuk Thaayorre speakers may express the desiderative category using one of 12¹ constructions, summarized in Table 3.1. Only one of these constructions (in the bottom row) can be considered a dedicated desiderative construction. Table 3.1 is organized by the inflection of the main verb (in the first column) and the particle or adverb definitional of the construction (columns 2 and 3). The columns to the right direct the reader to the sections where each construction is discussed, along with illustrative examples. ¹ Technically, current speakers of Kuuk Thaayorre choose between only 11 of these constructions, since the construction described in Section 3.2.5 has fallen out of use.

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Table 3.1 Summary of constructions used to express desiderative mood Verb form

Particle

Particle function

Section

Examples

Nonpast (NPST)

– ak

– OPTative (hortative, jussive) DEONtic (‘it should be so’)

2.1 2.2

(1), (18) (8)

2.3

(9)

Angarr Associated motion (GO&)

– waarr

– ‘bad,’ ‘badly,’ INTENSifier

2.1 2.4

(7), (25) (11)

Subjunctive (SBJV)

– angarr

2.1 2.3

(2) (10)

2.4

(12)

wanthan

– DEONtic (‘it should be so’) ‘bad,’ ‘badly,’ INTENSifier ‘where,’ ‘somewhere’

2.5

(13), (14)

Purposive (PURP)

–

–

2.1

(3), (4)

Verbless clause

– Kaar

– clausal NEGator

2.1 2.6

(6) (15), (16), (17)

waarr

3.2.1 Simple desiderative constructions Simple nonpast clauses often carry a desiderative implicature, as in the following example: (1)

ngay ngat-a yan 1sg(NOM) fish-DAT go:NPST ‘I want to go fishing [but can’t]’ (also: ‘I am going fishing,’ ‘I will go fishing’) (MF06Aug02 Elicitation)

There is nothing in such sentences to favor the desiderative interpretation over a declarative one, though this is usually clear from context. Likewise, desiderative interpretations are available but defeasible for simple subjunctive (2), purposive (3), associated motion (5), and verbless (6) clauses. The use of (typically dependent) subjunctive verbs to head main clauses is presumed to be the result of ‘insubordination’ (Evans 2007). The regular encoding of desired events as subordinate purposive clauses seems a plausible ‘bridging context’ for this development (Evans & Wilkins 2000). (2)

ngay may maak muungk-nh 1sg(ERG) VEG blackberry(ACC) eat-SBJV ‘I want to eat some blackberries’ (Hall 1972: 101)

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Insubordinate purposive verbs (such as thangkangkarr-natha, in (3)) likewise often express desired actions, whether or not they are taken. Purposive verbs in subordinate clauses, such as (4), may also carry a desiderative implicature, since an intended event is typically desired. (3)

parr-an ith peln yup thangkangkarr-natha child-ERG DEM:DIST 3pl(NOM) soon laugh:RDP-PURP ‘those kids want to laugh [but can’t, because they’re in class]’ (GJ18Jan04 Elicitation)

(4)

nhul ii yat kuuk yik-nhatha Allen Hall-ak 3sg(NOM) there go:P.PFV word(ACC) say-PURP Allen Hall-DAT ‘he went there to speak to Allen Hall’ (KTh_GJ18Jan2004 Elicitation)

Associated motion morphology is primarily employed to describe events that will occur following a change in location or to focus attention upon the initiation of the event described by the verb root. The desiderative interpretation of associated motion-marked verbs is also common, even in instances (such as (5)) that do not involve any change in location. (5)

ngay wut wunan 1sg(NOM) asleep lie:GO&:NPST ‘I want to go to sleep’ (FT7Sep02 Conversation)

Finally, the verbless clause (6) is a conventional way of making an offer; context is sufficient for the speaker to know that the addressee has no coffee, and for the addressee to understand that the speaker knows this. (6)

nhunt coffee=kaak? 2sg(NOM) coffee=REL.PROP² ‘do you want some coffee?’ (also: ‘do you have any coffee?’) (LN8Sep02 Conversation)

Offers are commonly made by means of the other desiderative constructions, too. In example (7), for instance, the associated motion form of the verb is used to offer the addressee food, although it literally describes the addressee going to eat (or going while eating). (7)

nhunt may mungk-nhan? 2sg(ERG) VEG(ACC) eat-GO&NPST ‘do you want something to eat?’ (LN8Sep02 Conversation)

² The Relational Proprietive enclitic (glossed ‘REL.PROP’) derives predicates of possession from nouns (contrasting with an Adnominal Proprietive, which derives nominal modifiers).

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3.2.2 Constructions with ak ‘optative’ A nonpast-inflected verb may be paired with the particle ak (elsewhere associated with hortative/jussive mood) to describe a desired event that is intended to result from some other event. This is illustrated by (8c). (8)

ngay money save-m rirk a. 1sg(NOM) money(ACC) save-TR DO:NPST ‘I’m saving money’ b. Ngay raak Cairns-na angarr yancnh 1sg(NOM) PLACE Cairns-DAT DEON go:SBJV ‘[because] I want to go to Cairns’ c. old Dr Hall ak nhaanhan. old Dr Hall(ACC) OPT see:RDP:NPST ‘I want to see old Dr Hall’ (GJ12Jan04 Conversation)

3.2.3 Constructions with angarr ‘it should be so’ The deontic particle angarr is elsewhere found in statements of correct behavior or states (roughly meaning “in a world where things are as they should be, X would obtain”). Used in combination with a nonpast verb form, angarr can also be used to mark a desired outcome or state, as in (9). (9)

ngay walmeerem angarr nhiin 1sg(NOM) knowledgeable.of DEON sit:NPST ‘I want to know’ (Anon. Conversation)

Angarr can also be combined with a subjunctive verb to desiderative effect, as seen in both (8)b above and (10) below: (10)

ngay soft drink angarr mungk-nh 1sg(ERG) soft drink(ACC) DEON drink-SBJV ‘I want a soft drink’ (GJ18Jan04 Elicitation)

3.2.4 Constructions with waarr ‘badly’ Originally an adjective meaning ‘bad,’ waarr is commonly used as an intensifier adverb (translated as ‘very’). But when used in combination with associated motion morphology in a desiderative construction, waarr makes no clear semantic contribution, other than possibly an intensification of the desire experienced.

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ngay raak waarr nhaath-nhan 1sg(NOM) place INTENS see-GO&:NPST ‘[as a child] I wanted to see that place’ (GJ12Jan04 Narrative)

Note that the associated motion verb in this construction must be inflected for nonpast tense. This is required even in a semantically anomalous context like (11), which describes a past desire held by the speaker as a child. Waarr may also combine with a subjunctive verb to give rise to a desiderative implicature, as seen in (12.2). (12)

ngal paath minharr 1. 1du:incl(ERG) firewood(ACC) pick.up:GO&:IMP ‘let’s go and get firewood’ 2. paath waarr rint-nh=pa fire(ACC) INTENS burn-SBJV=PRAG ‘[so we can] build a fire’ (AJ27Jan04 Elicitation/Conversation)

Each example of this construction in my corpus is ambiguous between desiderative and purposive readings. The subjunctive + waarr construction is therefore not considered to be a fully explicit expression of desiderative mood (see Section 3.3.4).

3.2.5 Subjunctive + wanthan ‘where’ There are a number of examples of desiderative mood expressed by the pairing of a subjunctive verb with the interrogative/indefinite form wanthan ‘where’ in the work of Hall (1972) and the many undated school materials produced by Tom Foote and Allen Hall (Foote and Hall, ms.). Two examples are presented below ((13)–(14), glosses mine). (13)

ngay thaangk-nh iirrkan wanthan 1sg(NOM) climb-SBJV there.toward.up where ‘I want to do some climbing’ (Hall 1972: 116) (i.e. ‘where can I climb?’)

(14)

ngay wanthan thangkar-nha 1sg(NOM) where laugh-SBJV ‘I want to roar with mirth’ (Hall 1972: 116)

This construction does not appear in my corpus, nor was it recognized by the consultants I questioned. It may be that this construction once unambiguously entailed desiderative mood. The presence of wanthan ‘where,’ however, suggests

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this was not the original meaning of the construction, at least. Examples like (13), for instance, might once have served as a bridging context from compositional to constructional meanings (i.e. compositionally meaning ‘where can I climb?,’ but carrying an implicature that the speaker wanted to climb).

3.2.6 The verbless + kaar ‘(clausal) negator’ construction The only clauses in my corpus that unambiguously entail that an event is (not) desired comprise a verbless clause which includes the verbal negator, kaar. Verbless copula clauses and other clause types headed by non-verbal predicates are elsewhere negated by the constituent negator, pokon. The negative particle kaar is only used in the absence of a main verb when an (un)desiderative interpretation is entailed. Example (15), for instance, allows for a variety of different interpretations according to context, such as that the speaker doesn’t want to eat a grunter fish, or doesn’t want to have a pet grunter fish, or—as in the present example—that he doesn’t want to catch a grunter fish. The desiderative mood is common to all possible interpretations, however. (15)

ngat pik ngay kaar FISH grunter(ACC) 1sg(ERG) NEG ‘I don’t want to catch a grunter fish’ (Foote and Hall Ms.; Reader 10; kuthip B)

Note that the desiderative interpretation of this clause depends upon the presence of the negator. Without the negator kaar, example (15) would mean ‘I am a grunter fish.’ To negate this assertion, as mentioned above, the constituent negator pokon would be required, rather than the clausal negator kaar (Gaby 2017). An extremely common example of this construction is seen in (16), the simple pairing of the first person singular subject pronoun and the verbal negator. (16)

ngay kaar 1sg(NOM) NEG ‘I don’t want to [go to the outstation]’ (EC02Oct02 Conversation) (NOT, e.g. ‘I haven’t been’ or ‘I don’t have any’)

Example (17) highlights the singularity of this construction. The particle wut (glossed as ‘asleep’) is otherwise found always and only in conjunction with the verb wun ‘lie’ (as seen in example (5) above). It is impossible to describe someone as wut nhiinhin ‘sitting asleep,’ for example, or to use wut as an adnominal adjective or as an ascriptive predicate. Yet just in this context, it is possible to use wut in the absence of wun.

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(yuk-yuk-un wun-m pung-um pul) tree-tree-DAT lie-P.IPFV sun-ABL 3duNOM ‘they two lay amongst the trees away from the sun’ ngul pul pung-un kaar wut then 3duNOM sun-DAT NEG asleep ‘since they didn’t [want to] sleep in the sun’ (Foote and Hall Ms.; Reader 10; kuthip D)

3.3 Politeness and iterative conventionalization Why should 12 distinct desiderative constructions coexist in a single language? In this section, I propose that the tension between the desire to be understood and the desire to avoid giving offence is the driving force between successive waves of conventionalization, each of which has produced a distinct desiderative coding strategy. Section 3.3.1 begins with a very brief introduction to speech etiquette in Pormpuraaw, while Section 3.3.2 outlines the mechanics of iterative conventionalization. Section 3.3 applies this model of iterative conventionalization to the case of Kuuk Thaayorre desiderative mood. In Section 3.3.4 I consider whether and how the desiderative mood is entailed or implicated by the various outputs of iterative conventionalization.

3.3.1 Politeness and desire in Pormpuraaw It is widely accepted that in most cultures, for certain speech contexts, politeness outranks clarity (e.g. Lakoff 1973: 297). Thus requests are frequently made by means of indirect speech acts (e.g. could you pass the butter?) rather than direct demands (e.g. give me that butter!). Exactly what constitutes politeness and how it is effected, however, are cultural constructs that cannot be presumed (see, e.g. Haugh, 2014)). While there is insufficient space to give a full account of speech etiquette in Pormpuraaw here, a brief summary is necessary as background to the account of iterative conventionalization proposed in Sections 3.3.2 and 3.4. The broad sketch to follow is based upon anthropological work in the 1970s–1980s and my own experiences since 2002. This account should be recognized as premature, and at risk of the cultural stereotyping and essentializing both Mills (2009) and Kádár and Haugh (2013) have warned against. It is offered as an early step in the documentation of Kuuk Thaayorre pragmatics, in recognition that pragmatics often receives scant attention in language documentation and description.

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There are four key reasons why a dedicated, explicit, on-record means of expressing desiderative mood might be disfavored by people in Pormpuraaw, each of which will be elaborated upon below: (1) both individualism and overt displays of preference, desire, and enthusiasm are frowned upon; (2) the privacy of knowledge, thoughts, and feelings is protected; (3) requests are generally expressed directly (e.g. through use of the imperative) with appropriate kin; (4) requests are taboo with other classes of kin. Regarding the first point, von Sturmer (1981) notes of a neighboring Cape York community that it is generally appropriate to feign disinterest, even when one is known to have a particular desire for an event to occur. For example, “the person most eager to dance may light up a cigarette just at the moment it seems his desire may be gratified” (Sturmer 1981: 29). In Brown and Levinson’s (1987) terminology, this can be understood as a means of preserving the speaker’s and/or addressee’s positive face wants, which might be threatened by the direct expression of an unshared desire. Aboriginal societies have been described by other researchers as placing a high value on collective representations and group identity (Sansom 1980: 12). Expressing individual, potentially unshared, desires might pose a threat to these consociate identities. Expressing or enquiring about desires might also impinge upon (the speaker’s and/or addressee’s) negative face, corresponding to the second point above. As Eades (1992: 10–11) notes: “Thoughts and feelings may comprise the only real area of personal privacy for Aboriginal people, many of whom live in close physical proximity with one another, and spend significant time maintaining family and social relationships.” Of course, the desiderative category is not only used to describe an individual’s idle wishes, but often also as a means of making requests of an interlocutor. Thus the direct expression of one’s wishes may place undue pressure on one’s interlocutor to act in conflict with their negative face wants (i.e. the desire for freedom from imposition), point four above. Researchers have pointed to the prevalence of indirect questioning in Australian Aboriginal societies, suggesting that speakers thus refrain from pressuring the addressee to respond (e.g. Keeffe 1992; Walsh 1997; Hughes and Andrews 2004). This same observation has been framed as a tendency to “talk around the point” (Keeffe 1992: 99; Walsh 1997: 16; Garde 2013), or the similar “no obligation to reply principle” (Kelly et al. 2014, cf. also Eades 1982; Bavin 1992; Moses and Yallop 2008). Indeed, there is an

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abundance of literature targeted to (outsider) health, education and legal professionals who engage with members of Aboriginal communities, alerting them to the cultural appropriateness of indirect questioning, avoiding eye-contact and tolerating silence and non-response (see, e.g. Westerman 2004; DHA 2007; Fryer-Smith 2008). This is reflected in example (18), which was suggested to me as the most appropriate way for me, an outsider, to request a session of language work with my language teachers in Pormpuraaw. The suggested formulation is an indirect speech act par excellence: the ‘simple’ desiderative construction (Section 3.2.1) comprising a nonpast verb form is quintessentially ‘unmarked,’ but it is also phrased in the negative (literally, ‘you will not work [with me] today’). Such ‘off-record’ requests allow the speaker to feign ignorance that a request was ever made. (18)

nhunt yoorr mit kaar rirk? 2sg(NOM) now work NEG DO:NPST ‘do you want to do some work?’ (LN8Sep02 Conversation)

Requests such as (18) are indirect in their verbal formulation, but indirectness may also be served by choosing a non-verbal means of expression. In her account of child-rearing practices among the Anbarra (Arnhem Land, Australia), Hamilton (1981: 43) states that caregivers use supplication gestures to encourage children to share their food with others.³ It does not automatically follow, however, that gestures are themselves inherently polite or indirect. The respective distributions of speech and gesture in making requests (and, indeed, in general) is an important topic for future research. There is a danger of overstating the ubiquity of indirectness in Aboriginal Australia. In Pormpuraaw, at least, there is a direct relationship between the social categories of interlocutors (based upon the classificatory kinship system)⁴ and the appropriate form of speech etiquette (point 3, above). A woman talking to her (classificatory) sister, for example, can be extremely direct, making requests through imperative verbal forms accompanied by eye contact and an outstretched hand. For example, (19) was uttered by my classificatory elder sister in response to my offer to put cheese or tomato in her sandwich: (19)

kuthirr angarr two DEON ‘both please’ (literally: ‘there should be two’) (LN8Sep02 Conversation)

³ Gesture is likewise employed to express other taboo categories, such as the gesticulator’s need to urinate or defecate (in Kuuk Thaayorre), or in discussing avoidance kin (in Yir Yoront (Alpher 1993)). ⁴ In classificatory kinship systems, everyone—whether biologically related or not—is integrated into a universal network so that they may be identified and addressed using kin terms.

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Garde (2013: 180) observes the same classificatory kin-based division between indirect request strategies and direct demands in Bininj Gun-Wok. Some Australian languages even have specialized vocabulary for describing the direct requests made of certain kin. For instance, the Walmatjari ‘illocutionary verb’ japirlyung describes the issuing of a directive with which the addressee is obliged to comply due to the way in which they are (classificatorily) kin-related to the speaker (Hudson 1986). Direct requests can thus enhance speakers’ and hearers’ positive face, reinforcing the strong bonds of kinship.

3.3.2 Conventionalization We have established that speakers of Kuuk Thaayorre are motivated by both positive and, particularly, negative face wants to formulate requests and express desires indirectly. Yet the implicit request/desire must not be so oblique as to be unrecoverable. Instead, speakers must choose a formulation that prompts their interlocutor(s) to draw the correct inference, but does not force the uptake of an unwelcome implicature. I argue that where this balance between interpretive clarity and defeasibility is unstable, it leads to an iterated process of conventionalization. A number of researchers (e.g. Traugott 1999; Levinson 2000; Traugott and Dasher 2002) have described conventionalization in terms of inferences becoming detached from utterance context, moving along a cline from utterance-token meanings (or Particularized Conversational Implicatures, hereafter PCIs) through utterance-type meanings (or Generalized Conversational Implicatures, hereafter GCIs) to coded meaning (see also Terkourafi (2005a) on the gradual nature of conventionalization, though in a somewhat different sense). Hansen and Waltereit (2006a; 2006b) have disputed the place of GCIs in this cline, arguing that PCIs may become GCIs (but not then coded meanings), or else PCIs may become coded meanings without any intermediate stage. Leech (2014), meanwhile, applies the term pragmaticalization to the progressive habituation of particular expressions to a particular pragmatic function (e.g. the habituation of English please to issuing directives), such that “pragmaticalization may lead ultimately to the conventionalized association of an expression with its pragmatic meaning—that is, to conventional implicature” (Leech 2014: 76; see also Aijmer 1996; Watts 2003). The basic stages of iterative conventionalization are as follows: (i) referring to a taboo concept via a metonymically related expression; (ii) the spread of this novel form-meaning pair throughout the speech community; (iii) the conventionalization of the form-meaning mapping; (iv) the acceptance of the form as an explicit, on-record means of reference to the taboo meaning, motivating a return to stage (i). This chain of events has been labeled a ‘euphemism

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treadmill’ (e.g. Orwell 1945) and an ‘X-phemism mill’ (Allan and Burridge 2006), and discussed in general terms by Jespersen (1905: 230).

3.3.3 Conventionalization of desiderative mood Let us move to imagine how the process of conventionalization might have applied to subjunctive morphology. From its humble origins as an explicit marker of subordination (in the top right corner of Figure 3.1 below), the subjunctive is proposed to have been frequently employed to mark subordinate clauses with purposive meaning, as in example (20). (20) ngay minc min waantharr-r nganh kuta-ku 1sg(ERG) very good call.out-P.PFV 1sgACC dog-ERG ngeey-nh hear-SBJV ‘I called out good and loud so the dog would hear me’ (GJ18Jan04 Elicitation)

angarr DEON

This association between subjunctive marking and purposive interpretation gave rise to an utterance-type purposive implicature (diagonal arrow 1). Purposive mood then became one of the meanings explicitly encoded by the polysemous subjunctive inflection (arrow 2), which by this point is no longer restricted to subordinate clauses (as seen in ‘insubordinate’ clauses such as (2) above). Since purposive clauses most commonly describe a desired state of affairs, the subjunctive verb forms came to be used as an off-record means of expressing desiderative mood (arrow 3), as illustrated by example (21): (21) nhul reenp-nha yuku-m 3sg(NOM) descend-SBJV tree-ABL ‘he wants to come down from the tree’ (Hall 1972: 121) This form is now some way toward becoming an on-record strategy for expressing desiderative mood, as indicated by the dashed arrow 4. The fact that desiderative mood remains an implicature rather than an entailment, however, is indicated by the use of subjunctive constructions to express undesired but necessary events, as in (22): (22) yuk.ngat yat ngul ngamp angarr hide rirka-nh cyclone(NOM) go:P.PFV then 1pl.excl(NOM) DEON hide DO:SBJV ‘the cyclone came then we had to hide’ (GJ18Jan04 Conversation / Elicitation)

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ALICE GABY off-record

on-record

non-factivity

1 2

purposive

subjunctive

desire

subjunctive 4

subjunctive

3 subjunctive

Figure 3.1 Putative etymology of subjunctive coding of desire.

A similar process is proposed to explain the emergence of an on-record desiderative construction from the combination of associated motion verb forms (‘GO&’) with the intensifier adverb waarr. In this case, however, conventionalization has advanced several stages further, as can be seen in Figure 3.2.

on-record

off-record change in location future action

1 GO&

2

desire

GO& 4 (+waarr)

request

1st GO& (+waarr)

3

GO& GO& GO& (+waarr)

Figure 3.2 Putative etymology of associated motion coding of desire.

The starting point for this wave of conventionalization is the use of associated motion verbal morphology to express an event’s occurring after a change in location (at the top right of Figure 3.2). The implicit association between motion and futurity (arrow 1) became conventionalized (arrow 2), much as has the English future going to ~ gonna. This future sense was exploited by speakers to implicate desired events (arrow 3). The implicature was then optionally reinforced by combination with the intensifier adverb, waarr. This combination of waarr and an associated motion verb form is now so strongly associated with desiderative mood it can no longer function as an off-record means of communicating this category (arrow 4). Further, associated motion + waarr clauses with first person subjects are now becoming associated with the speech act of requesting (arrow 5). We might predict that this current implicature will eventually conventionalize into an on-record strategy for making requests, as suggested by the dashed arrow 6.

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There are several important implications of the possible chains of development depicted in Figure 3.1 and Figure 3.2. Firstly, that the desiderative meaning does not conventionalize in isolation. Morphemes like the subjunctive, associated motion, and nonpast verbal inflections, as well as the particles they combine with, have complex meanings spanning multiple semantic categories. Accordingly, some of these constructions may entail a more broadly modal meaning, with the desiderative being just one available interpretation. For example, the desiderative use of subjunctive morphology can be morphosyntactically distinguished from the subordinate clause-marking function of this morpheme (see discussion of insubordination in Section 3.2.1), but it is vague with respect to the purposive meaning. Secondly, if a construction defaults to or carries a strong implicature of desiderative mood only in a particular speech context (e.g. when the speaker is requesting food of a host), that may count as sufficiently on-record to trigger a new cycle of conventionalization. Both of these issues are taken up further in Section 3.3.4. Lastly, the proposed pathway involves a shift from future to desiderative meanings, a reversal of the well-attested grammaticalization of future tense markers from desiderative verbs (e.g. Heine and Reh 1984: 131; Comrie 1985: 45).

3.3.4 Status of the products of conventionalization I take utterance-token PCIs to be the off-record starting point in the process of iterative conventionalization. Their on-record counterparts, however, vary with regard to their semantic/pragmatic status. At the most conventionalized end of the spectrum are coded meanings. The verbless + kaar construction described in Section 3.2.6, for instance, has already been established to entail desiderative mood. Given the terminology used here (conventionalization as a process applied to implicatures), conventional implicatures might also be expected as a logical end product.⁵ This is never the case, however. As Potts (2003, 2007) has convincingly argued, conventional implicatures (hereafter CIs) express backgrounded information that is secondary to the (simultaneously expressed) at-issue content of an utterance. Consider, by contrast, example (23): (23)

ngay kaar yan 1sg(NOM) NEG go:NPST ‘I don’t want to go [to the outstation, but I will go out of obligation]’ (EC2/10/02 Conversation)

The desire not to go to the outstation is clearly a part of the at-issue, propositional content of sentences like (23), and thus not a CI contributing a secondary ⁵ In Grice’s (1975) original formulation, of course, Conventional Implicatures are like Conversational Implicatures in their being implied rather than said, but unlike Conversational Implicatures in that their meaning holds in all contexts of utterance and cannot be defeated.

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layer of meaning. The same logic rules out the analysis of any of the constructions outlined in Section 3.2 as carrying conventional desiderative implicatures.⁶ A complicating factor in deciding whether each of the constructions under consideration entails or implicates desiderative mood is the fact that all of these constructions are polysemous. For example, even though the associated motion + waarr construction exhibits morphosyntactic specialization (inasmuch as it requires nonpast tense inflection regardless of the time at which the event described took place and its meaning is non-compositional), a potential modal interpretation of this construction is always available. In examples like (24), for instance, a potential interpretation is favored. (24)

“nhurr win-m rirk-nhan waarr!” ∧ 2pl(ERG) win-V DO-GO&:NPST WAAR ‘you can win this! [shouted at football players during a game]’ (AC21Aug02 Quoted direct speech in narrative)

The constructions under consideration thus have a default desiderative interpretation in particular context-types,⁷ placing them somewhere intermediate between PCIs (which arise in nonce contexts, cf. Levinson 1995: 93) and GCIs (which, though defeasible, are presumed in all contexts ceteris paribus, Terkourafi 2005b: 210). Following Terkourafi (2005), Figure 3.3 depicts a continuum between PCIs (which are specific to utterance tokens) and GCIs (which arise in all utterances of a certain type). Intermediate between these, the X represents the conventionalized desiderative interpretation of the Kuuk Thaayorre constructions. Particularized

Generalized

Conversational --------------------- X ----------------------- Conversational Implicature utterance token

Implicature context type

utterance type

Figure 3.3 Continuum between PCIs and GCIs.

To further illustrate, the associated motion construction in (25) has a default desiderative interpretation in the context of a host offering food (or any other context in which an offer is characteristically made).

⁶ Moreover, if Bach (1999) is correct in arguing that there is no such thing as a CI, the question is moot. ⁷ Note that the notion of context-types employed here (e.g. asking a favor of a same-sex sibling, or offering food as a host) is somewhat more enriched than Terkourafi’s (2015, p. 16) definition: “‘Context’ refers to the situational context which, by a process of abstraction over real-world contexts, comes to be stored in memory as a combination of extra-linguistic features that include, but are not limited to, the age, gender, and social class of the interlocutors, the relationship between them, and the setting of the exchange.”

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nhunt may mungk-nhan? 2sg(ERG) VEG(ACC) eat-GO&:NPST ‘would you like something to eat?’ (LN8Sep02 Elicitation/Conversation) (but also: ‘are you going to eat?,’ ‘will you eat?’)

Crucially, though, the desiderative interpretation is not presumed in other speech contexts. Terkourafi’s (2005b: 210) notion of the ‘frame’ (pairings of linguistic formulae with their contexts of use) is particularly relevant here. As she finds; “an expression which is conventionalized relative to a (range of ) minimal context(s) . . . gradually develops linguistic reflexes of this conventionalization”; indeed, such context-conventionalized expressions can be considered on-record in precisely those contexts, thus triggering the conventionalization of an alternative form of expression. It remains an open question whether coded meaning, GCIs, CIs, or none of these are the ultimate endpoint of conventionalization. In any case, it is clear that a construction need not be conventionalized beyond a context-type implicature in order to foster a new cycle, conventionalizing a new construction. There is likewise no shortage of examples of apparently stable context-type implicatures. Familiar examples include the English conventionalized request formulations (such as can you pass the salt, cf. Leech 2014: 34 on ‘directives’). Indeed, as Hansen and Waltereit (2006: 243) argue; “conventionally indirect speech acts should actually—all things being equal—resist semanticization” (cf. also Terkourafi 2015).

3.3.5 Iterative conventionalization versus grammaticalizatoin Iterative conventionalization is like grammaticalization inasmuch as both involve a form acquiring a new meaning or function due to its frequent association with that meaning/function (via metonymic implicature or otherwise). The tension that produces grammaticalization is most often characterized as one between the maxims of economy and clarity (cf. von der Gabelentz’s (1901: 256) Bequemlichkeit vs. Deutlichkeit, Langacker’s (1977: 105) signal simplicity vs. perceptual optimality, and Horn’s (1984) Q and R principles), though Haspelmath (1999) pits economy primarily against extravagance. Whether it is extravagance or clarity that competes with the economical drive, grammaticalization is generally acknowledged to consist of two oppositional subprocesses: (1) the introduction of lexical material for clarification and/or emphasis, and (2) the erosion of (formerly) explicit form due to frequency. The first of these subprocesses is diametrically opposed to the first subprocess of iterative conventionalization, in which the speaker uses inexplicit formulations in order to deflect attention from a potential face threat. Moreover, where frequency

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drives phonological erosion in the case of grammaticalization, in iterative conventionalization the frequency-driven change is in semantico-pragmatic status; from utterance-token implicature, to context-type implicature and, in some cases, to coded meaning. These two processes may differ in the directionality of meaning change. The future > desiderative shift discussed in Section 3.3.3, for instance, runs counter to the desiderative > future shift well documented in the literature on grammaticalization.

3.4 Conclusion As social beings, we humans need to know the desires of those around us in order to predict their actions. We may also be better able to achieve our own desires if those who can help us know about them. Since we have no direct access to one another’s mental state, we must rely on inference and verbal report. Declaring desires on-record is pragmatically risky in Pormpuraaw. Expressions that denote events metonymically connected to desired events are ideally placed to lead addressees to the correct inference, while remaining sufficiently oblique to allow the addressee to defeat (or the speaker to deny) an objectionable implicature. Since everyone faces the same challenge of balancing face wants against being understood, once one speaker employs a particularly apt indirect expression of desire, other speakers are likely to follow them. These oft-employed implicit formulations become increasingly conventionalized, and as they conventionalize their face-threatening implicature is less easily defeated. This leads speakers to recruit an alternative, defeasible means of implicating desire, starting the process anew. In this chapter, I have argued that multiple iterations of this process of conventionalization have led to a synchronic wealth of desiderative constructions in Kuuk Thaayorre, in the absence of a dedicated desiderative verb or morpheme. Iterative conventionalization thus presents another example of how language structures are responsive to cultural, social, and communicative pressures.

Acknowledgments I would like to acknowledge that the language described here is the intellectual property of the Thaayorre community. In particular, I would like to thank the following people for sharing their knowledge of the language with me and contributing the examples discussed in this article: Mr Alfred Charlie, Mr Albert Jack, Mr Gilbert Jack, and Ms Elizabeth Norman. Many other people contributed enormously to my understanding of Kuuk Thaayorre, but they are not quoted here.

4 Akan morphological ‘reversal’ in historical context Mary Paster

4.1 Introduction It has been claimed that in the Akan languages of Ghana and Côte d’Ivoire, the past and perfect markers are ‘reversed’ in the negative (see Dolphyne 1996, Schachter and Fromkin 1968, Essilfie 1986; Saah 1994; Ofori 2006a, b; Stump 2009). The examples in (1) are from Asante Twi, a variety of Akan. In the affirmative, past (1a) is marked by a low-toned suffix that lengthens the vowel preceding it, while the perfect (1b) is marked by the prefix a-. In the negative forms (marked by ǹ-), however, the past form (1c) has a prefix a- that resembles the perfect prefix, while the negative perfect form (1d) has a low-toned vowel suffix that looks like the past tense suffix. (1)

Asante Twi (Paster 2011: 95, 98, 102, 105)¹, ² a. yàw tɔˋ-ɔˋ ‘Yaw bought…’ b. yàw à-tɔ́ ‘Yaw has bought…’ c. yàw à-ǹ-tɔ́ ‘Yaw didn’t buy…’ d. yàw ǹ-tɔ́-ɔˋ ‘Yaw hasn’t bought…’

At first pass, it appears that when the negative prefix occurs, the past and perfect markers reverse; this is how the phenomenon has been characterized in most previous analyses, with a variety of mechanisms proposed to account for the reversal. In this chapter I will propose that the apparent reversal is not really a reversal in synchronic terms. One reason for this is that both the affirmative and negative perfect forms are marked by a high tone on the root, so the negative perfect form is not simply a past form with the negative prefix added. Nonetheless, the segmental form of the affixes does exhibit an apparent reversal, and my analysis will not treat that as a coincidence. This chapter can be understood as a case study exemplifying a complementary relationship between historical and theoretical linguistics, ¹ Asante Twi, like other Akan languages, contrasts /H/ vs. /L/ tone. In this chapter, H is marked by an acute accent on the vowel (á) while L is marked by a grave accent (à), and a superscript exclamation mark indicates tonal downstep (! á). As will become relevant later, the verb root in these examples (/tɔ́/) has an underlying H tone. ² English glosses of Asante Twi forms have ellipses at the end because the forms cited here occur only when an object follows the verb. See Ofori (2006a: 38–44) and Paster (2011: 100) for examples and discussion of the non-pre-object forms.

Mary Paster, Akan morphological ‘reversal’ in historical context. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Mary Paster (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0004

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demonstrating in a particular language how we can avoid proliferating theoretical machinery and ad hoc language-specific constraints to account for an unusual pattern by carefully considering the facts of the language and the history of the pattern. While my proposed historical analysis does not completely explain why Akan morphology appears to involve a reversal, it does account for the details of the pattern more fully and accurately than any previous synchronic analysis, and it does so without expanding the power of the grammar in order to encode the notion of reversal. The apparent reversal occurs in other languages of the Tano subgroup of the Kwa language group. (2) shows some past and perfect forms in Cherepon (Bramson 1981), where the past affirmative is not marked by any affix (2a). The perfect affirmative (2b) is marked by né-. The negative past (2c) includes a negative prefix bé- followed by what looks like the perfect prefix né-. The negative perfect (2d) has the negative prefix bé- with no apparent tense/aspect morpheme. Thus, Cherepon appears to have a reversal as well; of particular interest here is that the relevant morphemes in Akan and Cherepon are not obvious cognates, and also that the ordering of the affixes is different since in Akan the tense/aspect prefix precedes the negative prefix, while the negative prefix comes first in Cherepon. (2)

Cherepon (Bramson 1981: 17) a. à dʑi ‘he ate’ b. à né-dʑi ‘he has eaten’ c. à bé-né-dʑi ‘he didn’t eat’ d. à bé-dʑi ‘he hasn’t eaten’

A similar phenomenon occurs in Awutu (Frajzingier 1968). The past (3a) is not marked by an affix, while the perfect (3b) is marked by the prefix n-. In (3c), the negative past form contains the negative prefix mı´- followed by what looks like the perfect prefix n-, and the negative perfect (3d) has only the negative prefix mı´with no apparent tense/aspect prefix. So again this appears to be a reversal in terms of the segmental marking of tense/aspect, but here as in the Twi data in (1), the tone of the subject marker differs in the past (3a) vs. negative perfect (3d), so the negative perfect form cannot simply be analyzed as a past form with the negative prefix added. (3)

Awutu (Frajzingier 1968: 103–104) a. ó kú bú ‘you dug a well’ b. ó n-! nú ǹcúé ‘you have drunk the water’ ! c. ó mı´-n- kú bú ‘you did not dig a well’ d. ò mı´-! nú ǹcúé ǹnɛˋ ‘you haven’t drunk the water’

According to Williamson and Blench’s (2000) classification, the three languages discussed above are Tano languages. Asante Twi is an Akan language, part of Central Tano, while Cherepon and Awutu are classified as South Guang languages. The Tano group and its subgroups are shown in Figure 4.1.

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Kwa Potou-Tano Potou

Tano Krobu

West Tano

Central Tano

Guang

Bia

North

Akan

South

Figure 4.1 The Tano languages. Source: Adapted from Williamson and Blench (2000).

This chapter will consider data from these and other Tano languages in an effort to understand the origin and proper analysis of the pattern in Akan. In Section 4.2 I will begin with an overview some of the previous synchronic accounts, showing that they are not adequate for Akan and cannot be extended to account for similar phenomena in Cherepon or Awutu. One previous analysis (Osam 1994) does take diachronic considerations into account, and I will propose a similar analysis but with some important differences and added details. I will present data from a number of different Tano languages in Section 4.3 before proposing a reconstruction of the relevant morphemes in Section 4.4 along with an explanation for how some of the modern languages, including Akan, came to exhibit the apparent reversal phenomenon.

4.2 Previous analyses 4.2.1 Morphological/syntactic approaches Most previous treatments of Akan verbal morphology have relied on the claim that the pattern introduced in Section 4.1 is a true reversal, whether implicitly assuming a reversal rule or explicitly proposing a mechanism that performs the reversal within the morphology or the syntax. For instance, Schachter and Fromkin claim that “[i]n the presence of the NEGative morpheme, transformational rules apply which replace deep-structure PAS[t] by surface-structure PER[fect], and vice versa” (1968: 126). Dolphyne proposes that “[t]he affixes of the Past and Perfect forms of the verb switch over between the positive and negative forms of the verb” (1996: 93). Essilfie states that “the Akan negative Past tense form translates the English Negative Perfect tense form while the Akan negative Perfect form translates the English negative Past form” (1986: 70). Saah describes the negative past as having “perfective morphology” while the negative perfect “bears the past tense morphology” (1994: 21). And finally,

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in Stump’s analysis there are abstract tense/aspect categories along with “rules of semantic interpretation whose construal of the properties ‘tense1 ’ and ‘tense2 ’ in the interpretation of a given verb form is sensitive to whether this form is associated with the property ‘negative’” (2009: 221). Tone is problematic for all these descriptions and approaches because as mentioned earlier, in Asante Twi there is consistent tonal marking of the perfect aspect irrespective of negation (there is a high tone on the root in both the perfect and negative perfect). Some additional examples are given in (4), showing the consistent high tone marking of the perfect/negative perfect. The high tone behaves as a prefix, associating to the leftmost mora of the verb root, as can be seen in (4a–c) with verbs whose initial underlying tone is low as indicated by their habitual forms, which have no morphological tonal marking. (4d) shows verbs with an underlying root-initial high tones (see also example (1) showing forms of the high-toned root tɔ́ ); here we can see that the past affirmative form contributes a low tone prefix, which overwrites the lexical high tone of the root, while negative past (like the habitual) assigns no morphological tone to the root (see Paster 2011 for more details of the tone system). (4) Past/perfect and negative forms showing tonal marking (Paster 2011: 80–81, 95–96, 99, 102–103, 105–106) a. yàw kàé-è ‘Yaw remembered…’ yàw à-ŋˋ-kàé ‘Yaw didn’t remember…’ yàw à-káé ‘Yaw has remembered…’ yàw ŋˋ-káé-è ‘Yaw has not remembered…’ cf. yàw kàé ‘Yaw remembers… (hab.)’ b. yàw bìsá-à ‘Yaw asked…’ yàw è-bı´sá ‘Yaw has asked…’ yàw è-m ˋ -mìsá ‘Yaw didn’t ask…’ yàw m ˋ -mı´sá-à ‘Yaw has not asked…’ cf. yàw bìsá ‘Yaw asks… (hab.)’ c. yàw dàné-è ‘Yaw turned…’ yàw à-dáné ‘Yaw has turned…’ yàw à-ǹ-dàné ‘Yaw didn’t turn…’ yàw ǹ-dáné-è ‘Yaw has not turned…’ cf. yàw dàné ‘Yaw turns… (hab.)’ d. yàw nòm-m ˋ ‘Yaw drank…’ yàw à-nôm ‘Yaw has drunk…’ yàw à-ǹ-nôm ‘Yaw didn’t drink…’ yàw ǹ-nôm-m ˋ ‘Yaw has not drunk…’ cf. yàw nôm ‘Yaw drinks… (hab.)’ These tonal facts appear to have been missed in previous analyses; in some cases tone was deliberately excluded from transcriptions, while in other cases it is possible that tone was inadvertently omitted from the analysis or that the tone differed from the variety described here (and in Paster 2011) due to individual or dialect differences. A similar problem may preclude a straightforward ‘reversal’ approach to Awutu since, as we saw above, in Awutu the tone pattern of the negative perfect does not appear to match that of the affirmative past.

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4.2.2 Phonological approach Ofori (2006a, b) takes a novel approach to the Akan problem in proposing a constraint-based phonological solution. In his account, the past and perfect are both marked by ‘mobile affixes,’ meaning affixes that are unspecified as being prefixes or suffixes. Both the past and perfect affixes are represented phonologically as an empty mora (a unit of syllable weight with no associated segmental features, represented as μ), and the constraints described in Table 4.1 determine the position and quality that the mora will realize in the surface form. With the proper ranking, these constraints yield a pattern where in the affirmative, the perfect marker surfaces as a prefix, and this prefix (underlyingly an empty mora) surfaces as an [a] by default as in à-tɔ́ . Also in the affirmative, the past surfaces as a suffix, and since the affix is an empty mora not in verb-initial position, it takes on the features of the root-final segment that precedes it, as in tɔ́ -ɔ́ . In the negative, the perfect surfaces as a suffix in order to be root-adjacent, since the negative prefix must immediately precede the root; since the perfect marker does not end up in verb-initial position in the negative, the empty mora gets its quality from the preceding vowel, hence ǹ-tɔ́ -ɔˋ. And finally in the negative past, the past marker is displaced from its normal suffixal position and becomes a prefix to avoid homophony with the negative perfect form; since the past prefix surfaces in verb-initial position, it is realized as [a], hence à-ǹ-tɔ́ . Ofori’s analysis represents a significant step forward in our understanding of Akan morphology, particularly in its analysis of the past suffix as an empty mora. However, there are some problems with the analysis. The most important of these is that [a] cannot be analyzed as the default realization of a verb-initial empty mora. The reason for this is that, as shown in (5), the progressive is marked by a prefix that takes on the features of whatever segment precedes it, just like the past tense suffix does. (5)

mIˋ ˋI-tɔ́ ‘I am buying…’ ɔˋ ɔˋ-nôm ˋInsyù ‘he is drinking…’ ɔ́mó ò-bwá yàà ‘they are helping…’ yàw ẁ-bìsá àsɛˋm ‘Yaw is asking…’

Hence, the progressive prefix—like the past suffix—is analyzable as an empty mora (Paster 2011) and, rather than surfacing as a default verb-initial vowel [a], an empty Table 4.1 Constraints yielding morphological reversal in Ofori (2006a, 2006b) Align Negative immediately to the left of the root (undominated) No homophony between different forms of a verb (undominated) Align Perfect immediately to some edge of the root (undominated) Align Perfect to the left of the root Align Past to the right of the root The default realization of a verb-initial vowel is [a]

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mora prefix behaves just like an empty mora suffix in assimilating to the preceding segment. There are dialects for which Ofori’s claim might be able to be maintained; in Akuapem Twi, for example, the progressive prefix is re- rather than an empty mora (Paster 2011: 98; note that the progressive is written in Akan orthography as despite not surfacing as such in all dialects), so this dialect may not yield any data that are incompatible with [a] as the default verb-initial vowel. However, for dialects including Asante Twi where the progressive is not re- but an empty mora, Ofori’s analysis will not work without some adjustment to accommodate the progressive. Another problem for Ofori’s analysis is that once tone is considered, we see that there is no risk of homophony between the negative past and negative perfect forms because of the tonal marking described above. The past affirmative assigns a low tone to the root-initial mora (tɔˋ-ɔˋ ), so adding a negative prefix to the past form would yield ∗ ǹ-tɔˋ-ɔˋ. This would not be homophonous with the negative perfect, which (like the perfect affirmative) assigns a high tone to the root-initial mora (ǹ-tɔ́-ɔˋ ). Since ∗ ǹ-tɔˋ-ɔˋ is not homophonous with ǹ-tɔ́-ɔˋ, the past suffix does not actually need to move into a prefixal position in the negative in order to avoid homophony with the negative perfect. There is no potential homophony to trigger movement of the suffix into prefix position, contrary to Ofori’s analysis. A final problem is that even if we could remedy these problems for the analysis of Asante Twi, Ofori’s analysis will not extend to Cherepon or Awutu because in those languages the past and perfect markers are too phonologically different to be analyzed as ‘mobile’ variants of a single underlying affix (especially Cherepon ne- vs. Ø). Also, recall that in Ofori’s analysis of Akan, it is crucial that the perfect prefix is always required to be adjacent to the root, and the negative marker is required to be adjacent to the left edge of the root, so the presence of the negative marker displaces the perfect prefix into suffix position so that it can remain root-adjacent. In Cherepon and Awutu, such an analysis is not possible because in those languages the negative does not have to be root-adjacent, so there is no impetus for displacement (or deletion) of the perfect prefix in the negative.

4.2.3 Diachronic approach Osam (1994) offers a diachronic perspective on the problem of morphological reversal in Akan, proposing that an old perfect suffix developed into a past suffix (though Osam argues that the Akan ‘past’ form is better analyzed as completive), and then a new perfect prefix was innovated. At this stage the perfect and completive (past) had identical negative forms, and then “for some reason

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currently unclear … the completive developed a new negative form while the perfect maintained the older negative form” (1994: 94). Part of Osam’s argument includes claims based on the generalization that perfect markers tend to evolve into past markers, and that negative forms are more conservative than affirmative forms (Givón 1979). I view Osam’s general approach as promising and will pursue a similar analysis with some modifications and more detailed articulation of the mechanism for the historical development of the pattern.

4.3 Past, perfect, and negative in Tano In this section I present data from some Tano languages for which descriptions of the verbal morphology are available, which will be the basis for the analysis of the Akan pattern. Table 4.2 summarizes the forms of the past, perfect, negative past, negative perfect, and general negative markers that will be presented for each language. The actual linguistic examples to follow are important to consider because Table 4.2 necessarily simplifies some complications, and it does not include tone patterns (even though these are relevant in some languages) since many of the Table 4.2 Past, perfect, and negative markers in Tano languages∗ Classification

Language

Hill Guang

South

Coastal

North

Akan Central Tano

North Bia South

West Tano

Cherepon Lɛtɛ Gua Awutu Chumburung Foodo Nawuri Asante Twi Fante Brong Anyi Baoule Nzema Abure

Past

Perfect

Neg. past

Neg. perf.

Neg.

Ø Ø Ø Ø

nɛyɛɛen-

bɛnɛmenbenmi-n-

bɛbɛbeenmi-

bɛbɛbemimãmemɛɛnnnn-man nn-

aaØ a-μ a-μ/-i a-μ/-yɛ a-li a-li Ø -lɪ -lV/-kV

mɪnmanmana-na-na-n-

n- -μ n- -μ/i a-n- -yɛ a-na- -man

an-

an-

tɛ- -lɪ

Source: Classifications from Stewart (1989: 225). Though some references treat tense/aspect and negation markers as separate words, I have indicated all such morphemes with a hyphen in this table in order to indicate the side of the verb on which they occur. I have removed some hyphens where evidence for separate morphemes is lacking; e.g. Schneider (2017) analyzes the Gua negative past as being marked by be-n- but does not offer a gloss for the n- portion, so I have listed this as ben-. Note also that ‘Ø’ in this table indicates a form with no segmental tense/aspect marker (though there may be tonal marking). Finally, where a morpheme is centered between two columns, this indicates that there is only one form in the past/perfect domain and its function does not fit neatly into either category but may span both (this applies to forms described as perfective or completive in North Guang and ‘l’accompli’ in Abure). ∗

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sources that I consulted do not mark tone consistently in the examples and/or do not provide enough data or analysis to make clear the underlying tones of the morphemes. In Sections 4.3.1–4.3.5 below, I give examples from languages belonging to each of the subgroups of Tano for which I was able to access data.

4.3.1 South Guang We begin with the South Guang languages, which include Cherepon (Bramson 1981). Recall that Cherepon exhibits an apparent reversal comparable to the Akan pattern, as shown in (6) (reproduced from (2)). (6)

Past, perfect, and their negatives in Cherepon (Bramson 1981: 17) à dʑi ‘he ate’ à né-dʑi ‘he has eaten’ à bé-né-dʑi ‘he didn’t eat’ à bé-dʑi ‘he hasn’t eaten’

The data in (7) confirm that the prefix bé- is a general negative marker in Cherepon outside the context of the past and perfect ((7a) presents affirmative forms of some other tense/aspect/mood categories, and (7b) shows their negative counterparts). (7)

Other negatives in Cherepon (Bramson 1981: 17, 18) a. á dʑı´ ‘he eats’ b. á-bé-dʑì ‘he does not eat’ à né-dʑi ‘he is eating’ à bé-né-dʑì ‘he is not eating’ nɛˋ mı´ dʑì ‘let me eat’ bέ nέ mı´ dʑi ‘do not let me eat’

Example (8) presents some forms from Lɛtɛ (Akrofi-Ansah 2009), which might be described as having a partial reversal pattern. The negative perfect in (8d) has a negative prefix bέ- but no apparent aspect marker, so it resembles the affirmative past form in (8a). However, the negative past form (8c) does not resemble a negative of the perfect or any compositional negative form at all. It has a prefix méwhich may be the negative marker in a slightly different form, followed by a prefix n- which could be marking past tense. Compare this with the perfect affirmative (8b), which is marked by a prefix yéè- (analyzed by Akrofi-Ansah as /yέɛˋ-/ (2009: 108)). There does not appear to be any negative form in the language composed by adding a negative marker to the form in (8b). (8)

Past, perfect, and their negatives in Lɛtɛ (Akrofi-Ansah 2009: 101, 109, 118, 119) a. à gyì ‘he ate…’ b. ɛnɪ yéè-gyì ‘we have eaten…’ c. a mé-ǹ-gyì… ‘he did not eat…’ d. Kofi bέ-wusu ‘Kofi has not woken up…’

The examples in (9) confirm that bέ- (with surface variants conditioned by vowel harmony and the tonal context) is the regular negative marker in the language.

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Other negatives in Lɛtɛ (Akrofi-Ansah 2009: 100, 107, 114, 117, 119, 120) a. gyì ‘eat!’ b. bé-gyì ‘do not eat!’ Kofi bè-gyı´ ‘Kofi will eat…’ a bɛ̂-sʊˋrɛˋ ‘he will not carry…’ á gyì ‘he eats…’ ɛnɪ bέ-sIˋrIˋ ‘we do not run’

As discussed earlier, Awutu (Frajzingier 1968; see also Obeng 2008) exhibits an apparent reversal comparable to the Akan pattern; the data in (10) replicate (3). (10)

Past, perfect, and their negatives in Awutu (Frajzingier 1968: 103–104) ó kú bú ‘you dug a well’ ó mı´-n-! kú-bú ‘you did not dig a well’ ó n-! nú ǹcúé ‘you have drunk the water’ ò mı´-! nú ǹcúé ǹnɛˋ ‘you haven’t drunk the water’

The data in (11) confirm that the prefix mı´- is a regular negative marker in the language. (11)

Other negatives in Awutu (Frajzingier 1968: 106, 108, 109) a. mɔ́-sέέ-! kú bú ‘he is digging a well’ sùmá ‘send it!’ b. mɔ́-mı´-! sέέ-! kú bú ‘he is not digging a well’ ó-mı´-! súmà ‘do not send it!’

A final language to consider from the South Guang group is Gua (Schneider 2017). In the examples below, past has no segmental marking³ (12a), perfect is marked by éè-⁴ (12b), negative past is marked by bé-ǹ- (12c), and negative perfect is marked by béè-ǹ- (12d). (12)

Past, perfect, and their negatives in Gua (Schneider 2017: 75–77) a. kòfı´ hú yˆaw Í ɲÍ dIˋ b. kòfı´ éè-hú yˆaw ‘Kofi saw Yaw yesterday’ ‘Kofi had seen Yaw’⁵ c. kòfı´ bé-ǹ-hú yˆaw Í ɲÍ dIˋ d. kòfı´ béè-ǹ-hú yˆaw ‘Kofi did not see Yaw yesterday’ ‘Kofi had not seen Yaw’

The data in (13) show that the prefix bé- is a general negative marker in the language.

³ Obiri (2013: 123) indicates that past is marked by a high tone on the root. ⁴ Obiri (2013: 92) cites a form mí-è-bíè ‘I have bathed’ with è- glossed as the perfective prefix and claims elsewhere (p. 126) that the perfective marker is è-. The form in (12b) may include a subject prefix that coalesces with the perfective prefix, yielding a long vowel. ⁵ (12b) is the only affirmative perfect form provided. The English translation suggests a past perfect form, but past does not appear in the morpheme-by-morpheme gloss (the same comment applies to the negative perfect form in (12d)).

60 (13)

MARY PASTER Other negatives in Gua (Schneider 2017: 75, 78) kòfı´ hù yˆaw ‘Kofi sees Yaw (hab.)’ kòfı´ bé-hù yˆaw ‘Kofi does not see Yaw (hab.)’ bwɛˋ ésı´mì ‘Work!’ bé-bwɛˋ ésı´mì ‘Don’t work!’

4.3.2 North Guang We move now to the North Guang languages. The first is Chumburung (Snider 1990). This language does not distinguish past from perfect—there is only perfective and imperfective. The perfective is marked by the prefix á- (14a), while the negative perfective is marked by the prefix mI͂ ̀ m- (14b). (14)

Perfective and its negative in Chumburung (Snider 1990: 28) a. cˇɔˋsÌ̵ ŋ á-bá! ‘(a) fly came’ b. cˇɔˋsÌ̵ ŋ mI͂́ m-bá! ‘(a) fly didn’t come’

The imperfective is marked by the prefix Í - (15a), while negative imperfective is marked by the prefix ma͂́- (15b). (15)

Other negatives in Chumburung (Snider 1990: 28) a. cˇɔˋsÌ̵ ŋ Í -bá! ‘(a) fly comes’ b. cˇɔˋsÌ̵ ŋ má͂ -bá! ‘(a) fly doesn’t come’

Thus, in Chumburung the negative forms of the perfective and imperfective are not built compositionally on the affirmative forms, but there is not a reversal. In Foodo (Plunkett 2009), the perfective is marked with the prefix á- (16a) and its negative has the prefix màŋˋ- (16b). As in Chumburung, there is no past tense in Foodo. (16)

Perfective and its negative in Foodo (Plunkett 2009: 130) a. fı´´ı à-wù ‘you pl. saw’ b. fı´´ı màŋˋ-wù ‘you pl. did not see’

In (17b) we see that màŋˋ- is not the regular negative prefix in Foodo, but that in fact there is no uniform negative prefix, as the negative future (like the negative perfective) is not morphologically compositional. The imperfective negative form (17b) does contain a prefix mè- that appears to mark only negation. I will treat mèas the general negative marker since it appears to combine transparently with the affirmative imperfective form to produce the negative imperfective. (17)

Other negatives in Foodo (Plunkett 2009: 130–131) a. fı´´ı ! néé-wù ‘you pl. are seeing’ b. fı´´ı mè-néé-wù ‘you pl. are not seeing’ c. fı´´ı ´ı-wù ‘you pl. will see’ ! d. fı´´ı máá-wù ‘you pl. will not see’

Nawuri, like Chumburung and Foodo, lacks a past tense form. The completive and its negative are shown in (18). The affirmative form of the completive (18a)

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has no segmental morpheme, while the negative completive (18b) is marked by maŋ. (18)

Completive and its negative in Nawuri (Casali 1995: 69, 74) a. ba kpe ‘they went’ b. ba maŋ wu ‘they didn’t see…’

The incompletive is marked by ɪ- (19a) while the incompletive negative is marked by mɛɛ (19b). (19)

Other negatives in Nawuri (Casali 1995: 68, 75) a. kɪtɪ ɪ-dʒa mu ‘the lizard is chasing him’ b. dʒabʊwa mɛɛ tʃɪna ‘Dzabuwa doesn’t stay (sit)…’

4.3.3 Bia Turning now to the Bia subgroup, (20) shows past, perfect, and negative forms in Anyi (Pyne 1972). Pyne states that the past is marked by the suffix -li, although the suffix takes a different form in (20a). Pyne also describes the perfect prefix as a-; a perfect form is given in (20b) that appears to include this prefix although morpheme boundaries were not marked in the example. And finally in (20c) shows a form that doubles as a negative past and negative perfect, since the two are not distinguished in this language. Both are marked by what Pyne parses as a prefix afollowed by a prefix n-. (20)

Past, perfect, and their negatives in Anyi (Pyne 1972: 50, 51, 55) a. m ˋ wù͂ nı͂̀ ‘I saw it’ b. jàwá ‘he has come’ c. kòfı´ à͂ -ǹ-vˆa ‘Kofi didn’t take it/hasn’t taken it’

In (21) we see that except in the imperative, where negative is marked with nέ, the prefix n- (which undergoes nasal place assimilation) is the negative marker. This suggests that the form in (20c) translated as both negative past and negative perfect is, morphologically, a negative perfect form. (21)

Other negatives in Anyi (Pyne 1972: 50, 51, 54, 55; note that oo has been adapted to ɔ) kòfı´ kɔ́ ‘Kofi goes’ kòfı´ ŋ́-gɔ́ ‘Kofi doesn’t go’ ́ ́ òó-nʊ͂ ‘he is drinking…’ òó-n-nʊ͂ ‘he is not drinking…’ dı´ ‘eat!’ nέ dı´ ‘don’t eat!’ έbá kɔˋ-tı´ ‘Eba will hear it’ kòfı´ ŋˋ-gɔ́-tì ‘Kofi will not hear it’

Example (22) presents data from Baoule. The two sources that I consulted (Carteron 1972; Creissels and Kouadio 1977) differ in their analyses of the negative forms. Both sources analyze the past tense as having the suffix -li (which surfaces as -nī in (22a)). They also analyze the perfect prefix as a-, as in (22b).

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Creissels and Kouadio have the negative past marked by a- (which looks like the perfect marker) plus -mán. They state that there is no negative perfect form distinct from the negative past, so the form in (22c) can double as a negative perfect. However, they also provide the form in (22d) whose English translation looks like a negative perfect form but with the added meaning ‘yet.’ (22) Past, perfect, and their negatives in Baoule (Creissels and Kouadio 1977: 237, 388, 399) a. ɔ¯-wūn-nī ‘he saw…’ b. ɔ-à wū ‘he has (just) died’ c. ɔ-à wūn-mán ‘he didn’t see…’ d. ɔˋ niān bà-mán ‘he hasn’t come yet’ Carteron, on the other hand, translates a form with the prefix a- as a negative perfect form (m-à fı´té mán ‘I have not left’) and gives a different form as the negative past that has no tense/aspect marker on the verb but has the negative marker mán following the verb (ò sólı´ mán ‘it did not illuminate’) (1972: 69). Carteron states that this negative past form is rarely used in most areas. The additional examples in (23) suggest that mán is a general negative marker in the language, also used in the present/future. (23)

Other negatives in Baoule (Carteron 1972: 65, 69) ò fá ‘he takes’ ó tı´ mán ‘he does not/will not understand’ ó fá ‘he will take’

I will treat a- -man as the negative of the past and perfect despite the complications presented here and in (22d). In Nzema (Chinebuah 1970; Dolphyne and Dakubu 1988: 75; Obeng and Yankey 2006), the past is marked by a suffix -lɪ (24a), while the perfect has no segmental marking (24b). In (24c) we see that the negative past has a nasal prefix along with a slightly different form of the 1sg prefix from the forms in (24b, d). Obeng and Yankey (2006: 48) analyze this negative past form as containing a past tense completive marker /a-/ followed by the negative prefix, /N-/. The form mẽ:-n-su˜ã in (24c), then, would be analyzed as /mə̃-a-N-su˜ã/. However, since the ‘past tense completive’ prefix does not appear to occur in an affirmative form, I will posit /an-/ as a negative past marker. (24d) shows the negative perfect, which has a prefix tɛ- and a suffix -lɪ/-li that looks like the past suffix, so this may constitute another example of a partial ‘reversal.’ (24) Past, perfect, and their negatives in Nzema (Chinebuah 1970: 78, 79; Dolphyne and Dakubu 1988: 75) a. ɔ-zva-lɪ ‘he carried’ b. yɪ-zva ‘he has carried’ mə̃-su˜ã ‘I have torn’ m(ə̃)-fiti ‘I have made a hole’ c. mẽ:-n-su˜ã ‘I did not tear’ d. ɔ-tɛ-sva-lɪ ‘he hasn’t carried’ mẽ:-m-fiti ‘I did not make a hole’ mə̃-tɛ-ka-li ‘I have not bitten’

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Chinebuah (1970) provides the additional negative example in (25b), which contains the prefix ŋẽ-. This could be a variant of the n-/m- prefix in (24d), but it is not clear what accounts for the different surface form. Dolphyne and Dakubu state (1988: 75) that all negatives are marked by n- except for the perfect, which implies that the prefix in (25b) is a form of the same negative marker. (25)

Other negatives in Nzema (Chinebuah 1970: 77) a. mə̃-ba:-hã ‘I shall say’ b. mə̃-ŋẽ-dia ‘I shall not walk’

4.3.4 Akan Returning now to the Akan languages that are the primary subject of this study, (26) repeats the Asante Twi data from (1) showing the apparent reversal in the negative forms. (26)

Past, perfect, and their negatives in Asante Twi (Paster 2011: 95, 98, 102, 105) yàw tɔˋ-ɔˋ ‘Yaw bought…’ yàw à-tɔ́ ‘Yaw has bought…’ yàw à-ǹ-tɔ́ ‘Yaw didn’t buy…’ yàw ǹ-tɔ́-ɔˋ ‘Yaw hasn’t bought…’

Other negative forms in Twi (27) show that the n- prefix is the general negative marker in the language. (27) Other negatives in Asante Twi (Paster 2011: 80, 83, 88, 91, 96, 107) mó tɔ́ ‘you pl. buy (hab.)…’ mIˋ ǹ-tɔ́ ‘I don’t buy (hab.)…’ wó bέ-tɔ́ ‘you will buy…’ yέ ń-! tɔ́ ‘we will not buy/are not buying…’ mIˋ ˋI-tɔ́ ‘I am buying…’ Note that the negative future and negative progressive have the same form. As shown in (28), the Fante variety of Akan (Schachter and Fromkin 1968; Dolphyne 1996) exhibits the same pattern as in Twi, though the tones may differ (tone is not marked on these examples in the source). (28)

Past, perfect, and their negatives in Fante (Schachter and Fromkin 1968: 127) kofi yi-i ‘Kofi removed it’ kofi e-yi ‘Kofi has removed it’ kofi e-n-yi ‘Kofi didn’t remove it’ kofi n-yi-i ‘Kofi has not removed it’

Schachter and Fromkin (1968: 126–128) analyze the past tense marker as ˋI-, but with an additional rule lengthening the final vowel of the verb stem in the past (always in tandem with deletion of ˋI-), which suggests that Fante may be better analyzed as marking past with a floating mora suffix as in Twi. Both forms of the past tense ending are included in the table of tense/aspect/negation marking in §4. (29) gives some additional negative forms in Fante, showing that this variety also

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has a general negative prefix n-. The tones differ from the Twi examples, but the morphology is otherwise identical to the Twi forms. (29)

Other negatives in Fante (Schachter and Fromkin 1968: 123) ɔˋ-hyɛˋ ‘he is wearing (stative)’ ɔ́-ń-hyέ ‘he isn’t wearing’ ɔ́-hyɛˋ ‘he puts on (hab.)’ ɔˋ-ǹ-hyέ ‘he doesn’t put on (hab.)’

Finally, in the Abron variety (also known as Brong; Timyan-Ravenhill 1982), what I will term the perfect (Timyan-Ravenhill’s ‘accompli 1’) is marked by a- (analyzed as /à-/), the past (‘accompli 2’) is marked by either a low-toned floating mora suffix or -yɛˋ, negative past is marked by à- and ǹ-, and negative perfect is marked by high-toned á-, ǹ-, and -yɛˋ. Examples are shown in (30). (30)

Past, perfect, and their negatives in Brong (Timyan-Ravenhill 1982: 123–124)⁶ m ˋ -kɔ́-ɔˋ ~ m ˋ -kɔ́-yɛˋ ‘I went’ mà͂ -á͂ -kɔˋ ‘I have gone’ mà͂ -à͂ -ǹ-gɔ́ ‘I did not go’ mà͂ -á͂ -ǹ-gɔ́-yɛˋ ‘I have not gone (yet)’

The affirmative-negative pairs in (31) suggest that the general negative marker is ǹ-. (31)

Other negatives in Brong (Timyan-Ravenhill 1982: 123–124) mı͂̀ -ı͂́ -kɔˋ ‘I am going’ mı͂́ -ǹ-gɔ¯ ‘I am not going’ kɔ́ ‘go!’ má͂ -ǹ-gɔ́ ‘don’t go!’

4.3.5 West Tano Finally, we consider data from West Tano. Descriptions of the verbal morphology of West Tano languages are few, but Burmeister 1982 provides the following data from Abouré (also known as Abure). (32)

Completive and its negative in Abure (Burmeister 1982: 78–79) ǹ-cı͂̀ ı͂̀ -lı͂̀ ‘I slept’ m-à-n-cı͂́ ı̃ ‘I did not sleep’

Negative forms of other tense/aspect/mood categories are not cited, but Burmeister states that the negative morpheme is a nasal prefix that assimilates in place to the stem-initial consonant (1982: 79).

⁶ Glosses are translated from French and interpreted according to the description on p. 122: ‘l’accompli 1 met l’accent sur le résultat de l’action (il est venu: et il est toujours présent) tandis que l’accompli 2 exprime le fait que l’action est complète (il est venu: et il est peut-être reparti).’ Both of the accompli 1 and accompli 2 forms in (30) are glossed as ‘je suis allé’ but I have translated them into English as past and perfect forms, respectively.

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4.4 Analysis Having considered data from a number of Tano languages, we can proceed to a reconstruction of past, perfect, and their negatives as a means to understand the Akan ‘reversal.’ The reconstructed changes are summarized in Table 4.3 (focusing specifically on the Asante Twi variety). I propose that Proto-Tano had a single form in the general domain of past/perfect/perfective, marked by ∗ -li (which later reduced to -i and then to the mora suffix in Akan), and that its negative form was marked by ∗ man-, while the general negative prefix was ∗ me-. In Central Tano the general negative ∗ mereduced to ∗ m- (now analyzed as n- or a placeless nasal since it assimilates to the stem-initial consonant), and ∗ man- reduced to an-. A morphological reanalysis of an- on the basis of the negative n- led to the innovation of the perfect a- in Central Tano (later apparently lost in Nzema; it is possible that a floating tone remains as a marker of perfect, but I am not able to make this determination since tone was not marked in the Nzema source). The perfect marker may have developed via a similar mechanism in some South Guang languages, evidenced by comparable patterns in Cherepon and Awutu where the negative past appears to be composed of the perfect plus the negative but with the two prefixes occurring in the opposite order from Central Tano. This prefix ordering difference, the lack of comparable patterns in other Guang languages, and the uniformity of the perfect prefix in Central Tano (and its distance from the South Guang perfect prefixes) suggest that the innovation of the perfect occurred separately in Central Tano vs. South Guang.⁷ At this stage in Central Tano the past and perfect had the same negative form, with an- (as is still the case in Anyi). This form persisted as a negative past marker in Akan and Nzema and as a negative perfective marker in Brong. In some Akan languages, an additional negative perfect form was generated. In Brong, it appears

Table 4.3 Morphological changes from Proto-Tano to Asante Twi Past

Perfective

Proto-Tano

-li

ProtoCentral Tano

-li

Proto-Akan Asante Twi

-li > -i/-μ -μ

Perfect

a(innovated) aa-

Neg. past

Neg. perfective

Neg. perfect

General neg.

man-

me-

man- > an-

me- > m-> n

an-

n-

a-n-

n- -μ (innovated)

n-

⁷ Another possibility is that some South Guang languages innovated perfect forms under influence from neighboring Central Tano languages such as Akan.

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that the negative past form with an- had the (affirmative) past suffix added to produce the new negative perfect form. In Twi, the negative perfect form combines the general negative prefix, the H tone marker of the perfect on the root, and what looks like the past tense suffix. The main outstanding puzzle for our purposes is why the old past/perfect/perfective form is the one that remained linked to the anform of the negative despite the superficial similarity of that negative form to the new perfect form, while the innovated negative perfect form added the past suffix in addition to the negative and perfect morphology.⁸ Part of the answer may lie in the proper identification of what we have termed the ‘past tense’ in Akan and elsewhere in Tano. Osam (1994: 80–83) argues that the Akan past form is actually an aspect category (which he terms ‘completive’) rather than a tense, based on the fact that it is not combinable with aspect (e.g. progressive) and is incompatible with imperfective events. Further support for the idea that Akan and indeed Proto-Tano may gave lacked a past tense form is that Kwa languages in general are known for not having past tense forms (or much in the way of tense marking at all; see, e.g. Ameka and Dakubu 2008). If the past form is to be analyzed as an aspect, I suggest perfective rather than completive, in line with the use of the term ‘perfective’ in the description of North Guang languages and reflecting the fact that perfect is also semantically completive, so perfective is more clearly distinguishable from perfect in languages that have innovated a perfect marker. However, the idea of past as an aspect (irrespective of the specific term) is problematic for the analysis of the negative perfect in some Akan varieties including Twi and possibly Brong. In Twi, as we have seen, the negative perfect appears to combine the segmental morphology of a negative past with the tone marking of the perfect. If perfect and past are both aspects, they should not be combinable. A similar situation appears to hold in Brong, where the negative perfect form seems to contain both the perfect prefix and the past suffix. I suggest that the past suffix in the modern languages is in fact a past tense marker, but that it evolved from a perfective suffix. The development of a perfective marker into a past tense marker has occurred in many languages (Bybee et al. 1994) and can therefore be considered a common and natural change. The failure of past to combine with aspect marking (outside of the negative perfect) could be attributed to its previous status as an aspect marker (so forms combining it with other aspects were not generated historically). If the perfective (aspect) shifted to a past tense marker when the perfect prefix was innovated (perhaps due to semantic crowding between perfect and perfective), this would have enabled the past suffix to combine with the an- negative form, even if the a- was already parsed out from a-n- as a perfect prefix. The question is why such a form was innovated. One might invoke the desirability ⁸ Osam’s analysis faces a similar challenge although he assumes that the negative perfect form with the past suffix was the original negative form while the form with a- was innovated.

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of a symmetric system of tense/aspect and negation marking, but the language does tolerate neutralization of future and progressive in the negative (e.g. the form ɔ́ ń-! nôm can mean ‘he will not drink’ or ‘he is not drinking’). Another possibility is that the negative of the perfect includes, or previously included, past tense meaning. The perfect itself does not require a past tense interpretation (though that is the default reading), as evidenced by perfect forms with a future interpretation (but no future morphology on the verb) such as ˋɔ bέ! bá nɔˋ ná m à-wɔ́ fùfù ‘By the time he comes, I will have pounded fufu’ (Paster 2011: 109). Negative perfect forms like mˋI ǹ-wɔ́ -ɔˋ fùfù ‘I have not pounded fufu’ have a default past interpretation but are also compatible with future readings in the same context (‘By the time he comes, I will not have pounded fufu’) (Sampson Korsah, p.c.), suggesting that past tense meaning is not encoded in the form despite the appearance of the past tense suffix. Perhaps at the time when the negative perfect form was innovated, the past suffix did contribute a tense feature to the verb which was later eroded.

4.4 Conclusion In summary, in this chapter I have shown that an analysis of the apparent reversal pattern in Akan cannot be directly analyzed synchronically as a reversal due to the consistent tone marking of the perfect in the affirmative and negative. Further evidence against such a synchronic analysis is the fact that other Akan and Tano languages have similar patterns that deviate further from true reversal and cannot be analyzed synchronically as such. I presented comparative data from other Tano languages in the service of a reconstruction of the past, perfect, and their negatives in Proto-Tano and their development into the system found in modern Akan languages. The analysis that I proposed allows us to understand why the past and perfect appear to reverse in the negative and why the negative past contains a perfect prefix while accommodating the fact that the forms do not reverse entirely (as was incorrectly claimed in previous studies).

5 Increasing morphological mismatch via category loss The Spanish Future Subjunctive Matthew L. Juge

5.1 Introduction Morphological mismatch, as defined by Juge (2010), is the use of distinctions in one category to encode distinctions typically marked by another category. For example, in Spanish temporal clauses with non-past time reference, Present Subjunctive forms contrast with Present Indicative forms, encoding the aspectual distinction made with Preterit (perfective) and Imperfect Indicative (imperfective) forms in clauses with past time reference. The origins of morphological mismatch have not been identified. In this chapter I argue that the nearly complete loss of the Spanish Future Subjunctive created an opportunity for the development of morphological mismatch and that the particular way in which Spanish reacted to that loss created morphological mismatch. In other words, I claim that category loss and its aftermath is one source of morphological mismatch. In support of this claim, I first discuss the nature of morphological mismatch and compare morphological distinctions found in verbs in Spanish and other languages, including issues of mood, tense, and aspect. I then apply this discussion to the use of the subjunctive in subordinate clauses. A discussion of the history of the Future Subjunctive in Ibero-Romance leads to consideration of aspect and mood in conditional and temporal sentences. The penultimate section addresses the relationship between category loss and morphological mismatch, and the conclusion summarizes the argument that these developments highlight the interaction of different parts of the grammar that do not always receive adequate attention, even in thorough reference works.

5.2 Morphological mismatch The importance of morphological mismatch lies in the intricate relationships between morphological categories and such semantic categories as aspect and Matthew L. Juge, Increasing morphological mismatch via category loss. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Matthew L. Juge (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0005

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definiteness. Morphological mismatch deserves as much attention as irregularities like suppletion and deponency. It is likely that many patterns like those discussed here have gone unanalyzed because they do not fit into the traditional paradigmatic structures typically used in linguistic analysis. The term ‘mismatch’ encompasses a wide variety of relationships. For example, while Spencer (2007) uses it to refer to inflectional patterns similar to heteroclisis, it appears especially frequently in discussions of deponency, typically seen as the use of passive (or middle) morphology to express active alignment. Baerman et al. 2007 features various perspectives on deponency and mismatch, most notably Good’s treatment of diachronic factors (Good 2007) and Hippisley’s application of Network Morphology to mismatches, including deponency (Hippisley 2007). Perhaps the best-known cases of deponency come from Greek and Latin, where Equum sequor ‘I follow the horse’ displays active alignment; the subject is the follower and the horse is the thing followed, despite the -r, which is typically associated with the passive. This mismatch involves different values (active/passive) of the same category (voice). The most prototypical cases of morphological mismatch show a cross-assignment of morphological resources in terms of a given language’s own system; in Spanish, for example, mood marking encodes distinctions typically expressed by aspectual morphology (Section 5.2.1). Less typical are those with apparent mismatches when compared to patterns found in other languages, as in the marking of definiteness in Russian and Finnish (Section 5.2.3).

5.2.1 Morphological mismatch in Spanish temporal clauses It is important to establish that the Spanish data exhibit morphological mismatch rather than some other phenomenon, such as the inevitable consequence of what verbal categories are available in the language. To this end, I briefly address the encoding of similar distinctions in a number of other Indo-European languages. As illustrated in (1a) and (1b), Spanish encodes imperfective and perfective aspect with dedicated morphology only in the past tense. Some languages also encode such aspectual distinctions in other tenses. For example, Greek distinguishes imperfective and perfective in both the past and the future (Section 5.2.2.1). These verb systems vary not only in what they encode but also in what distinctions they neutralize in one category or another. For example, the Spanish Subjunctive neutralizes the temporal distinction in non-past forms. That is, the Present Indicative and the Future Indicative both correspond to what is traditionally called the Present Subjunctive. Similarly, the Imperfect Subjunctive does not make the aspectual distinction between imperfective and perfective that is found in the past Indicative forms. Analyses of Spanish usually gloss over the lack of an imperfective/

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perfective distinction in the Future Indicative, probably because systems with such a distinction (like Greek) are less familiar to many scholars. The aspectual distinction in Spanish between the Imperfect Indicative (imperfective; 1a) and the Preterit (perfective; 1b) is well known. The imperfective often expresses habitual action, as in (1a). (1a)

Span Compr-aba¹ un CD cuando me pag-aba-n. buy-PAST.IMPFV.IND.1S pay-IMPFV.IND-3P ‘I bought a CD when they paid me (habitually).’

(1b) Span Compr-é una casa cuando me pag-aron el bonus. buy-PAST.PFV.IND.1S pay-PAST.PFV.IND.3P ‘I bought a house when they paid me the bonus.’ Discussions of this contrast, especially in pedagogical materials, usually omit the fact that Spanish morphology encodes this distinction only in the past tense. This restriction does not mean, however, that there is no marking of this aspectual distinction in other tenses. For example, (2a) shows a habitual use of the Present Indicative, while the Present Subjunctive form paguen (2b) has a future perfective value. Thus, it seems, we have an aspectual distinction marked with modal morphology and, therefore, an instance of morphological mismatch. (2a)

Span Compr-o un CD cuando me pag-a-n. buy-PRES.IND.1S pay-PRES.IND-3P ‘I buy a CD when they pay me.’

(2b)

Span Compr-ar-é una casa cuando me pagu-e-n el bonus. buy-FUT.IND-1S pay-PRES.SUBJ-3P ‘I will buy a house when they pay me the bonus.’

Understanding these relationships requires an overview of tense, aspect, and mood in Spanish. Figure 5.1 illustrates two important characteristics of the Spanish verb system: the lack of a Future Subjunctive (at least in common use) and the aforementioned restriction of the perfective/imperfective distinction to the past (note that the Conditional, with historically related but seemingly disparate functions of future-in-past and hypothetical, does not fit neatly in either mood or tense categories). Other languages deal with non-past aspectual distinctions in a variety of ways. One, of course, is with no marking at all. Another is with specialized aspectual encoding, as in Greek and Slavic, as illustrated briefly in the next two sections. ¹ The degree of fusion in these languages often makes neat morpheme divisions debatable or even impossible. The separations given here are intended to indicate the basic divisions rather than definitive analyses.

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mood indicative subjunctive conditional present Present Present future Future tense Conditional imperfective (Imperfect) past Imperfect perfective (Preterit)

Figure 5.1 Tense, aspect, and mood in non-imperative, non-anterior (non-perfect) forms in Spanish. Table 5.1 Third person plural subjunctive forms of Spanish tener ‘to have’

non-anterior anterior

Present

Past∗

Future

tengan hayan tenido

tuvieran/tuviesen hubieran/hubiesen tenido

tuvieren hubieren tenido

∗

For the purposes of this discussion, the past forms in -era- and -ese- can be considered interchangeable.

Table 5.1 shows the forms of tener ‘to have’ if we include the obsolescent Future Subjunctive and the anterior (perfect) categories. Examining the Spanish Future Subjunctive requires a brief discussion of the differences between the Indicative and Subjunctive. In the view of Palmer (2001), among others, the key distinction is that the Indicative asserts propositions, while the Subjunctive does not (Figure 5.2; Bybee and Terrell (1990) take essentially the same position). Indicative assertion

Subjunctive desires non-assertion fears presuppositions

Figure 5.2 The role of the Spanish Indicative and Subjunctive in asserting propositions.

This view unifies seemingly disparate uses of the Spanish Subjunctive, including those with el hecho (de) que ‘the fact that’ and denials of existence (3, 4). (3)

Según Gardner, el hecho que hay-a according to Gardner DEF.M fact COMP exist-PRES.SUBJ identific-ado ocho inteligencia-s no signific-a que identify-PCPL eight intelligence-P NEG mean-PRES.IND.3S COMP l-a list-a est-é cerr-ad-a. DEF-F list-F be-PRES.SUBJ.3S close-PCPL-F ‘According to Gardner, the fact that he has identified eight intelligences does not mean that the list is closed.’

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(4)

No hay nadie que entiend-a est-a NEG exist.PRES.IND no one REL understand-PRES.SUBJ.3S this-F situación. situation.F ‘There is no one who understands this situation.’

Although, as discussed by Baranowski (2008: 497) and shown in Table 5.1, there was an anterior (perfect) future subjunctive, it does not play a significant role in these developments. Solomon paints a bleak picture of the Modern Spanish Future Subjunctive: “the only thing that linguists seem to agree on is that it does not exist today in the language and that it came from a combination of the Latin future perfect indicative and the present perfect subjunctive” (2007: 419; Section 5.3 addresses the history of the category). She confirms its two primary uses: in fixed expressions, such as se-a como fuer-e ‘be-PRES.SUBJ.3S as be-FUT.SUBJ.3S’ ‘be that as it may,’ and in legal writing. The next section addresses the relationship between the future and aspect in greater detail.

5.2.2 Aspectual contrasts in the future This section aims to contextualize the lack of aspectual marking in the Future in Spanish by providing a brief discussion of two Indo-European languages with imperfective/perfective distinctions in the future, namely Greek and Russian (which reflects to varying degrees the patterns found elsewhere in Slavic).

5.2.2.1 Greek The Greek Future consists of the invariable element θa and either forms of the Present (5a) or the so-called Dependent (5b), a set of forms that share a stem with the Aorist (perfective past). (5a)

I jinéka θa γráf-i pol-á vivlı´-a ART.F woman FUT write.IMPFV-3S many-N.P book-N.P ‘The woman will write many books (habitually).’

(5b)

I jinéka θa γráps-i ART.F woman FUT write.PRFV-3S ‘The woman will write the book.’

to vivlı´-o ART.N book-N.S

This contrast parallels the one in the past (6a, 6b), which in turn parallels the one in the past in Spanish. (6a)

I jinéka é-γraf-e pol-á vivlı´-a ART.F woman PAST-write.IMPFV-3S many-N.P book-N.P ‘The woman wrote many books (habitually).’

INCRE ASING MORPHOLOGICAL MISMATCH VIA CATEGORY LOSS (6b)

I jinéka é-γraps-e ART.F woman PAST-write.PRFV-3S ‘The woman wrote the book.’

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to vivlı´-o ART.N book-N.S

The Greek contrasts belong to a system distinguishing three indicative tenses and a conditional mood, with representation in both non-anterior and anterior subcategories, but with no aspectual distinctions in the Present Indicative, the Conditional, or the anterior, for a total of 12 tense-aspect-mood finite categories in the active voice (Table 5.2, Figure 5.3; imperatives are omitted here). As Joseph (2012) points out, the present perfective forms do not occur alone, so the aspectual distinction in the present does not perfectly parallel the one in the past. Table 5.2 Third-person singular forms of the active forms of Greek γráfo ‘I write’

present past future conditional epistemic

imperfective

perfective

Anterior

γráfi éγrafe θa γráfi θa éγrafe

(γrápsi) éγrapse θa γrápsi

éxi γrápsi íxe γrápsi θa éxi γrápsi θa íxe γrápsi

θa éγrapse

finite forms imperfective

perfective

future conditional present past γráfi éγrafe θa γráfi θa éγrafe

present éxi γrápsi

anterior

past éγrapse

past future íxe γrápsi θa éxi γrápsi

future θa γrápsi

epistemic θa éγrapse

conditional θa íxe γrápsi

Figure 5.3 Tense, aspect, and anteriority in Greek verbs.

Grouping the anterior (perfect) forms under perfective reflects their formation with the dependent (e.g. γrápsi), a form closely related to the perfective components of the perfective future and simple past, and the claim that some verbs have no perfective stem, “have no dependent form and therefore do not form perfect tenses” (Holton, Mackridge, and Philippaki-Warburton 1997: 113). This generalization, however, fails at least in the case of the copula ´ıme, which is in a suppletive relationship with the posture verb stékeme ‘stand’ and does have dependent forms, including staθı´, which is found in perfect periphrases formed in the same way as in other verbs.

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5.2.2.2 Slavic Like Greek, most Slavic languages encode a distinction between imperfective and perfective in the future, though by different means. In Russian, for example, the verb pisat’ ‘to write’ has a stem, piš-, that is found in the Present tense and, when combined with the prefix na-, in the Perfective Future. Thus pišú means ‘I write’ (habitually), while napišú means ‘I will write (once).’ The Imperfective Future is expressed periphrastically with a future form of byt’ ‘to be’ and the infinitive, as in búdu pisát’ ‘I will write/be writing.’

5.2.3 Aspect and anteriority The relationships between imperfective and perfective and between perfective and perfect often elicit confusion. The former distinction is generally well understood as an aspectual difference illustrated by Spanish examples like the Imperfect Indicative (past imperfective as in cantaba “she was singing”) and the Preterit (past perfective as in cantó “she sang”). Many authors, however, conflate or confuse perfective and perfect. While the former concerns the presentation of the temporal structure of the situation or event expressed by a verb, the latter has more to do with how that situation or event is situated relative to a temporal reference point and whether it has current relevance. In English, for example, Sara has left ties Sara’s departure to the current moment in a way that the non-Perfect past Sara left does not. Comrie confirms the importance of recalling that the “[t]he perfect/nonperfect opposition is different from the perfective/imperfective opposition” (1976: 63). The difference between the two categories is highlighted by the fact that they can be combined. For example, Spanish and Catalan have forms that distinguish imperfective and perfective in the past perfect, with the latter interpreted as encoding an event that took place right before another point in the past (e.g. Spanish habı´a salido AUX.PAST.IMPFV.3S leave.PCPL ‘she had left’ vs. hubo salido AUX.PAST.PFV.3S leave.PCPL ‘she had left (just before).’ An important example for this discussion revolves around the future, where Greek clearly distinguishes between future perfective (7) and future perfect (8). One recent example of the many instances of conflating perfect and perfective is Maiden (2018). This confusion can be diminished by using ‘anterior’ rather than ‘perfect,’ which not only captures the relative nature of the category but also reduces the likelihood of confusion with ‘perfective.’ Unfortunately, this term has not yet achieved widespread use outside of the work of relatively few scholars, perhaps most prominently Bybee, Perkins, and Pagliuca (1994), Penny (2002), and, as one reviewer pointed out, some authors featured in Eythórsson (2008), including Haug (2008). (7)

θa to éx-o γráps-I méxri ávrio. FUT ART.N AUX-1S write-DEP by tomorrow ‘I will have written it by tomorrow.’

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θa to γráps-o FUT ART.N write.PRFV-1S ‘I will write it tomorrow.’

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ávrio. tomorrow

5.2.4 Temporal and aspectual distinctions in the subjunctive outside of Spanish Understanding the Spanish system requires comparing it with other Romance varieties, which illustrate combinations of tense, aspect, and mood not found in Spanish. As mentioned above, Portuguese has a Future Subjunctive (e.g. ter ‘to have,’ terei 1S Future Indicative, tiver 1S Future Subjunctive), and Catalan features a past perfective subjunctive related to the periphrastic Preterit (perfective past) that developed from a combination of the infinitive and forms of anar ‘to go’ alongside related analogical forms (Table 5.3; see Juge 2006 for analysis and references). The Catalan case stands out in part because the process that replaced an existing synthetic category with a periphrasis also yielded a new combination of features. The lack of a present/future distinction in the modern Spanish Subjunctive (cf. (9)–(12)) is partially mitigated by the availability of Subjunctive forms of ir ‘to go’ in combination with the infinitive, which has contributed to the creation of a new future subjunctive that allows a tense distinction otherwise not available in the language ((13)–(14); of course even in the Indicative, the Present can have either present or future reference). The creation of the Preterit Subjunctive in Catalan also parallels to some degree the development of the Conditional in most of the Romance languages. Like the Future, which combined Present Indicative forms of habēre ‘to have’ with the Infinitive (e.g. cantāre habeō sing-INF have-PRES.IND.1S > Spanish cantaré ‘I will sing’), the Conditional resulted from the combination of past-tense forms of habēre with the infinitive (e.g. cantāre habēbam sing-INF haveIMPF.IND.1S > Spanish cantarı´a ‘I would sing’). Unlike the Future, however, the Conditional did not correspond directly to any category previously found in Latin. In short, neither the creation nor the loss of grammatical categories automatically increases the amount of morphological mismatch in a given language. Table 5.3 Mood distinctions in the Portuguese Future ter ‘to have’ Future

1S

Indicative

Subjunctive

terei

tiver

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MATTHEW L. JUGE Table 5.4 Mood distinctions in the Catalan Preterit tenir ‘to have’ Preterit (perfective past) Indicative 1S

vaig AUX.PRES.IND.1S

ten-ir have-INF

Subjunctive vagi AUX.PRES.SUBJ.1S

ten-ir have-INF

(9)

Cre-o que lluev-e think-PRES.IND.1S COMP rain-PRES.IND.3S ‘I think that it is raining.’

(10)

Dud-o que lluev-a doubt-PRES.IND.1S COMP rain-PRES.SUBJ.3S ‘I doubt that it is raining.’

(11)

Cre-o que llov-er-á think-PRES.IND.1S COMP rain-FUT.IND-3S ‘I think that it will rain.’

(12)

Dud-o que lluev-a doubt-PRES.IND.1S COMP rain-PRES.SUBJ.3S ‘I doubt that it will rain.’

(13)

Cre-o que v-a a llov-er think-PRES.IND.1S COMP go-PRES.IND.3S to rain-INF ‘I think that it is going to rain.’

(14)

Dud-o que v-aya a llov-er doubt-PRES.IND.1S COMP go-PRES.SUBJ.3S to rain-INF ‘I doubt that it is going to rain.’

5.2.5 Cross-linguistic morphological mismatch The concept of morphological mismatch can also be extended to languages with categories that are not explicitly encoded but which are nonetheless expressed to some extent via means not typical of other languages. For example, definiteness in languages without articles can be marked to some degree by case (e.g. Finnish) and verb forms, such as aspectual marking found in Russian (15a, 15b). For instance, Chesterman’s (1991) monograph addresses the expression of definiteness in Finnish, the primary means being case distinctions, especially that

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between the accusative and the partitive (16a, 16b). The Russian and Finnish examples highlight the importance of detailed analysis of multiple areas of the grammar in that they may appear to reflect tense-aspect-mood distinctions, but the lack of morphologized aspect in Finnish contrasts with the Russian system, and closer analysis reveals that these contrasts correspond to definiteness marking in other languages, even though it can be difficult to tease apart such closely related features. (15a)

Ánna cˇit-ál-a knı´g-u. Anna read-PAST-F book-ACC ‘Anna was reading a/the book.’

(15b)

Ánna pro-cˇit-ál-a PRFV-read-PAST-F ‘Anna read a/the book.’

(16a)

Finnish Henry rakens-i talo-n Henry build-PAST house-ACC.SG ‘Henry built a/the house.’

Chesterman (1991: 92)

(16b)

Finnish Henry rakens-i talo-a Henry build-PAST house-PART.SG ‘Henry was building a/the house.’

Chesterman (1991: 92)

knı´g-u. book-ACC

To some degree, such distinctions resemble Spanish patterns involving the subjunctive and aspectual marking in the non-past. As such, they deserve to be studied alongside these data. An important difference, however, is that Finnish does not explicitly mark aspect in other parts of the grammar, while aspect is clearly distinguished in the past in Spanish. Therefore, the mismatch in Finnish is arguably a matter for cross-linguistic analysis, while the Spanish mismatch is evident both language-internally and cross-linguistically.

5.3 The history of the Ibero-Romance Future Subjunctive Formally, the Future Subjunctive is usually taken to be a combination of the reflexes of the Latin Future Perfect Indicative and the Perfect Subjunctive. Bold type in Table 5.5 shows syncretism in the Latin forms, and forms differing only in the length of one vowel are marked by italics. Which of the two Latin categories lives on in the Ibero-Romance category is a matter of some dispute, as Schultheis discusses (2009: 203). The Spanish Future Subjunctive shows final -e in the first person and third person singular that is missing in many corresponding forms in Portuguese and Galician. This final vowel is the result of analogical replacement after earlier loss

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MATTHEW L. JUGE Table 5.5 Ibero-Romance Future Subjunctive forms of ser ‘to be’/ir ‘to go’ and their Latin antecedents

1S 2S 3S 1P 2P 3P

Latin Future Perfect Perfect Indicative Subjunctive

Spanish Portuguese Galician Future Subjunctive

fuerō fueris fuerit fuerimus fueritis fuerint

fuere fueres fuere fuéremos fuereis fueren

fuerim fuerīs fuerit fuerīmus fuerītis fuerint

for fores for formos fordes forem

for fores for formos fordes foren

of -e, as found in other verb categories (e.g. Spanish dice say-PRES.IND.3S vs. Portuguese diz say.PRES.IND.3S ‘he/she says’).

5.3.1 The Spanish Future Subjunctive In earlier stages of Spanish, the Future Subjunctive appeared in various clause types, including locatives, concessives, temporals, relatives, and conditionals (De Angulo 2012: 1). In Modern Spanish, the functions formerly filled by the Future Subjunctive (17a, 17c) are now primarily filled by the Present Indicative (17b) and the Present Subjunctive (17d). (17a)

O Span Si lo hic-iere ha-r-á lo que if it do-FUT.SUBJ.3S do-FUT.IND-3S REL deb-e. 16th c. (De Angulo 2012: 142) should-PRES.IND.3S ‘If he does it, he will do what he should.’

(17b)

Span Si lo hac-e ha-r-á lo que if it do-PRES.IND.3S do-FUT.IND.3S REL deb-e. should-PRES.IND.3S ‘If he does it, he will do what he should.’

(17c) O Span Quando when

vin-iere l-a mañana … come-FUT.SUBJ.3S ART-F morning-F … Cid 2180 (Bailey 2021) ve-r-án a su-s esposa-s see-FUT.IND.3P ACC 3POSS-P wife-PL ‘When the morning comes, they will see their wives.’

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Span Cuando veng-a l-a mañana … when come-PRES.SUBJ.3S ART-F morning-F … ve-r-án a su-s esposa-s see-FUT.IND-3p ACC 3POSS-P wife-P ‘When the morning comes, they will see their wives.’

As Solomon (2007: 414) notes, as early as the Cantar de mio Cid (anonymous, mid 12th c.–early 13th c.), the Future Subjunctive and the Present Indicative appear to alternate (18a [687], 18b [1033b]). (18a)

si nos mur-iéremos en campo, en castiello nos if 1p die-FUT.SUBJ.1P on field in castle 1P entra-rá-n enter-FUT.IND.3-P ‘If we die in battle, they will enter our castle.’

(18b)

ca si non com-edes non ve-r-edes cristian-o-s for if NEG eat-PRES.IND.2P NEG see-FUT.IND-2P Christian-M-P ‘[F]or if you do not eat, you will not see Christians (i.e., Christendom) (again).’

This early attestation of alternation suggests that morphological mismatch was already developing, even if it did not become fully established until much later. Solomon attributes the loss of the Future Subjunctive to a simplificatory tendency, but she does not provide evidence for greater simplicity in the current set of forms or their distribution. Previous studies of the Future Subjunctive have highlighted its origins and loss, ignoring its relationship to morphological mismatch (e.g. Solomon 2007, Baranowski 2008, and De Angulo 2012). The loss of the Spanish Future Subjunctive led to new functions for the Indicative and Subjunctive and greater morphological mismatch in temporal and conditional clauses.

5.3.2 The Galician Future Subjunctive Much like the Spanish Future Subjunctive, the Galician Future Subjunctive is described as having “disappeared” despite its use in limited circumstances (primarily in legal writing) (Real Academia Galega 2012: 109). In general, the Galician patterns are very similar to those of Spanish.

5.3.3 The Portuguese Future Subjunctive Of the three principal Ibero-Romance languages, only Portuguese continues to make extensive use of the Future Subjunctive. Comrie and Holmback conclude that it is indeed a subjunctive but that it differs from the Present Subjunctive “as

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regards definiteness or some type of greater identifiability rather than by future time reference” (1984: 251–252). Nonetheless, the most important function of the Portuguese Future Subjunctive may be to express future time reference in the protases of conditional sentences (19a) and in temporal clauses (19b). (19a)

Se escrever um artig-o, ganh-ar-ei if write-FUT.SUBJ.1S ART.INDEF.M article-M earn-FUT.IND-1S 50 euro-s 50 euro-P ‘If I write an article, I will earn 50 euros.’ (Vesterinen 2017: 61)

(19b)

Dorm-ir-ei quando você for embora. sleep-FUT.IND-1S when you go.FUT.SUBJ.3S away ‘I will sleep when you go away.’

5.4 The relationship between aspect and the conditional As mentioned earlier, conditional forms do not always fit neatly into typical tense or mood categories, although some connections are clear, as in the link between Romance conditionals and the future. Conditionals are also sometimes ambiguous aspectually. The Greek Conditional, for example, is formally related to the imperfective past (e.g. θa éγrafa “I would write”), but it is not clear that aspect applies to this form. While in most Romance languages the Conditional comes from imperfective past forms, e.g. cantāre habēbat sing-PRES.ACT.INF have-IMPF.IND.ACT.3S ‘s/he had to sing,’ the Italian Conditional shows an affinity with the perfective past (passato remoto) (Table 5.6). Although I am aware of no Romance variety with an aspectual contrast among conditional forms, there is no a priori reason to reject such a possibility. Table 5.6 Conditional and aspect in Romance

HABĒRE

past

Spanish

Italian

imperfective perfective

había aveva hubo ebbe cantaría canterebbe Conditional

5.5 The protasis of conditional sentences Consideration of conditional forms leads naturally to conditional sentences, which are a key area of use for subjunctives in Spanish. In the context of morphological

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mismatch, conditionals with future time reference in the protasis (IF clause) are especially important. Comrie identifies four types of protases with future time reference based on the tense and mood of the verb in the protasis (1982): I. II. III. IV.

Future Indicative Present Indicative Present non-Indicative non-Present non-Indicative

Latin and the major Romance languages illustrate three of these types (Figure 5.4, examples (20)–(23) meaning ‘If he/she comes’), with only Type III (Present nonIndicative) missing. Armenian illustrates this type here (22).

5.5.1 Italic/Romance I.

Future Indicative

Latin

I. II. III. IV.

Future Indicative Italian Present Indicative Spanish French Romanian Present non-Indicative Future Subjunctive Portuguese

Figure 5.4 The five major Romance languages in Comrie’s typology of future-time protases.

(20a) (20b)

I.

Future Indicative

Latin Italian

Sī veniet Si verrà

(21a) (21b)

II.

Present Indicative

Spanish French

Si viene S’il vient

(22) III.

Present non-Indicative

Armenian

(23) IV.

non-Present non-Indicative

Et’e ga² if come-SUBJ.3.SG Portuguese Se vier

While Latin belongs to Type I, the synthetic future used in that structure has been lost in Romance (Table 5.7). The Romance forms in such sentences reflect a different tense (Present Indicative), a blend of two other categories (Future Perfect Indicative/Perfect Subjunctive > Future Subjunctive), and a grammaticalized structure corresponding to the earlier Latin forms (the Future Indicative in Italian). ² The Armenian non-past subjunctive is called Present by Comrie (1982) and Future by Dum-Tragut (2009).

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MATTHEW L. JUGE Table 5.7 Latin and Romance tense/mood categories in conditional sentences Latin category

protasis with future time reference

Future (Indicative) Present Indicative Future Perfect Indicative/Perfect Subjunctive Infinitive + Present Ind. of habēre

[lost] French, Romanian, Catalan Old Spanish, Portuguese Future Subjunctive Italian Future

5.6 Future time reference in temporal and conditional sentences Comrie (1982) points out that the expression of future time reference in the protases of conditional sentences does not always match the expression of future time reference in temporal clauses (WHEN clauses). In this chapter I expand upon his typology of expression types by examining the history and typological distribution of IF and WHEN clauses and expanding the scope of the analysis to UNLESS clauses, since these do not always act as simple equivalents of IF…NOT clauses. I also include habitual clauses because of their cross-linguistic diversity. Temporal clauses and UNLESS clauses show the same possibilities that Comrie identifies for protases, but languages vary in how they encode these relations. For example, the differences between such closely related Romance languages as Spanish and Portuguese are especially noteworthy in conditionals, habitual temporals, and future-oriented temporals (Table 5.8). That is, Spanish is Type II for conditionals, and Type III for both UNLESS and temporal clauses, while Portuguese is Type IV for conditionals and temporal clauses but Type III for UNLESS clauses. Within these highly arbitrary patterns, two points merit attention. First, each language treats IF…NOT conditionals differently from UNLESS sentences, despite their semantic similarity. Secondly, the languages agree in using the Present Indicative for habitual WHEN clauses. Notionally, the contrast between clauses with future time reference and habitual clauses corresponds primarily to the difference between perfective and imperfective aspects, respectively, although there are cases like Greek, where clauses with future time reference can explicitly encode a perfective/imperfective distinction. Table 5.8 Tense and mood in subordinate clauses in Spanish and Portuguese

Spanish Portuguese

IF

counterfactual

UNLESS

WHEN habitual

WHEN future

Pres Ind Fut Subj

Impf Subj Impf Subj

Pres Subj Pres Subj

Pres Ind Pres Ind

Pres Subj Fut Subj

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5.7 Category loss and morphological mismatch Since the loss of grammatical categories does not always lead to increases in morphological mismatch, this section briefly addresses whether it is possible to determine what factors link category loss with morphological mismatch. First, though category loss is a familiar topic, certain issues merit mention. Juge (2009) addresses the factors that contribute to loss of grammatical categories, especially the rigorous evaluation of proposed reasons for such losses. He highlights flaws in Vincent’s (1988) attribution of the loss of the synthetic Latin Future (non-anterior) to homophony avoidance. Other less convincing explanations for category loss include superfluity. Solomon, for example, describes the Spanish Future Subjunctive as “unnecessary” and “redundant” without providing criteria for such judgments (2007: 410). Like the Spanish Future Subjunctive, the simple perfective pasts in French and northern Italian dialects have been lost, and the descendants of the Perfect Indicative have taken on their functions. These forms, combining the Present Indicative of reflexes of Latin habēre and esse with the past participle, assumed the functions of the descendants of the Latin Perfect (which in Latin had both present anterior and past perfective functions but had lost the anterior function prior to its loss in French and Italian). This change created systems with one verbal category filling two roles that were not themselves members of a single broader category (Table 5.9).

Table 5.9 Loss of the synthetic perfective past indicative in French and Italian stage 1 non-anterior Present

anterior

present anterior imperfective past Indicative past anterior perfective past anterior future future anterior Subjunctive present present anterior imperfect past anterior Conditional present present anterior Imperative present

stage 2 non-anterior present

anterior

present anterior imperfective past past anterior perfective past anterior future future anterior present present anterior imperfect past anterior present present anterior present

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While the loss of the synthetic perfective past in French and Italian increased the potential for ambiguity as compared to some other Romance varieties, it did not produce or increase morphological mismatch. Likewise, the loss of the Latin synthetic passive did not yield morphological mismatch in the Romance languages, since the remaining forms did not assume the functions of other morphological categories.

5.8 Conclusions and directions for further research The loss of the Spanish Future Subjunctive and its replacement by the Present Subjunctive in temporal clauses and the Present Indicative in protases contributed to morphological mismatch absent in its Ibero-Romance sister Portuguese. Continuing investigation of morphological mismatch will benefit from the discovery of other sources of the phenomenon, especially if detailed mechanisms can be identified. The relatively low level of documentation of morphological mismatch may make this task difficult, but the analysis presented here may contribute to the process, especially regarding the need for special attention to interactions among specific changes throughout the grammar.

Primary text Bailey, Matthew (project director). 2021. Cantar de mio Cid. Digital Humanities, Washington and Lee University. Accessed 11 March 2021.

Acknowledgments I appreciate the input on this chapter that I received from Brian D. Joseph (whose help with the Greek data was invaluable), George Juge, Sharla Nichols Juge, Joel Rini, Bill Weigel, and two anonymous reviewers. Any shortcomings are my responsibility alone.

6 Toward a non-teleological account of demonstrative reinforcement David Goldstein

6.1 Introduction Von der Gabelentz (1901: 256) characterized language as shaped by the opposing forces of Bequemlichkeit ‘economy’ and Deutlichkeit ‘expressiveness’: Nun bewegt sich die Geschichte der Sprachen in der Diagonale zweier Kra¨fte: des Bequemlichkeitstriebes, der zur Abnutzung der Laute fu¨hrt, und des Deutlichkeitstriebes, der jene Abnutzung nicht zur Zersto¨rung der Sprache ausarten la¨sst. Die Affixe verschleifen sich, verschwinden am Ende spurlos; ihre Funktionen aber oder a¨hnliche dra¨ngen wieder nach Ausdruck. Diesen Ausdruck erhalten sie, nach der Methode der isolierenden Sprachen, durch Wortstellung oder verdeutlichende Wo¨rter. Letztere unterliegen wiederum mit der Zeit dem Agglutinationsprozesse, dem Verschliffe und Schwunde, und derweile bereitet sich fu¨r das Verderbende neuer Ersatz vor: periphrastische Ausdru¨cke werden bevorzugt.¹

Von der Gabelentz espouses a teleological approach to morphosyntactic change (Reino¨hl et al. 2017: 383; Haspelmath 2018: 112): new forms emerge in response to the reduction of older forms. In the early twentieth century, Meillet (1915–1916: 15–17) came to a similar conclusion in his investigation of the diachrony of conjunctions and since then proponents of teleological accounts have not been in short supply (e.g. Lane 1961: 470; Heine et al. 1991; Geurts 2000: 783; Dahl 2001: 473). Teleological accounts have been especially prominent in the ¹ ‘The history of languages moves along the diagonal of two forces: the drive toward economy, which leads to the erosion of segments, and the drive toward expressiveness, which keeps erosion in check so that the language is not destroyed. Affixes are worn down (and) in the end vanish without a trace. However, their functions or similar ones strive again for expression. They acquire this expression in the manner of isolating languages through word order or independent words, which in time are in turn subject to agglutination, reduction, and loss. In the meantime a new replacement is prepared for what has been ruined: periphrastic expressions are preferred.’

David Goldstein, Toward a non-teleological account of demonstrative reinforcement. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © David Goldstein (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0006

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literature on linguistic cycles, as witnessed for instance by Jespersen’s characterization of his eponymous cycle: The history of negative expressions in various languages makes us witness the following curious fluctuation: the original negative adverb is first weakened, then found insufficient and therefore strengthened, generally through some additional word, and this in turn may be felt as the negative proper and may then in the course of time be subject to the same development as the original word. (Jespersen 1917: 4, emphasis mine)

The weakening of an older negative expression leads to the creation of a new negative formation. In a similar vein, van Gelderen (2011, 2016, 2019) has offered teleological explanations for a variety of linguistic cycles within the Minimalist Program, according to which feature economy drives morphosyntactic innovation. Not all historical linguists have subscribed to a teleological view of linguistic cycles, however. Hopper et al. (2003: 124), for instance, state in no uncertain terms the faults of such an approach: Some think of the cycle as starting with reduction of a form, in extreme cases to zero, followed by replacement with a more expressive form (e.g., Heine et al. 1984: 17; Lightfoot 1991: 171). This kind of model is extremely problematic, because it suggests that a stage of language can exist when it is difficult or even impossible to express some concept.

Elaborating on these points, Reino¨hl et al. (2017: 384) observe that if an older construction is so important, it is puzzling that it undergoes weakening in the first place. They also note that teleological accounts are problematic for constructions or categories that are not universal. If they are important enough that they have to be renewed, why are they not found in all languages? Haspelmath (1999, 2000, 2018) has also lodged arguments against teleological accounts of linguistic change. In this chapter, I critically review the teleological account of demonstrative reinforcement proposed by Van Gelderen (2011: 197–244),² who contends that the grammaticalization of a definite article from a demonstrative entails feature loss that is repaired through reinforcement. Examination of the evidence reveals her account to be empirically inadequate (cf. Vindenes 2017: 170). The grammaticalization of a definite article is neither necessary nor sufficient for ² Van Gelderen (2011: 197–244) herself typically uses the term renewal instead of reinforcement. I avoid the latter here since it is used in multiple senses in the literature (on which see Reino¨hl et al. 2017).

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demonstrative reinforcement. Decoupling demonstrative reinforcement from the grammaticalization of definite articles offers two key advantages. First, it allows demonstrative reinforcement to both precede and follow the emergence of definite articles. Second, it does not restrict the semantics of reinforced forms to spatial deixis. The remainder of this chapter is structured as follows. Section 6.2 introduces the definiteness cycle, which is shown in Section 6.3 to be beset by a range of empirical problems. Section 6.4 presents a non-teleological account of demonstrative reinforcement. Section 6.5 summarizes the main argument of the chapter and highlights its broader consequences.

6.2 The definiteness cycle The definiteness cycle (also known as the DP-cycle) comprises two constituent changes: the grammaticalization of a definite article from a demonstrative and the subsequent reinforcement of the demonstrative (Van Gelderen 2007: 275; Egedi 2014: 56, 68).³ One of the parade examples of this cycle comes from Romance languages in which the Latin demonstrative ille ‘that’ first gave rise to a definite article and then underwent reinforcement, as in Old French (Van Gelderen 2011: 220–221): (1)

The definiteness cycle in Latin and Old French a. Grammaticalization of definite article Latin ILLE⁴ ‘that’ > Old French li ‘the’ b. Demonstrative reinforcement Latin ECCE ILLE ‘that’ > Old French cel ‘that’⁵

Van Gelderen subscribes to the common view that an absence of deictic semantics distinguishes definite articles from demonstratives (e.g. Lyons 1977: 647; Lyons 1999: 331–332; Mu¨th 2011: 11; Levinson 2018: 5 challenges this view). On her account, when Latin ILLE became Old French li, its interpretable deictic feature was reanalyzed as uninterpretable (i.e., it was lost). This loss then prompted the reinforcement of ILLE with the presentative adverb ECCE ‘look!’ (Van Gelderen ³ Van Gelderen (2011: 201) offers two different characterizations of the definiteness cycle. The first (in her example 7) involves the series of changes demonstrative > definite article > Case/nongeneric. The second (in her Figure 6.1) involves the change demonstrative > definite article plus reinforcement of the demonstrative. Here I focus on this characterization of the definiteness cycle. ⁴ Latin words in small caps refer to the Vulgar Latin ancestral forms of Romance descendants. This representation abstracts away from the segmental properties of the ancestral forms, which are sometimes uncertain. Note in particular that ECCE is used to represent all the various ancestral forms of this adverb, e.g. ecce, eccu, akke, and akkʊ (Ledgeway et al. 2016: 879). When the segmental form is relevant to the discussion, it appears in italics. ⁵ The Old French demonstrative itself also underwent reinforcement (Pope 1934: §844).

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2011: 220–221, 244). Demonstrative reinforcement is teleological since it occurs to restore a deictic feature that was eliminated by an earlier change (Alkire et al. 2010: 301 and Manoliu 2011: 478 envision similar processes). Table 6.1 shows that the cycle in example (1) is not limited to Old French, but also occurred elsewhere in Romance. Although all the Romance languages in this table underwent demonstrative reinforcement, the segmental form of the reinforcer varies. In Old French, it appears to be ecce (Adams 2013: 465–466) and in Italo-Romance it is eccu (which may continue ∗ ecce hom according to Adams 2013: 469). In Portuguese, Spanish, Catalan, and Romanian, however, it is ∗ accu (or some variant thereof ), whose history is debated (González Ollé 1977; Lloyd 1987: 158; Egido Fernández 2000: 99–102; Sornicola 2011; Adams 2013: 466; Ledgeway et al. 2016). For the present discussion, the crucial point is simply that the Romance demonstratives in Table 6.1 descend from reinforced forms. The central empirical prediction of the definiteness cycle is that demonstratives and definite articles not be homophonous, since a demonstrative that gives rise to a definite article should undergo reinforcement, which then distinguishes it. The definiteness cycle appears to make no predictions about demonstrative reinforcement in the absence of the grammaticalization of a definite article. Table 6.1 Romance definite articles, distal demonstratives, and their precursors Language

Article source

Article

Demonstrative source

Demonstrative

Italian Old French Old Occitan Spanish Portuguese Romanian Ladin Catalan

ILLE ILLE ILLE ILLE ILLE ILLE ILLE ILLE

il li lo el o -ul el el

ECCE ILLE ECCE ILLE ECCE ILLE ECCE ILLE ECCE ILLE ECCE ILLE ECCE ILLE ECCE ILLE

quello cel aicel, aquel aquel aquele acel chël aquell

6.3 The empirical inadequacy of the definiteness cycle In this section, I highlight two critical problems with the definiteness cycle. First, homophony between definite articles and demonstratives is not uncommon crosslinguistically, so the central prediction of Van Gelderen’s model is not borne out (Section 6.3.1). Second, the definiteness cycle is a parochial model of demonstrative reinforcement since it cannot account for its occurrence in languages in which a demonstrative did not give rise to a definite article (Section 6.3.2).

ACCOUNT OF DEMONSTRATIVE REINFORCEMENT

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6.3.1 Problem 1: Underapplication of reinforcement As noted above, the central empirical prediction of the definiteness cycle is an absence of homophony between definite articles and their precursor demonstratives. This prediction is not borne out by cross-linguistic data (e.g. Masica 1986: 134; Dahl 2003; Bashir 2009: 841; Dryer 2013). In a sample of 620 languages, Dryer (2013) identifies 377 as having definite articles. Of these 377 languages, 69 (18.3 percent) have a demonstrative that is also used as a marker of definiteness, one of which is Eastern Ojibwa: (2)

Article-demonstrative homophony “mii maanpii wii-bkeyaanh” kido giiwenh wa mko but here intend-turn.off.1SG say.3SG it.is.said that bear “‘Well, this is where I turn off,’ the bear said.” (Nichols 1988: 46)

The determiner wa is glossed as a demonstrative ‘that’, but it is translated with a definite article since the bear is discourse-old and the determiner lacks deictic semantics. Article-demonstrative homophony is also known from Romance. Sornicola (2011: 225–226) observes that descendants of the non-reinforced demonstrative ILLE ‘that’ although rare did survive in Italo-Romance dialects and Old French, as in the following example from Woledge (1979: 70): (3)

Old French la l’ame Uterpandragon son pere, DEF.NOM.SG.soul.OBL.SG Uterpandragon.OBL.SG 3SG.POSS father.OBL.SG et la son fil et la sa CONJ DEM.OBL.SG 3SG.POSS son.OBL.SG CONJ OBL.SG 3SG.POSS mere mother.DEM.OBL.SG “(The king swore three oaths on) the soul of Uterpandragon his father and that of his son and that of his mother.” Yvain 663–664

The form la cannot be the definite article since definite articles cannot be used pronominally. It is instead an anaphoric pronoun that descends from the Latin demonstrative illa ‘that’ (see further Joly 2018: 247–248). Examples such as this one are of critical importance because they prove that the emergence of a definite article from a demonstrative did not entail the reinforcement of the demonstrative source (a point that Van Gelderen herself seems to recognize on p. 202). Although article-demonstrative homophony is a well-known phenomenon, Van Gelderen (2011: 197–244) has surprisingly little to say about it. It does, however,

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come up in her discussion of the Uto-Aztecan language Pima Bajo. Estrada Fernández (1996: 8) describes the Pima Bajo determiners /ɨg/ and /ɨk/ as definite articles, but Van Gelderen (2011: 230) challenges this description. Since these forms are homophonous with the demonstrative in Pima Bajo, she reasons that “the article stage has not quite been reached.” Van Gelderen (2011: 197–244) does not divulge the criteria with which she distinguishes definite articles from other determiners, but this comment at least suggests that a determiner cannot be an article if it is homophonous with a demonstrative. According to such a view, the definiteness cycle would be true by definition, since it would predict that a demonstrative that gives rise to a definite article would undergo reinforcement, but a determiner could only become a definite article once a demonstrative had undergone reinforcement.

6.3.2 Problem 2: Parochial scope The definiteness cycle is a parochial account of demonstrative reinforcement because it focuses on a single context in which the phenomenon occurs, namely after the grammaticalization of a definite article from a demonstrative. This is not, however, the only context in which the change takes place. Demonstrative reinforcement in Romance, for instance, also occurred in languages in which the demonstrative ILLE ‘that’ did not give rise to a definite article, such as Sardinian, where the definite article emerged from the intensifier IPSE ‘self ’ (Diez 1878: 182). Despite this, the demonstrative was nevertheless reinforced with the presentative adverb ECCE ‘look!’ (Jones 1993: 34; Da Milano 2015: 61; Putzu 2015: 47): (4)

Demonstrative reinforcement in Sardinian cuddu ‘that’ < ECCE ILLE ‘that’

Sardinian cuddu thus descends from a reinforced demonstrative just as the demonstratives in Table 6.1 above do. If the grammaticalization of a definite article from a demonstrative is a cause of demonstrative reinforcement, it cannot be the only cause.⁶ Van Gelderen (2011: 220–221) claims that the emergence of a definite article from ILLE led to the reinforcement of the demonstrative with ECCE in Vulgar Latin (cf. Roehrs 2010: 239 n. 16). In fact, forms of eccille (< ecce ille) are already attested in pre-classical Latin, well before the emergence of the definite article (Grandgent 1907: §65; TLL: 5.2.25.13–5.2.25.45; Lindsay 1922: 144; Lodge 1924– 1933: s.v. ille; Cuzzolin 1998; Perdicoyianni-Paléologou 2006: 49–51; Adams 2013: 466–468): ⁶ Van Gelderen (2011: 224) mentions languages with demonstratives that undergo reinforcement in the absence of a definite article, such as Bosnian/Serbian/Croatian, but does not acknowledge the challenges that such data pose for her account. Citing Brown et al. (2004: 80–81), she suggests that the complex roles of Bosnian/Serbian/Croatian demonstratives may be responsible for their reanalysis and subsequent reinforcement. It is unclear if there is evidence for reanalysis aside from reinforcement itself.

ACCOUNT OF DEMONSTRATIVE REINFORCEMENT (5)

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sed generum nostrum ire eccillum but son.in.law.ACC.SG our.ACC.SG go.INF.PRES.ACT DEM.ACC.SG uideo cum adfini suo. see.1SG.PRES.ACT with relative.ABL.SG his.ABL.SG “But I see there our son-in-law going there with his relative.” Plaut. Trin. 622

The meaning of eccillum is difficult to ascertain on account of its scant attestation, but nearly all its forms have exophoric reference. There is some question in the literature as to whether examples of pre-classical eccillum are ancestral to the Romance demonstratives in Table 6.1 above.⁷ Consideration of this question lies beyond the purview of this chapter, since for my purposes the crucial point is that ille was reinforced centuries before the emergence of a definite article. It is worth noting that eccillum is not the only reinforced form of ille in preclassical Latin. There is also illic, which is formed from the demonstrative ille and the suffix -ce (Schmidt 1875: 66–86; Lindsay 1894: 436–437; Leumann et al. 1972: §372.b, 372.3; Melchert 2009: 155 n. 7; Adams 2013: 454–456; Breunesse 2019: 146) and ellum (Lindsay 1894: §18; De Vaan 2008: 188; Glare 2012: s.v.), in which the demonstrative ille has been prefixed with em (perhaps the imperative ‘take!’): (6)

a. in illisce habitat aedibus Amphitruo, in DEM.ABL.PL live.3SG.PRES.ACT house.ABL.PL Amphitryon.NOM.SG natus Argis ex Argo born.PFV.PTCP.NOM.SG. Argos.ABL.PL from Argive.ABL.SG patre. father.ABL.SG ‘Amphitryon lives in that house, born in Argos to an Argive father.’ Plaut. Amph. 97–98 b. parasitum tuom video dependent.ACC.SG 2SG.POSS.ACC.SG see.1SG.PRES.ACT currentem ellum usque in platea run.PRES.PTCP.ACC.SG DEM.ACC.SG all.the.way at street.ABL.SG ultima. end.ABL.SG ‘I see that dependent of yours running all the way at the end of the street.’ Plaut. Curc. 278

⁷ Adams (2013: 471) argues that the diachronic relationship between eccillum and the precursor demonstratives in Table 6.1 is discontinuous: “The uses of ecce, like those of eccum, in comedy are at a considerable remove from those of their pronominal (compounded) reflexes in Romance, and continuity between Latin and Romance cannot be established.” It is certainly possible that ecce and ille coalesced more than once in the history of Latin, but Adams does not actually demonstrate discontinuity. On his account, pre-classical eccillum is ‘parenthetic’ and ‘exclamatory’ and therefore cannot be a demonstrative determiner. Since eccillum in example (5) is neither parenthetic nor exclamatory, Adams’ analysis does not offer much promise. Even if it were correct, it would not support his claim of historical discontinuity. To substantiate that assertion, he would have to show that the changes necessary to map pre-classical eccillum onto the Romance demonstratives are either unlikely or impossible.

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Table 6.2 The reinforcement of demonstratives in Romance Language

Proximal precursor

Proximal

Medial precursor

Medial

Distal precursor

Distal

Italian Old French Romanian

ECCE ISTE ECCE ISTE ECCE ISTE

questo cest acest

ECCE TIBI ISTE

codesto

ECCE ILLE ECCE ILLE ECCE ILLE

quello cel acel

The existence of reinforced forms of ille in pre-classical Latin makes it clear that the grammaticalization of a definite article is not necessary for demonstrative reinforcement. In addition, it shows that it is essential to distinguish between two changes, demonstrative reinforcement on the one hand and the process by which they become the basic demonstratives of a language on the other. For instance, within the history of Latin and Romance, it is possible that eccille was created centuries before it came to be used as a basic distal demonstrative. Under Van Gelderen’s account, however, these two changes are one and the same. The definiteness cycle focuses on the reinforcement of demonstratives that have given rise to definite articles, but the remit of reinforcement extends well beyond such demonstratives. In some Romance languages, for instance, entire inventories of demonstratives underwent reinforcement. The demonstratives in Table 6.2 all descend from reinforced forms. Van Gelderen’s account separates the reinforcement of the distal demonstrative from that of the other demonstratives, as a result of which the reinforcement of the demonstratives in Romance cannot be modeled as a more general morphological trend (on which, see, e.g. Haspelmath 2018).

6.4 A non-teleological account of demonstrative reinforcement The previous section demonstrated that the grammaticalization of a definite article is neither necessary nor sufficient for demonstrative reinforcement. In this section, I advance a non-teleological account of demonstrative reinforcement, which makes two predictions. First, demonstrative reinforcement should take place before and after the grammaticalization of definite articles. Van Gelderen (2011: 197–244) shows that demonstrative reinforcement followed the development of a definite article in a number of languages, so I concentrate here on demonstrative reinforcement in languages without definite articles. As we will see, demonstrative reinforcement in Indo-European has occurred at a relatively rapid rate. Indeed, demonstratives have been reinforced more often than definite articles have emerged from demonstratives.⁸ Second, the semantics of reinforced ⁸ There is confusion in the literature about the antiquity of demonstratives cross-linguistically. Diessel (2006: 475) writes that “their roots are generally so old that they cannot be traced back to other types

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demonstratives should not be restricted to spatial deixis. Since reinforcement is not driven by feature restoration, it can yield demonstratives whose meanings extend beyond spatial deixis. Reinforced demonstratives in classical Greek bear out this prediction.

6.4.1 Demonstrative reinforcement in archaic Indo-European One striking fact reveals the speed at which demonstratives have been renewed in the history of Indo-European: among the archaic Indo-European languages, no two languages exhibit homologous demonstrative inventories. Consider, for instance, the data in Table 6.3.⁹ Both Hittite and Greek have three main demonstratives: kāš, apāš, and aši in the former, hóde, hou˜tos, and ekeĩnos in the latter. Although these are two of the earliest attested Indo-European languages, none of their demonstratives are cognate. Comparison of each pair of languages in Table 6.3 will yield similar results. Some demonstrative forms are cognate (e.g. Vedic tá and Old Church Slavic tъ both descend from ∗ so-/to-), but no two languages have fully homologous inventories. Table 6.3 Demonstrative inventories in archaic Indo-European Language

Clade

Hittite Classical Greek

Anatolian Greek

Vedic Sanskrit

Demonstrative inventory

Indic

kāš hóde hodí ayám

apāš hou˜tos houtosí asáu

Avestan

Iranian

a-/i-/ima-

ana-

Latin Gothic Tocharian A Tocharian B Old Prussian Old Church Slavic

Italic Germanic Tocharian Tocharian Baltic Slavic

is is sa¨m su schis sĭ

hic hisa¨s se stas onъ

aši (e)keĩnos ekeinosí táetáauuaiste jáins saṃ samp ovъ

taaētaille sa seṃ tъ

of expressions,” which is true at least for Indo-European. The truth of this statement does not, however, warrant the following assertion of Levinson (2018: 2): “Demonstratives like this and that are … among the most deeply conserved and ancient words in languages (Pagel et al. 2013); indeed their etymology can rarely be traced.” As argued in this section, demonstratives in the history of Indo-European have undergone seemingly constant recreation, with the result that they are not “the most deeply conserved and ancient words” of this stock. ⁹ The term ‘demonstrative’ is understood liberally in this table, as it includes determiners that some do not consider demonstratives (e.g. Latin is). My point remains the same even if one opts for a more restrictive view of demonstratives.

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DAVID GOLDSTEIN Table 6.4 Demonstrative inventories in Tocharian A and B

Non-homologous inventories can be found even within clades, as revealed by the demonstrative inventories of Tocharian A and B in Table 6.4. The only two demonstratives that share a common ancestor are Tocharian A saṃ and Tocharian B seṃ, which are highlighted (on the semantics of Tocharian B seṃ, see Ku¨mmel 2015). The demonstrative inventories of Anatolian (Melchert 2009), Italic (Dupraz 2011), and Romance (Andriani et al. 2020: 358) exhibit similar diachronic trends. The absence of completely homologous demonstrative inventories reflects the quick rate at which innovative forms replaced older forms. Had new demonstratives forms not emerged so often, there would be more cognates both within and between clades. As a result of the speed at which new reinforced demonstratives oust older demonstratives, inferences about the demonstrative inventory of Proto-IndoEuropean cannot be drawn with any confidence (pace, e.g. Meier-Bru¨gger 2010: 366–367; de Vaan 2015: 4–6). Since the ∗ so-/to- demonstrative is absent from Anatolian, for instance, it is unclear whether its existence goes as far back as Proto-Indo-European (Lundquist et al. 2018: 2101). In a similar vein, the uncertainty in the reconstruction of the Proto-Anatolian demonstrative system makes it difficult to ascertain what demonstratives existed in Proto-Indo-European (Melchert 2009: 155). The speed of innovation among demonstratives is due to the frequency of demonstrative reinforcement. Table 6.5 presents the demonstratives from Table 6.3 above that descend from reinforced precursors. Reinforcement is achieved through one of the following three strategies: iteration, particle affixation, and demonstrative compounding (de Vaan 2015). Iteration is illustrated by Sanskrit sá-sa, particle affixation by Greek ekeinos-ı´, and demonstrative compounding perhaps by the ancestor of Latin ille. Only one of the languages in Table 6.3 above has a definite article (classical Greek), as definite articles are a relatively recent development in Indo-European. So most of the demonstratives in this table have undergone reinforcement in the absence of a definite article.

6.4.2 Reinforced demonstratives in classical Greek The definiteness cycle predicts that reinforced demonstratives exhibit basic meanings of spatial deixis, such as ‘this’ and ‘that,’ since reinforcement serves only to

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Table 6.5 Demonstrative reinforcement in archaic Indo-European Language

Clade

Demonstrative Precursor

Classical Greek Greek Classical Greek Greek Classical Greek Greek

hóde hodí hou˜tos

Classical Greek Classical Greek Classical Greek Classical Greek Vedic Vedic Vedic Vedic Young Avestan Avestan Latin Latin Latin Tocharian A Tocharian A Tocharian A Tocharian B Tocharian B

houtosí keĩnos ekeĩnos ekeinosí etáasáu sá-sa ayám-ayam aētahuuahic iste ille sa¨m sa¨s saṃ samp seṃ

Greek Greek Greek Greek Indic Indic Indic Indic Iranian Iranian Italic Italic Italic Tocharian Tocharian Tocharian Tocharian Tocharian

Reinforcement

∗

so-de hod-í ∗ so-u-to-

Particle Particle Particle, Demonstrative compound houtos-í Particle ∗ ke-eno-? Particle ∗ e-keĩnos Particle ekeinos-í Particle ∗ ai-táParticle ∗ e-so-u Particle Iteration sá-sa ayám-ayam Iteration ∗ ai-taParticle ∗ so-uParticle ∗ h g e-kj e? Particle ∗ is-to-? Demonstrative compound? ∗ ol-no-? Demonstrative compound? ∗ sə-mə Particle ∗ sə-ṣə Iteration ∗ sæ-n(ə) Demonstrative compound? ∗ sə-mp Particle ∗ sæ-n(ə) Demonstrative compound?

restore a deictic feature. Under a non-teleological account, by contrast, the semantics of reinforced demonstrative forms are not restricted in this way. In this section, I briefly discuss reinforced demonstratives whose use is not solely conditioned by spatial deixis. Diessel (2006) argues that demonstratives serve to coordinate the attention of the speaker and addressee on a particular referent (Clark et al. 1986). Subsequent work on demonstratives has not only revealed the importance of Diessel’s insight, but also refined it in various ways. Bohnemeyer (2018), for instance, argues that in addition to a proximal-distal spatial contrast demonstratives in Yucatec Maya are also sensitive to attention coordination. Non-reinforced forms presuppose the coordinated attention on a referent, whereas reinforced forms are used to direct the attention of an interlocutor to a referent. Reinforced demonstratives in classical Greek appear to exhibit a similar distribution. Table 6.6 reveals that classical Greek has a reinforced demonstrative for each category of spatial deixis. The -ı´ suffix of the reinforced forms is routinely described as a deictic particle (e.g. Smyth 1956: §§333g, 1240). In classical Greek, reinforced forms are almost entirely restricted to comedy. Although space constraints forbid a full-scale investigation of these forms, two observations suggest that they also

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DAVID GOLDSTEIN Table 6.6 Reinforced demonstratives in classical Greek

Non-reinforced Reinforced

Proximal

Medial

Distal

hóde hodí

hou˜tos houtosí

ekeĩnos ekeinosí

serve to direct attention to a referent. The first is that houtosı´ is predominantly used for exophoric reference (Neil 1901: 34). Speakers typically use this form to refer to entities in their visual field on stage. The non-reinforced forms do not exhibit this bias toward exophoric reference. The second generalization concerns the order in which reinforced and non-reinforced demonstratives occur in discourse. When reinforced and non-reinforced demonstratives are used to refer to the same referent, the reinforced forms are typically used first (Jacobson 2011: 144): (7)

AMPHITHEUS syˋ d’ allà tasdì tàs 2SG.NOM PTCL but DEM.ACC.PL DEF.ACC.PL dekéteis geu˜sai ten.year.old.ACC.PL taste.2SG.AOR.IMPV.MED labṓn. take.PTCP.AOR.ACT DIKAIOPOLIS ózousi khau˜tai présbeōn smell.3PL.PRES.IND.ACT CONJ.DEM.NOM.PL delegate.GEN.PL es tàs póleis oxýtaton into DEF.ACC.PL city.ACC.PL sharp.SUPL.ACC.SG hṓsper diatribe͂̄ s to͂̄ n xymmáchōn. COMP delay.GEN.SG DEF.GEN.PL ally.GEN.PL AMPHITHEUS “Then take a taste of this ten-year old treaty here.” DIKAIOPOLIS “This (treaty) also smells strongly of the delegates, who go around the towns to chide the allies for their delay.” Ar. Ach. 191–192

In this scene, Amphitheus is presenting Dikaiopolis with treaties in the form of wine skins. (The classical Greek word spondaı´ can mean both ‘treaty’ and ‘libations.’ ) He has already presented him with one treaty, which was rejected on account of its odor. In the example above, he presents the second with the phrase tasdì tàs dekéteis ‘these ten-year (wine skins)’, which contains the reinforced proximal deictic tasdı´. The proximal demonstrative is used because he is the one carrying the skins, and the reinforced form is used to direct Dikaiopolis’ attention to the second wine skin.

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The same attention-directing function is found with the reinforced medial demonstrative houtosı´: (8)

STREPSIADES atàr tı´ pot’ eis tḕn ge͂̄ n but WH.NOM.SG ever.ADV into DEF.ACC.SG earth.ACC.SG blépousin houtoiı´? look.3PL.PRES.ACT.IND DEM.NOM.PL STUDENT zētou˜sin hou˜toi tà katà seek.3PL.PRES.ACT.IND MED.NOM.PL DEF.ACC.PL below ge͂̄ s. earth.GEN.SG STREPSIADES “But why ever are these here staring at the ground?” STUDENT “They are searching for things below ground.” Ar. Nub. 187–188

At this point in the play, a number of students from Socrates’ school have just appeared on stage. Strepsiades draws the attention of his interlocutor to a subset of these students with the reinforced demonstrative pronoun houtoiı´. In his response, the student uses the same medial demonstrative but in its non-reinforced form, hou˜toi. The motivation for his selection appears to be that both he and Strepsiades have now coordinated their attention on the earth-gazers.¹⁰ In sum, the distribution of reinforced demonstratives suggests that their use is not conditioned solely by spatial deixis, as the status of the interlocutor’s attention also appears to play a role.

6.5 Envoi The central claim of this chapter is that the grammaticalization of a definite article is neither necessary nor sufficient for demonstrative reinforcement. Although the causes of demonstrative reinforcement remain an open question, ruling out a teleological account is a crucial first step toward an answer. One consequence of the claim advanced in this chapter is that the definiteness cycle as proposed by Van Gelderen (2011: 197–244) ceases to exist, since its two constituent changes have been decoupled. The question arises as to whether other linguistic cycles that have been analyzed as teleological will stand up to scrutiny.¹¹ ¹⁰ It may well be the case that the Latin reinforced demonstratives presented in Section 6.3.2 above also presuppose the absence of joint attention (Bourciez 1956: §127). ¹¹ I myself have proposed that head-initial conjunctions were created in the history of IndoEuropean in response to the deficiencies of postposed enclitic conjunction (Goldstein 2019: 19–20). In retrospect, there may well be a better account of this phenomenon.

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Acknowledgments For assistance with various aspects of this chapter, I would like to thank Merlijn Breunesse, Silvio Cruschina, Setayesh Dashti, Jessica DeLisi, Jared Klein, Adam Ledgeway, Eva-Maria Remberger, Lotte Sommerer, and Urd Vindenes. The comments and questions of Ian Hollenbaugh, Anahita Hoose, Teigo Onishi, Giuseppina Silvestri, and Brent Vine saved me from several gaffes.

7 Typology and history of unusual traits in Nivacle´ Lyle Campbell

7.1 Introduction Nivaclé is a Matacoan language, spoken in Argentina and Paraguay (a.k.a. Chulupı´ and Ashluslay). It has a number of unusual typological traits, some unique. The purposes of this chapter are to examine these unusual traits for their typological implications, to attempt to determine their origins, and to consider their implications for general claims about language typology and language change. The Matacoan language family (sometimes called Mataco-Mataguayan), includes Chorote, Maká, Nivaclé, and Wichı´. There has been no systematic reconstruction of Proto-Matacoan (see Campbell in preparation). The languages are clearly related to one another but the relationship is not particularly close, seen in the family tree in (1).

(1)

Proto-Matacoan

Wichí

Chorote

Nivaclé

Maká

I turn now to unusual and unique typological features of Nivaclé (see Campbell, Dı´az, and Ángel 2020 for details) with attention to typological implications and historical origins.

͡ 7.2 Unique speech sound kl ͡ /, unknown elsewhere in the world. It is Nivaclé has a unique speech sound, /kl a single segment with multiple articulatory gestures, a voiceless velar stop onset released into a voiced alveolar lateral approximant, articulated as simultaneously as possible (Gutiérrez 2014, 2015; Campbell, Dı´az, and Ángel 2020: 29–31).

Lyle Campbell, Typology and history of unusual traits in Nivaclé. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Lyle Campbell (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0007

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͡ / are: A few examples of words containing /kl ͡ ɑ ɑʔkl ͡ esa kl ͡ iʔiš kl ͡ oʔop kl ͡ ekl ͡ ekl ͡ is tsekl

‘rattlesnake’ ‘knife’ ‘word, language’ ‘winter’ ‘quail’ (PLURAL)

The Nivaclé phonemic inventory is given in Table 7.1. ͡ / and a voiceless /ɫ/, but no plain voiced lateral (no Nivaclé has two laterals, /kl /l/).¹ This is unusual, an exception to several claims about laterals and liquids in the world’s languages. Maddieson (1984: 88) proposed the following (see also Ladefoged and Maddieson 1996; WALS (https://wals.info/chapter/8, last accessed Nov. 29, 2020)): 1. A language with two or more liquids is expected to have a contrast of a lateral and a non-lateral (Maddieson 1984: 88). ͡ /) are laterals; there are no non-lateral However, both Nivaclé liquids (/ɫ/ and /kl liquids (no ‘r’ sounds). 2. A language with one or more laterals typically has one voiced lateral approximant: for example, a marked lateral in a language implies the presence also of plain ‘l,’ and so the presence of a voiceless ‘l’ implies the presence of Table 7.1 Nivaclé phonemic inventory p p’ Φ

t t’

m w i e

n

ts ts’ s ɫ ͡ kl

cˇ cˇ’ š

k k’ x

ʔ p’

y

a

u o ɑ

͡ / of Nivaclé is not like the velar lateral sounds reported ¹ The question has been raised whether the /kl in a few other languages, most but not all in Papua New Guinea (see Blevins 1994; François 2010), which would make it not unique. In fact these sounds are quite different, all either fully velar through͡ / begins with a voiceless velar out their production or fully voiced throughout, or both, while Nivaclé /kl fully stopped gesture ([k]) that is released almost simultaneously into a fully voiced alveolar approximant ([l]) gesture. The lateral part of this complex speech sound is not voiceless and has no appreciable friction, unlike the velar lateral affricates and ejectives described in a few of these languages. See Camp͡ / cannot be analyzed as a consonant bell, Díaz, and Ángel (2020) for evidence of why Nivaclé’s /kl cluster.

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plain ‘l’ (see also Ladefoged and Maddieson 1996: 198). As Maddieson and Emmorey (1984: 82) state it, “voiceless lateral approximants always occur together with a voiced lateral approximant in the inventory.” Although Nivaclé has two laterals, /ɫ/ is a voiceless approximant, not a fricative², ͡ / is not a plain approximant. Nivaclé has no plain (voiced) /l/. and /kl 3. A language with two or more laterals is expected to contrast them either in point of articulation or in manner of articulation, but not in both (Maddieson 1984: 88). The Nivaclé laterals, however, differ from one another in both point of articulation and manner of articulation. Given these exceptions to these claims, proposed generalizations about laterals need to be re-evaluated. The Nivaclé laterals illustrate how the discovery of a new speech sound in the documentation of little-known languages can have implications for general claims about language, important for language typology. ͡ / comes from Proto-Matacoan ∗ l (∗ l > kl ͡ ). The sound correspondence Nivaclé /kl in Matacoan languages is: Wichı´ Chorote Nivaclé Maká Proto-Matacoan ∗ ͡ l l kl l l Some Matacoan cognates illustrating this sound correspondence are given in Table 7.2. Table 7.2 Some Matacoan cognates illustrating reflexes of Proto-Matacoan ∗ l Wichí

Chorote

Nivaclé

Maká

-lan -leh lup -lah haʔlaʔ eleʔ iweʔla sulax

-lan -leh lop -la-xwa siwalak aʔlaʔ lem-i -ʔleh eleʔ weʔla soʔolah

͡ ɑn -kl ͡ eʔeš -kl ͡ oʔop kl ͡ ɑʔ -kl ͡ ɑk siwɑkl ͡ ɑʔ yiʔkl ͡ im kl ͡ iʔiš kl ͡ e ekl ͡ a xiweʔkl ͡ ax swuʔkl

-lan -lixlop siwalaχ leeme ‘smooth’ -lix-e xuwel -

‘to kill, hunt, beat’ ‘to wash, to clean’ ‘winter, hunger season’ ‘domestic animal CLF’ ‘spider’ ‘tree, wood’ ‘white (clean)’ ‘language, word’ ‘parrot’ ‘moon, month’ ‘anteater’

² Nivaclé’s voiceless ‘l’ is conventionally represented as [ɬ], as is voiceless ‘l’ in a number of other indigenous languages in the Americas, even though phonetically in Nivaclé and several other languages it is a voiceless lateral approximant [l̥]. In Nivaclé it has little friction.

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͡ is unique, not known in any other language. Why would This sound change l > kl ͡ ? Sound changes are usually a simple, unmarked l change to a highly marked kl from more marked (more complex phonetically, more difficult to pronounce or to learn, more easily lost) to less marked. This change has no readily apparent phonetic motivation and goes against the expected direction of sound change and against the assumption that sound changes do not result in violations of language ͡ has taken place and violates these assumptions universals. Why the change l > kl needs to be explained.

7.3 Nivaclé revved-up valency-increasing morpheme Another unusual trait of Nivaclé is its valency-increasing morphology. Valency refers to the number of arguments controlled by a verb, the number of core arguments of a verb. Examples here illustrate Nivaclé’s third-person valency increasing suffix -eš. It increases the valency of whatever it is attached to, and it can be attached not only to verbs but also to other lexical categories. When attached to a noun or adjective it produces an intransitive predicate; on an intransitive verb it gives a transitive verb; and it makes ditransitive verbs from transitive verbs. Some examples follow. Noun > Intransitive predicate: (1) ayisxan, tɑʔɫɑs-eš clay, jug-VAL ‘as for clay, it makes/becomes a jug’ (tɑʔɫɑs ‘jug, pot’) ͡ eʔ-eš paʔ yitsaʔat (2) ɫ-kaʔanwakl 3POS-chief-VAL REP town ͡ eʔ ‘chief, general, governor, ‘he was/became the town’s mayor’ (kaʔanwakl mayor, boss’) Adjective > Intransitive predicate: (3) ts’aʔm-eš ‘it is slow’ (ts’am ‘slow’) (4) wakaɫ-eš ‘it is ready, ripe’ (wakaɫ ‘ready, ripe’) Intransitive > Transitive: (5) a. n-am-eš paʔ ɫ-cˇexe 3ACT.DIR-arrive-VAL REP 3POS-game ‘he brought his prey/game (hunted animal)’ b. n-am 3ACT.DIR-arrive ‘he arrived’

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Transitive > Ditransitive (with applicative functions: instrumental, recipient/ benefactive): ͡ e (VALENCY =3) (6) a. k’a-tsxuɫ-eš xa-waʔ saxecˇ na-piʔ niwakl 1ACT-count-VAL NVIS-PL.NHUM fish PL.HUM man ‘I counted the fish for these men’ b. k’a-tsxuɫ xa-waʔ saxecˇ (VAL = 2) 1ACT-count NVIS-PL.NHUM fish ‘I counted the fish’ (7) a. tiyɑx-eš paʔ ɫ-tsɑk (VALENCY = 3) 3ACT.shoot-VAL DEM.REP 3POS-sling ‘he/she shot it with his/her sling’ b. tiyɑʔɑx (VALENCY = 2) 3ACT.shoot ‘he/she shot it’ Example (7c), however, is ungrammatical in the meaning ‘he shot it with his sling’: (7) c. ∗ tiyɑ(ʔɑ)x 3ACT.shoot-VAL

paʔ DEM.REP

ɫ-tsɑk 3pos-sling

͡ aš naʔ cˇiykl ͡ ɑnešam (VALENCY = 3) (8) a. x-oɸɫ-it-eš kaʔ kl 1ACT-break-CAUS-VAL REM glass VIS hammer ‘I broke the glass with the hammer’ b. x-oɸɫ-it kaʔ 1ACT-break-CAUS REM ‘I broke the glass’

͡ aš (VALENCY = 2) kl glass

c. y-oɸaɫ (VALENCY = 1) 3ACT-break ‘it broke, shattered’ This unusual valency-increasing morpheme has typological implications. It is unusual for a valency-changing morpheme to attach to categories other than verbs, to increase the valency of whatever it is attached to. Linguists almost always define valency changing as being about verbs alone (cf. Haspelmath and Hartmann 2015: 42). The Nivaclé valency-increasing morpheme shows that this view needs to be revised to allow also for valency-increasing morphemes to attach to lexical categories other than verbs, resulting in new predicates not based on verb roots. It has been observed that valency-changing categories often exhibit formal and semantic idiosyncrasies and arbitrary restrictions on productivity (Haspelmath

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and Mu¨ller-Bardey 2004: 15; see also Dixon and Aikhenvald 1997: 80; Lyutikova and Bonch-Osmolovskaya 2006). However, Nivaclé valency-increasing is completely productive and regular, very frequent. Another claim holds that “valence changes most often affect subjects and direct objects . . . while oblique or adverbial arguments tend to resist (valence) changes” (Haspelmath and Mu¨ller-Bardey 2004: 1141). However, in Nivaclé valency changing that results in ditransitives routinely affects oblique arguments, making them core arguments of their verbs, as in examples (6a) and (8a) above. It is important to identify and investigate valency-increasing morphemes that have unusual typological properties, such as in Nivaclé, in order to understand valency more completely across languages. What is the origin of Nivaclé’s valency-increasing -eš? Its form can be reconstructed as Proto-Matacoan ∗ -ex. The following sound correspondence is seen in cognates when the sound in question comes after ∗ e,³ some examples seen in Tables 7.2 and 7.3: Wichı´ Chorote Nivaclé Maká Proto-Matacoan ∗ h h (x) š x x Cognates of Nivaclé -eš are seen in Table 7.3. Table 7.3 Cognates in Matacoan languages of Nivaclé -eš ‘valency increasing affix’ Form

Attaches to

Functions (valency increasing)

Nivaclé

-eš

verbs, nouns, adjectives, pronouns

Chorote

-eh (-ex)

verbs (nouns)

Wichí

-eh (-ex)

verbs

Maká

-ix

verbs, (adverbs)

ProtoMatacoan

∗

verbs (to others categories?)

transitive > ditransitive (applicative: instrumental, recipient) intransitive > transitive noun/adjective > predicate noun/pronoun/adjective > temporal adverb transitive > ditransitive (applicative: instrumental) intransitive > transitive (intensifier, e.g. ‘very young person,’ ‘more than a chief ’) transitive > ditransitive (applicative: instrumental, transitive > ditransitive (applicative: instrumental) (proximity/contact) transitive > ditransitive (applicative: instrumental) intransitive > transitive

-ex

³ The ∗ e is reflected as e in all four languages, though it becomes i in certain contexts in Maká.

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To what, however, could this ∗ -ex be attached, and what was its function or functions? It seems clear that Proto-Matacoan ∗ -ex at least functioned to increase valency; when attached to a transitive verb it gave a ditransitive that functioned as an instrumental applicative—this is reflected in all four Matacoan languages. Furthermore, it is likely that ∗ -ex could be attached also to intransitive verbs, making them transitive; this function is found in three of the Matacoan languages, but not in Maká. Whether ∗ -ex had additional functions (as its reflex in Nivaclé has) is unclear. How its different functions in the different languages developed or got lost is yet to be determined. Also, to what lexical categories it could be attached beyond just to verbs, if any, is unclear. The kinds of changes involved are interesting for morphosyntactic change generally. Whether it started out quite restricted and then later underwent changes in some of the language that expanded its functions and distribution or whether it began with broader functions and able to be attached to more things (as in Nivaclé) needs to be investigated.

7.4 Nivaclé demonstratives and nominal tense Nivaclé has many demonstratives (Campbell, Dı´az, and Ángel 2020: 173–199), based on the basic forms seen in Table 7.4. These demonstratives contrast with one another on several semantic parameters: naʔ ‘visible, masculine’ (abbreviated VIS) ɬɑʔ ‘visible, feminine’ (FEM.VIS) xaʔ ‘not visible but previously seen by the speaker (NVIS) paʔ ‘never seen by the speaker, reported or hearsay’ (REP) kaʔ ‘previously seen by the speaker but no longer in existence, deceased’ (REM, for ‘removed’) The plural forms contrast human (-piʔ) and non-human (-waʔ).

Table 7.4 Basic demonstratives in Nivaclé Visible to speaker

Not visible to speaker, seen previously

Hearsay, reported or, heard, never seen by speaker

No longer extant, deceased

naʔ napiʔ nawaʔ ɬaʔ

xaʔ xapiʔ xawaʔ ɬxaʔ

paʔ papiʔ pawaʔ ɬpaʔ

kaʔ kapiʔ kawaʔ ɬkaʔ

Sg Masculine Pl Human Pl Non-human Sg Feminine

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Nivaclé has no direct marking of ‘tense,’ but has a kind of nominal tense (cf. Nordlinger and Sadler 2004) inferred from the demonstratives, as in (9) and (10): (9) yoy naʔ siwɑnɑk escape VIS.DEM dorado.fish is escaping escaping ‘the dorado (fish) is escaping’ naʔ = visible, so present by inference. (10) yoy xaʔ siwɑnɑk escape NVIS.DEM dorado.fish escaped’ ‘the dorado (fish) escaped’ xaʔ = not visible now, though seen previously, so past by inference. Languages like Nivaclé with nominal tense but with no other morphosyntactic marking of tense are very rare, and this case where tense is inferred from properties of the demonstratives with no other overt marking of tense is exceedingly rare. Such cases contribute to overall typological understanding of TAM marking crosslinguistically. They need to be investigated in detail. Did Proto-Matacoan have verbal tense markers? If so, they would have had to have been lost later in Nivaclé. Or did Proto-Matacoan lack tense marking (as in Nivaclé and Maká)? If so, the tense markers of Wichı´ and Chorote would have had to develop later in their independent histories. Proto-Matacoan appears to have lacked grammatical tense. The tense-like markers in Wichı´ and Chorote appear to have developed from grammaticalizations of demonstratives and adverbs. Potential cognates of tense-like markers in the Matacoan languages are given in Table 7.5, followed by discussion of their possible origins. (The headings NA, NE, PA, etc. in Table 7.5 are just shorthand labels to identify sets of similar elements). Some of these tense-like markers appear to involve a verb (or other constituent) followed by a conjunction being reanalyzed as a verb with tense-like marking: Verb + CONJUNCTION > Verb=TENSE(-LIKE). This was possible because many of the conjunction were derived from demonstratives that had temporal implications, as in the sequence in Nivaclé illustrated in (11) and (12): (11) yi-ʔwan paʔ yi-ɸaʔaš ɬɑn 3ACT-see REP.CONJ 3ACT-chop SAY ‘he found it (the honey) and he chopped it (out), they say’ ͡ et=šaʔne (12) tax tiʔ ni-n-teʔex paʔ t’ekl ɬɑn but CONJ NEG-3SUBO-hit REP.CONJ 3ACT.VBLZ-jump=DOWN SAY ‘but it (jaguar) couldn’t hit it (mule) and (then) it (jaguar) attacked it (mule)’ Here paʔ ‘reportative conjunction’ comes from the demonstrative paʔ (REPORTATIVE) ‘not seen by the speaker, reported by someone else.’ Because it refers to things reported, it typically involves things in the past and so allows

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Table 7.5 Potential cognates of tense or tense-like markers in Matacoan languages NA

NE

PA

Wichí =naxhi ‘near past’

Wichí -neʔ ‘recent past’ ne ‘recent, now’

Wichí =pex ‘iterative, habitual,’ ‘always, each time’

Chorote naʔa(h) ‘near future’

Chorote ʔne ‘then, at that moment’

Chorote -pex ‘remote past,’ always, each’

Nivaclé naʔ ‘demonstrative visible to speaker’

Nivaclé =ne=ʔe ‘here, present’ (< naʔ ‘visible demonstrative’ + =ʔe ‘locative’) =na ‘recent’

Nivaclé paʔ ‘demonstrative reported, hearsay,’ ‘conjunction (reportative)’

Maká naʔ, neʔ ‘this (near speaker but not in hand’s reach)

Maká naʔax, neʔex ‘some’

Maká paʔax, pakhaʔax ‘long ago (mythical time)’

P’A Wichí =p’a-nte ‘remote past’ (not seen)

MA Wichí =mathi ‘distant past’

Chorote p’an, =p’an ‘mirative,’ ‘delayed reaction’

Chorote ma, mi ‘question morpheme’ mé ‘perhaps, possibly’

P’A Nivaclé p’a-ɬa ‘already, long ago, ancestor’ (-ɬa ‘EXTRACTION’)

MA Nivaclé meʔeɬ ‘when, at the time when’ (< ma ‘then’ + -eɬ ‘PL EXCLUSIVE’

Maká —

Maká meXe ‘stil, yet,’ meXente, mente ‘not yet’ me ‘question morpheme’

XA Wichí -hila, -hinam hi…la, hi…na ‘future’

TA Wichí =nte ‘remote past’ (-te ‘a while ago’) at’e ‘what, which, who?’

Chorote xa ‘prospective’ [Iyojwa’ja’a dialect]; xayi, xayu ‘prospective, desiderative’ (other dialect)

Chorote -tax/-ta ‘conditional, irrealis, frustrative, imperfective’ Continued

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Table 7.5 Continued NA

NE

Nivaclé xayu ‘prospective’; =xayu ‘desiderative

Nivaclé -tax ‘irrealis, conditional, frustrative’; tax ‘conditional (‘but,’ ‘until’); taʔ ‘what, when, where?,’ CONJUNCTION manner clause’; tan ‘NEGATIVE’ (‘but not,’ negative expectation’)

Maká -heyu, -hiyu, -xu-, -xo, -eyu, -iyu ‘desiderative’

Maká niteʔ ‘no’

PA

‘past’ inferences; it is very common in narratives about past events. The hypothetical next step not taken by Nivaclé but seemingly taken in some sister languages is the change of, for example, yi-ʔwan paʔ (3ACT-see REP.CONJ) to yiʔ-wan=paʔ (3ACT-see=PAST.TENSE), where the conjunction derived from a demonstrative with ‘past’ inferences became grammaticalized as a clitic with past tense senses. To what extent do the tense-like morphemes in Matacoan languages fit this hypothesis? To answer this it will help first to compare cognate demonstratives in the languages. The NA set (those that appear to involve cognates to the Nivaclé demonstrative naʔ): Nivaclé naʔ ‘visible to the speaker’ Maká naʔ ‘near the speaker but not in hand’s reach, in sight’ Chorote ʔna, ʔni ‘touchable, ostensible’ (‘within hand’s reach or in physical contact with the speaker’). Carol (2014: 390, 392) gives a second, apparently related demonstrative, na, ni ‘near,’ described as: ‘it indicates that what is referred to is near the speaker, although often it appears in stories without reference to spatial distance.’⁴ Wichı´ =na ‘near the speaker, touchable’ (clitic).

The PA set: Nivaclé paʔ ‘hearsay or reported but never seen by the speaker.’ Maká paʔ, peʔ ‘absent, not seen previously by the speaker’ (abstract, not appreciable by one’s own senses). ⁴ ‘indica que lo referido está cerca del hablante, aunque a menudo aparece en relatos sin referencia a distancia espacial.’ (My translation, LC.)

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Chorote pa, pi ‘unknown, inaccessible,’ described as “the referent is unknown or inaccessible to the speaker”⁵ (Carol 2014: 394). Wichı´ =pa ‘not visible.’ It is described as: “pa indicates that the referent denoted by the noun is outside the visual field or is unknown and, consequently, the speaker is not certain whether the referent is there or not. The speaker may know of the referent either because he/she was told or because he/she hears it or by inference based on evidence that is accessible to him/her”⁶ (Necrcesian 2014: 185).

The XA set: Nivaclé xaʔ ‘not visible to speaker, seen previously.’ Maká haʔ ‘not in hand’s reach, distant.’ Gerzenstein’s (1995: 166) description is not precise. Chorote xa ‘not visible to speaker, seen before’ (Carol 2014: 390). Wichı´ ha ‘question morpheme, previously known to the speaker’ (not a demonstrative per se). The TA set: possibly an old irrealis/conditional is behind forms in this set, or an interrogative demonstrative ‘what?, which?’; however, the forms are not sufficiently clear to conclude that they really belong together.

Also relevant is the temporal sense of Nivaclé -eš ‘valency-increasing’; when attached to certain nouns and demonstratives, it creates temporal adverbs, as in: ͡ ox-eš ‘many times, often’ (cf. akl ͡ ox ‘much, many’) akl xonšaʔx-eš ‘at midnight’ (cf. xonšaʔax ‘midnight’) ɬap-eš ‘earlier, past, before, at a time in the remote past’ (< ɬapa ‘already’) ɬecˇ-eš ‘then, at that time’ (cf. ɬecˇ ‘that, that very one’) nɑke-ʔeš ‘now’ (cf. nɑke ‘this here’) nuʔt-eš ‘late, it is very late) (cf. nuʔut ‘evening’) weʔɬe-ʔeš ‘once, one time’ (cf. weʔɬa ‘one’)

I hypothesize that already in Proto-Matacoan the ∗ -ex ‘valency-increasing’ affix could be attached to certain roots to create temporal adverbs, which in some cases evolved further to be tense-like morphemes that appear to involve demonstratives. When ∗ -ex was attached, it could elide a preceding a (as in Nivaclé ɬap-eš ‘earlier, past, before’ < ɬapa ‘earlier’ + -eš) or it could result in the e of ∗ -ex assimilating to a preceding a, as in Maká paʔax ‘long ago (mythical time)’ < paʔ + -ex. I hypothesize that Chorote -pex ‘remote past,’ ‘always,’ ‘each’ and Wichı´ =pex ‘iterative,’ ‘habitual,’ ⁵ ‘indica que el referente es desconocido o inaccesible para el hablante.’ (My translation, LC.) ⁶ ‘El sufijo -pa indica que el referente denotado por el sustantivo está fuera del campo visual o es desconocido y, como consecuencia, el hablante no está seguro si el referente está allí o no. El hablante puede saber del referente o bien porque le contaron o bien porque lo escucha o por inferencia a partir de evidencias que le son accesibles.’ (My translation, LC.)

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‘always,’ ‘each time’ are both from < ∗ paʔ + ∗ -ex. Other examples are considered below. 1. Temporal NA. Cases that appear to involve a demonstrative that is cognate with Nivaclé naʔ ‘visible demonstrative’ include the following. Nivaclé naʔ ‘visible demonstrative, visible conjunction’ (with temporal inferences of ‘present,’ seen above). Nivaclé also has the clitic =(ʔ)na ‘here, recent’ (an adverbial clitic, not tense), derived from the demonstrative. Wichı´ =naxhi ‘near past’ (‘yesterday past’). This comes from the NA demonstrative with perhaps Wichı´ suffix -hi ‘in’ (Nercesian 2014: 276). Chorote ʔna, ʔne ‘demonstrative touchable, ostensible’ (‘within reach of the hand or in physical contact with the speaker’) is described also as: “with respect to the temporal uses, this is the determinative that is used to refer to the deictic present … though it does not necessarily refer to it”⁷ (Carol 2014: 390–391). This sounds like the Nivaclé naʔ with its ‘present’ inferences. Chorote also has the clitic =naʔa(x) ‘near future,’ although it does not always signal ‘future’ (Carol 2014: 343). It may be derived from the adverbial particle naʔa(x) ‘before,’ perhaps from the NA + ∗ -eh ‘valency-increasing.’ Chorote ʔne ‘then, now’ (particle) also appears to reflect the NA demonstrative (Carol 2014: 338). Maká naʔax, neʔex ‘something’ (no temporal associations). There may be a NE form, likely related to the NA demonstrative, seen in the following. Nivaclé =ne=ʔe ‘here, present’ (adverbial clitic, not tense), from =naʔ ‘visible demonstrative’ + =ʔe ‘locative’ (cf. =na ‘recent’). Wichı´ =neʔ ‘recent past’ (clitic), ne ‘recent, now’ (adverb). Chorote ʔne ‘then, at that moment’ (adverb) 2. Temporal PA. Nivaclé paʔ ‘reportative, hearsay demonstrative, never seen by the speaker’ (common in tales set in remote times) has past inferences. Wichı´ =pex ‘iterative,’ ‘habitual,’ ‘always,’ ‘each time’; from PA + -∗ ex ‘valencyincreasing’? Chorote =pex ‘remote past,’ ‘always,’ ‘each’; from PA + -∗ ex ‘valency-increasing.’ Carol (2014: 341) describes it in this way: The enclitic -pe( j) ‘PREM’ (Remote Past) denotes remote past when it occurs in sentences with a temporal interpretation of past … When it modifies an eventuality that is interpreted in future … this same morpheme or an isomorphic one ⁷ ‘En cuanto a los usos temporales, este es el deteminante que se utiliza para referirse al presente deíctico … aunque no necesariamente refiere a él.’ (My translation, LC.)

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is generally perceived as an independent phonological word. More rarely it can mean repetition.⁸

Maká adverbs paʔax ‘at some remote or mythical time,’ pakhaʔax ‘long ago, another time.’ This is, possibly, from PA + -∗ ex ‘valency-increasing.’ 3. P’A(N). These forms appear to involve grammaticalization of an adverb based on p’a ‘already, long ago.’ Wichı´ has =p’a-nte ‘remote past (not seen)’; =nte means ‘remote past’ (from -te ‘a while ago’). It is possibly cognate with Chorote p’an, -p’an ‘mirative’ (‘surprise’), ‘delayed reaction’ (Carol 2014: 310–312). It may also be related to Nivaclé p’aɬa ‘already, long ago, ancestor’ (perhaps composed of p’a + -ɬa ‘extracted from’). 4. MA. Wichı´ =mathi ‘distant past’ (‘past, a while ago’), perhaps also involving -hi ‘in,’ possibly related to adverbial forms in the other languages, e.g. Nivaclé ma ‘then’ and meʔ-eɬ ‘at the time when’ (< ma ‘then’ + -eɬ ‘plural exclusive’); Maká meXe ‘still, yet’ (cf. meXente, mente ‘not yet’), and me ‘interrogative’; and Chorote ma, mi ‘interrogative marker’ (optional, maybe dialectal), mé ‘perhaps, possibly’ (Carol 2014: 312–313). Wichı´ has the richest set of tense markers. They are mostly clitics and are optional. The system is unusual in that the markers can attach not only to verbs, but to other constituents as well; it has several ‘past’ tense markers (distinguishing degrees of remoteness in the past), but little else; ‘present’ is not overtly marked, rather, Ø-marked verbs can ambiguously refer to ‘present,’ ‘past,’ or ‘future’ (Nercesian 2014: 182, 294–303). This is quite different from tense systems of most languages. Wichı´’s tense clitics appear to derive from demonstratives or adverbs via grammaticalization. Maká, like Nivaclé, lacks overt marking of tense (Gerzenstein 1994: 81–82). Whether overtly marked tense exists in Chorote is unclear: “the existence of a functional category Tense in Chorote is disputable, since the morphemes involved in the temporal interpretation have non-tense meanings (modal or aspectual) and/or are optional” and “it is possible that Chorote should be considered a language that does not mark the category tense morphologically”⁹ (Carol 2014: 349). As seen already, Nivaclé has no overt grammatical tense marking, though its demonstratives and conjunctions derived from demonstratives do signal temporal concepts, as do temporal adverbs. ⁸ ‘El enclítico -pe( j) ‘PREM’ denota pasado remoto cuando ocurre en oraciones con una interpretación pasado … Cuando modifica un evento que se interpreta en futuro … este mismo morfema o uno isomórfico tiene un significado muy diferente: ‘siempre’ o ‘cada vez (que)’ … En estos contextos generalmente se percibe como una palabra fonológica independiente. Más raramente puede denotar repetición.’ (My translation, LC.) ⁹ ‘La existencia de una categoría funcional Tiempo es discutible en chorote, ya que los morfemas que inciden en la interpretación temporal tienen significados no temporales (modales o aspectuales y/o son opcionales.’ (My translation, LC.)

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I conclude that Proto-Matacoan had no formal tense marking and that those tense-like markers that did develop in Wichı´ and in Chorote are the results of grammaticalizations of demonstratives that have temporal inferences or of adverbs in the independent histories of these languages. Their tense-like markers are not deeply woven into the fabric of their grammars.

7.5 Demonstratives and evidentiality Evidentiality is important in Nivaclé. However, unlike many South American languages, Nivaclé does not mark evidentiality on verbs. Rather in Nivaclé the demonstratives also signal evidentiality. This is exemplified in the contrast between (13) and (14), repeated from (9) and (10): (13) yoy naʔ siwɑnɑk escape VIS.DEM dorado.fish ‘the dorado (fish) is escaping’ naʔ = visible, known from visual evidence, and so asserted to be true. (14) yoy paʔ siwɑnɑk escape REP.DEM dorado.fish ‘the dorado (fish) escaped’ paʔ = reported, never seen personally, so not affirmed to be true: ‘they say that the dorado fish escaped; I do not affirm whether this is true.’ In South American languages evidentiality is typically marked on verbs; it is very rare for it to be signaled only by demonstratives. This case needs to be studied carefully to gain more complete understanding of evidentiality cross-linguistically. Nivaclé evidentiality raises interesting historical linguistics questions. Grammatical evidentiality is a trait characteristic of several linguistic areas in South America: the Vaupés, Guaporé-Mamoré, Amazonia, Andes, and the Chaco (Campbell, Chacon, and Elliott 2020). Should Nivaclé’s sharing of evidentiality marking with languages of one of these linguistic areas be considered evidence of Nivaclé’s membership in that linguistic area, even though in Nivaclé evidentiality is not marked on verbs as in the other languages? This kind of question highlights controversies about the status of linguistic areas and disagreements about criteria for defining them (Campbell 2017).

7.6 Relational concepts, lack of oblique constructions, and implications for transitivity Nivaclé has a rich system of directional and locative morphemes, attached primarily to verbs. Nivaclé generally lacks adpositions (prepositions and postpositions);

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its directional and locative bound morphemes fulfill the roles played by adpositions in other languages. This has consequences for transitivity. Examples of some of Nivaclé’s directional/locative morphemes, attached to the verb root -an ‘to put, place,’ follow (presented with x- ‘FIRST PERSON SINGULAR ACTIVE’): x-an ‘I put, place it’ (no suffix or clitic) xan=ʔapeʔe ‘I put it on top of ’ (=ʔapeʔe ‘on, on top of ’) xan=ʔeʔ ‘I place it, I put it (in its place)’ (=ʔeʔ ‘in,’ location where the action of the verb takes place) xan=cˇišaʔam ‘I put it up, I hang it up’ (=cˇišaʔam ‘up, upward’) xan=ʔɑkxi ‘I put it below, under’ (=ʔɑkxi ‘under, beneath’) xan=šaʔne ‘I put it down’ (=šaʔne ‘below, down’) xan=šiʔ ‘I put it inside’ (=šiʔ ‘in,’ ‘nonspecific location or direction’) xan=šicˇam ‘I lower it, I put it down, lower’ (=šicˇam ‘down, downward’)

Things coded by adpositions in other languages are signaled in Nivaclé by the directional/locative bound morphemes; for example, ‘I sat in the chair’ is literally equivalent to ‘I in-sit the chair,’ a transitive clause with ‘chair’ as its direct object. This is seen in the following few examples: (15) x-ɑw=ʔeʔ=šaʔne ɬaʔ wat-k’oʔowte 1ACT-sit=IN=DOWN FEM.DEM NPOS-chair ‘I sit in the chair’ (literally ‘I DOWN-sit in the chair’) (16) k’-uɬ=šaʔam naʔ yinɑʔɑt 1ACT-urinate=INSIDE VIS water ‘I pee into the water’ (literally ‘I INTO-urinate the water’) (17) xa-xoʔ=xi xaʔ ɸis-cˇat 1ACT-lie.down=LOC NVIS palm-grove ‘I lay down in the palm grove’ (literally ‘I IN-lie the palm-grove’) In examples (15)–(17), the noun phrases ɬaʔ wat-k’oʔowte ‘the chair,’ naʔ yinɑʔɑt ‘the water,’ and xaʔ ɸis-cˇat ‘the palm grove’ are not oblique constituents of the verb phrase, but rather function as core arguments, direct objects of the verbs, where the verbs bear clitics that indicate the direction or location of the noun phrase objects. This means Nivaclé has very unusual transitivity. Few languages lack oblique indirect objects. However, Nivaclé does not have indirect objects; rather, the directional/locative morphemes on verbs make what might otherwise have been an indirect object in an oblique phrase into a core object of the verb. This is typologically highly unusual and deserves careful investigation.

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7.7 Genitive noun classifiers Many languages in South America have noun classifiers (cf. Campbell 2012: 282). Nivaclé has two genitive noun classifiers, one for possessed domestic animals, another for possessed prey (game, hunted animals). It is not possible to say directly the equivalent of, for example, ‘my horse’; rather, its equivalent is ‘my-DOMESTIC.ANIMAL.CLASSIFIER horse.’ The genitive classifier for possessed ͡ ɑʔ; for possessed game (prey, hunted animals) it is -axeʔ. domestic animals is -kl Some examples are: ͡ ɑʔ nuʔu (1POS-GEN.CLF dog) ‘my dog’ (18) yi-kl ͡ ɑʔ woxotax (2POS-GEN.CLF pig) ‘your pig’ (19) a-kl ͡ ɑʔ (20) yicˇ=ey ɬɑn paʔ ɬ-kl kuwayutax 3ACT.go=AWAY SAY DEM.REP 3POS-GEN.CLF burro ‘his burro left (they say)’ (21) a. y-axeʔ tašinša (1POS-PREY.CLF brocket.deer) ‘my deer (prey, hunted/ killed deer)’ b. ɬ-axeʔ tašinša (3POS-PREY.CLF brocket.deer) ‘his/her deer (prey, hunted/killed deer)’ (22) ɬapeš kaʔ tata tiʔ tiyôʔôx kaʔ nɑnxate, before DEM.REM father CONJ 3ACT.shoot REM.DEM rabbit, ni-cˇaʔax ka-waʔ ɬ-axe-k 3ACT.HITHER-take REM.DEM-PL.NHUM 3POS-GEN.CLF.prey-PL nɑnxate-y rabbit-PL ‘earlier, father shot rabbit and he brought his rabbits (home)’ Genitive classifiers are not very common in the world’s languages, though several have them. However, they are exceedingly rare in languages that have no other noun classifiers of any sort, making Nivaclé highly unusual, and therefore very relevant to the typology of noun classifiers in general. Several other languages in the Chaco also have genitive classifiers. Could their presence in Nivaclé and other Matacoan languages be due to language contact in the hypothesized Chaco linguistic area (Campbell and Grondona 2012b; Campbell 2013)? Although these languages resist borrowing (see Campbell and Grondona 2012a; Campbell, Dı´az, and Ángel 2020: 485–487), the phonological shape of the classifier for possessed domestic animals makes it seem plausible that not only the concept but also its form owe their origins to borrowing. Nivaclé, Chorote, and Wichı´ appear to have cognates for their possessive classi͡ ɑʔ (where kl ͡ is from ∗ l), -lah (Bermejo Wichı´ fier for domestic animals: Nivaclé -kl

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-lo), and Chorote -l(y)a-xwa. The Maká classifier with the same meaning does not appear to be cognate. Maká has three genitive classifiers: -ɬinek ‘possessed domestic animal classifier’ (as in (23)), -wut ‘classifier for possessed animals that one rides,’ and -en-ek-xu’ ‘possessed cultivated plant classifier’ (Gerzenstein 1996: 56; Gerzenstein 1999: 253–254, 382, cf. 153). (23) yi-inek nunax (1POS-DOMESTIC.ANIMAL.CLF dog) ‘my dog’ (Gerzenstein 1996: 56) Chorote has -lyaxwa ‘possessed domestic animal classifier,’ as in (24): (24) i-lyaxwa alena ‘(1POS-DOMESTIC.ANIMAL. CLF dog) ‘my dog’ (Carol 2014: 364) These Maká and Chorote classifiers are not cognate with the Nivaclé classifier ͡ ɑʔ. Wichı´, on the other hand, has lo= ‘possessed domestic animal classifier,’ a -kl clitic, as in: (25) n’-lo=ʔasinox (1POS-DOMESTIC.ANIMAL. CLF dog) ‘my dog’ (Nercesian 2014: 168) (26) n’-lo=mitsi (1POS-DOMESTIC.ANIMAL.CLF cat) ‘my cat’ (Nercesian 2014: 168) While the Nivaclé, Chorote, and Wichı´ possessed domestic animal classifiers are apparently cognate forms, it is necessary to take into account similar forms in non-related languages that appear to involve diffusion. The Guacurúan languages Mocovı´, Toba, and Pilagá have the genitive classifier lo for possessed animals, as in: (27) Movoví: ñi i-lo pyoG (DEM 1POS-DOMESTIC.ANIMAL.CLF dog) ‘(the) my dog’ (Grondona 2002: 101). (28) Toba: ha-na i-lo wa:ka (FEM-DEM 1POS-DOMESTIC.ANIMAL.CLF cow) ‘my cow’ (Messineo 2003: 136, 187): (29) Pilagá: i-lo pyoq (1POS-DOMESTIC.ANIMAL.CLF dog) ‘my dog, my own dog’ (Vidal 2001: 85) Kadiweu, the other Guaicurúan language, has more than one noun classifier but lacks a cognate to the lo classifier of the others, Kadiweu: wiGadi ‘non-female domestic animal classifier,’ wiqate ‘female domestic animal classifier,’ nebi ‘generic classifier’ (Sandalo 1995: 57). A possessed domestic animal classifier is found also in a few other languages of the Chaco (Campbell and Grondona 2012b; Campbell 2013; Campbell 2017). This distribution with similar forms in several of the languages of both families but not in all of them seems indicative of possible

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borrowing. The presence of a classifier for possessed domestic animal in these languages deserves investigation as a feature potentially diffused among languages of the linguistic area.

7.8 Lexical suffixes Several additional unusual traits of Nivaclé could also have been included here (see Campbell, Dı´az, and Ángel 2020). I end with just a mention of one of these, lexical affixes, dealt with in detail in Campbell (2020). These are bound morphemes that, because of their concrete semantic content, in most languages would be expected to be coded as independent lexical items, members of major lexical categories (e.g. nouns, verbs, adjectives), not as bound affixes. Nivaclé has about 30 lexical affixes, some examples of which are: -ɸa ‘companion’ -mat ‘suffering from, bad in, not well-functioning in’ -mecˇ ‘expert, person with power over or special knowledge of something, ritual specialist in something’ -nɑk ‘fermented drinks’ -waɫ ‘have big’ (e.g. feet, ears, etc.) -waš, ‘wound, injury’ -yinxat, -yinxate ‘mourning kinship suffix’

Lexical suffixes are rare in the world’s languages, making Nivaclé significant for the typological understanding of lexical suffixes in general and for the challenges they present to some theoretical claims about such affixes and about grammaticalization in general.

7.9 Conclusions Nivaclé has many unusual linguistic traits, some unique. These traits are linguistically interesting in and of themselves. However, they also have broader implications, for typology and for language change. Their discovery in Nivaclé demonstrates how, without language documentation, we stand to lose unspeakable amounts of information and knowledge. In language documentation we find new and unusual (sometimes unique) typological traits, of importance to linguistic theory for understanding the full range of what is possible in human languages. Some findings provide checks on typological claims, leading to revising some and abandoning others. The unusual typological traits encountered in Nivaclé also illustrate how such features can have implications for claims about how and why

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languages change, while some raise unanswered questions that deserve attention in future investigation. Cases considered here also illustrate how typology and understanding of language change are often linked, and together contribute to understanding language change in general.

8 Greek ἔγνωκα and the perfect of PIE ∗ ǵneh - ‘know’ 3 Jay H. Jasanoff

As one equally at home on both sides of the synchronic-diachronic divide, our honorand needs no instruction in the difference between synchronic and diachronic explanations. Consider, for example, the morphologically irregular English plural houses [haʊzəz] (for expected [haʊsəz]). In a synchronic grammar of English, the irregular plural is accounted for by positing a lexically restricted rule or similar mechanism to convert the stem-final voiceless [-s-] of the singular ([haʊs]) to the voiced [-z-] of the plural. Historically, the [-z-] in houses is entirely regular, the product of a long-ago sound change that voiced all non-geminate intervocalic fricatives. The [-z-] is synchronically “irregular” only because other instances of the inherited s ~ z alternation have been lost, and new, non-alternating plurals have been acquired through analogy, borrowing, and degemination of -ss-. And there is more. Many contemporary speakers now say [haʊsəz], with [-s-] in both the singular and the plural.¹ For such speakers there is no longer anything to explain synchronically at all, since the word is completely regular. Historically, there has been an analogical change: [haʊsəz] has replaced [haʊzəz] on the model of kiss(es), price(s), race(s), and all the other s-final nouns where there is no singular: plural alternation. The change is formally reflected as a difference in synchronic grammars: speakers who say [haʊsəz] lack the special rule or diacritic feature that generates [haʊzəz] in the mental grammar of more conservative speakers.² The reason for rehearsing this well-known example is that there is a tendency in some present-day linguistic writing to portray purely descriptive facts about a grammar—e.g. the existence of a lexically restricted s → z voicing rule—or descriptive differences between grammars—e.g. the difference between a grammar that contains such a rule and one that does not—as somehow historically explanatory. The origin of this tendency goes back to the early days of generative phonology, when it was easier than it is now to lose sight of the divide between synchrony and diachrony. One reason for the confusion was the vogue for exceedingly abstract, ¹ I first noticed the variant with voiceless [-s-] in 1998. Among undergraduates in my classes it now seems to be about as common as the standard form with [-z-]. ² But [-z-] is apparently universal in the verb to house. ,

´ 3 - ‘know’. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Jay H. Jasanoff, Greek ε´γνωκα and the perfect of PIE ∗gneh Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Jay H. Jasanoff (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0008

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historically inspired underlying forms and synchronic rules that mirrored actual sound changes. If a rule that looked like the historical Great Vowel Shift was part of the synchronic phonology of English and was even called the “Great Vowel Shift,” it could seem a waste of time to fret over the distinction between the synchronic rule and the sound change five hundred years earlier.³ More importantly, there was a genuine effort in the early generative period to show that much of what traditionally passed for language change was better thought of as grammar change—rule addition, rule loss, rule simplification, etc. In the context of this discussion it was tempting to see a change like the replacement of [haʊzəz] by [haʊsəz] as the expression of a clean, grammar-simplifying operation of rule loss rather than as the cumulative effect of artificially set-up analogical proportions in the minds of individual speakers.⁴ We will not venture further into these waters. The “abstractness problem” in phonology has never been fully resolved, and it remains an open question whether and to what extent traditional analogy can be seen as triggered by the internal formal arrangements of a grammar rather than by specific configurations of surface forms or patterns. What is clear is that synchronic and diachronic explanations are different kinds of entities constructed for different purposes, and there is no a priori reason to expect that the mechanism we employ to generate a particular synchronic form or phenomenon will shed any light on how it came into being historically. ´ All these issues come to a head in the perfect of the Greek verb γιγνωσκω ‘come ´ to know, know.’ Under any set of expectations the perfect of γιγνωσκω should have been ∗ γέγνωκα, with the standard reduplication of initial #TR- as #TeTR- and the insertion of -κ-, a Greek innovation, between the stem-final long vowel and the perfect active endings (cf. θνᾱ- ‘die,’ perf. τέθνηκα; τλᾱ- ‘bear,’ perf. τέτληκα; πλη‘fill,’ perf. πέπληκα; etc.).⁵ But ∗ γέγνωκα is not what we find. In Homer there is no ´ attested of perfect γιγνωσκω at all, and when the perfect does appear, beginning in Pindar, it is ἔγνωκα, with what looks like the augment ἐ- taking the place of reduplication. “Augment reduplication” of this kind is common enough in Greek, but not in verbs beginning with stop + sonorant clusters. In the classical period ἐ-reduplication is the norm in verbs or roots beginning with stop + stop clusters (e.g. κτίζω ‘found,’ perf. ἔκτικα; φθείρω ‘corrupt,’ perf. ἔφθoρα, ἔφθαρκα; πταίω ‘stumble,’ perf. ἔπταικα), stop + sibilant clusters (e.g. ψαύω ‘touch,’ perf. ἔψαυκα; ξέω ‘smooth,’ perf. mid. ἔξεσμαι), sibilant + stop clusters (e.g. σπείρω ‘sow,’ perf. ἔσπαρκα; ἴσχω ‘check,’ perf. mid. ἔσχημαι; στέλλω ‘make ready,’ perf. ³ The Great Vowel Shift in particular was famously presented as part of the synchronic grammar of English in Chomsky and Halle 1968. ⁴ The “grammar change” approach was classically expounded in the unpublished 1965 dissertation of Paul Kiparsky. Its development can be followed in Kiparsky’s later works, e.g. Kiparsky 2010. ⁵ The -κ- was an import from the “κ-aorist” (ἔθηκα ‘I put,’ etc.) and, as in the aorist, originally confined to the active singular.

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ἔσταλκα); and the specific cluster hr- (e.g. ῥιγέω ‘shiver,’ perf. ἔρριγα; ῥέω ‘flow,’ perf. ἐρρύηκα). The origin of reduplication of this type is well known. It began in cases where the historically regular reduplicating syllable ∗ he-, typically from earlier ∗ se-, was de-aspirated to e- by Grassmann’s Law, as in ἔρριγα < ∗ hehrīg< ∗ sesrīg- or ἔσχημαι < ∗ heskh - < ∗ seskh -. From here it spread to other kinds of sclusters, and finally to obstruent clusters in general, sparing individual lexical items where an older, inherited reduplicated stem was well-established (e.g. κτάoμαι ‘obtain,’ perf. κέκτημαι beside ἔκτημαι; πίπτω ‘fall,’ perf. πέπτωκα). But apart from obviously secondary cases like ἔγραμμαι beside γέγραμμαι (: γράφω ‘write’), ἔβλαστηκα beside βέβλαστηκα (: βλαστάνω ‘sprout’), and a few others where the two types of reduplication are attested side by side,⁶ augment reduplication is unknown in roots in #TR-. In this context, let us now consider how a synchronic grammar of Greek might deal with the unexpected augment reduplication of ἔγνωκα, and what, if anything, this can tell us historically. The most straightforward synchronic “solution” would ´ simply be to mark γιγνωσκω as forming an irregular perfect and listing this as ἔγνωκα. But current phonological practice demands something more explanatory. ´ The irregularity of the verb γιγνωσκω is of a very specific type: it selects a kind of reduplication in the perfect that exists in Greek and is part of the language, but that is “wrong” for a verb whose root begins with γν-. Situations like this, in which two or more phonological or morphological rules compete for applicability to a particular input form, are the essence of what the framework of Optimality Theory (OT) was invented to describe. An OT account of ἔγνωκα is given in Zukoff ’s recent study of reduplication in Greek, Anatolian, Sanskrit, Germanic, and PIE (Zukoff 2017). Zukoff ’s key claim (229) is that the orthographic sequence was realized as [ŋn] in Greek, so that the root we write as γνω- was actually [ŋnɔ:-].⁷ He gives two possible pathways by which the phonetic onset [ŋn-] could have blocked consonantal reduplication of the normal kind: 1) reduplication of nasal + nasal clusters was penalized by the constraint ∗ PCR (“no poorly cued reduplication”), which had the effect of banning consonant repetition in initial clusters other than those consisting of a stop followed by a sonorant; or 2) the “correct” reduplication ∗ [ŋeŋnɔ:-] would have been disallowed on phonotactic grounds, and the alternative outputs that might have taken its place (e.g. ∗ γεγνω- [g-] and ∗ νεγνω- [n-]) were costlier, in constraintviolation terms, than ἐγνω-.

⁶ In καταγλωττίζω ‘kiss wantonly’ (Aristophanes) the perfect is only attested in the augmentreduplicated participle κατεγλωττισμένoς. ´ ⁷ So too in another verb from the same root, γνωρίζω, perf. ἐγνωρικα ‘make known.’

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Zukoff does not make a clear choice between these alternatives, both of which depend on his debatable reading of as [ŋn].⁸ Under the more traditional and still standard view that stands for [gn], an explanatory synchronic account of ἔγνωκα would have to identify some other property of the γν- onset as the cause of the failure of the root γνω- to reduplicate as ∗ γεγνω-. Zukoff himself suggests (256–258) that Steriade’s notion of minimal sonority distance (Steriade 1982) might be useful for this purpose. The specific formal mechanism chosen to generate ἔγνωκα in a synchronic grammar is not of interest to us here. The important thing to understand is that “explaining” ἔγνωκα in the context of a synchronic phonological description means finding a synchronic phonological rationale for why the perfect of ´ γιγνωσκω is ἔγνωκα and not ∗ γέγνωκα. Such a rationale might in principle be discoverable; Zukoff ’s theory is obviously a candidate. But none of this sheds any light on what actually happened. Even if, for the sake of argument, was pronounced [ŋn], as Zukoff claims, and even if the pronunciation [ŋn] was the result of a pre-Greek sound change of ∗ g to ∗ ŋ before nasals, as he implies, it would not follow that there was a historical form ∗ γέγνωκα (vel sim.) that was eliminated because it had become synchronically costlier or “worse” than ἔγνωκα.⁹ There is another historical possibility that a purely synchronic theory cannot take into account—the possibility that ∗ γέγνωκα never existed. The root ∗ ǵneh3 - ‘recognize, know’ is found in every branch of the IE family, and its morphological profile at the PIE level is mostly uncontroversial. There is abundant evidence for a nasal present ∗ ǵn̥-n(é)-h3 -, with analogically transformed reflexes in Indo-Iranian (cf. Ved. 3 sg. jānā́ti, YAv. pl. zānaṇti), Baltic (Lith. 1 sg. zˇinau˜), Tocharian (A 2 sg. knānat), Celtic (OIr. ad.gnin), and Germanic (Go. kann, inf. kunnan).¹⁰ Predictably correlated with this was a root aorist ∗ ǵn(é)h3 -, with traces in Greek (ἔγνων), Vedic (2 sg. opt. jñeyā́ḥ), and, in secondarily sigmatized form, Slavic (znaxъ). There was also a set of forms in ∗ -s- and ∗ -sḱ-, including a Narten s-present ∗ ǵnē ̆ ́ h3 -s- (cf. Hitt. ganešzi ‘finds,’ etc.) and reduplicated and ´ unreduplicated presents in ∗ -sḱe/o- (Gk. γιγνωσκω, Lat. (g)nōscō, etc.).¹¹ More ∗ questionable is whether there was a perfect ǵeǵn(ó)h3 -. The superficially attractive equation of Ved. perf. 1, 3 sg. jajñau with Lat. perf. (g)nōuī, supposedly pointing to ⁸ For the facts concerning the pronunciation of γ before nasals, see Allen 1968: 33–37. It seems clear that γ could stand for [ŋ] before μ, at least in the artificial word ἄγμα, the name given to the sound [ŋ] in the Greek grammatical tradition. As Allen points out, however, “there is no cogent [emphasis mine – JJ] evidence for γν = [ŋn], so that in this respect the Greek situation appears to be the reverse of the Latin.” ⁹ And indeed Zukoff makes no such explicit claim. But it is easy to see how a reader who accepts his synchronic analysis could be tempted to draw this conclusion. ¹⁰ Compare LIV 168–170. The individual treatments of the nasal present, typically with analogical restoration of the full root before the historical infix (Ved. jānā́ti < ∗ ǵn̥h3 -néH-, Lith. zˇino- < ∗ ǵn̥h3 néh2 -, Toch. A knāna- < “∗ ǵnō-na-,” etc.) are discussed in Jasanoff to appear 8 f. ¹¹ Disentangling the sigmatic forms of this root is not a trivial undertaking. My most recent discussion is in Jasanoff 2019: 16–20.

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a post-laryngeal-loss perf. 1, 3 sg. ∗ ǵeǵnṓu (vel sim.), is a staple of the older comparative literature.¹² But the perfect of the root jñā-, as discussed by Ku¨mmel (2000: 205 f.), is barely attested in Vedic, and Lat. (g)nōuī looks less like an old perfect, which would have been expected to generalize its reduplicated weak stem (cf. dedī ‘gave,’ stetī ‘stood’), than a former root aorist (cf. plēuī ‘filled’ beside Gk. aor. πλῆτo ´ ‘rejoice’ (LIV 393), etc.). In the ‘filled (intr.),’ quiēuī ‘rested’ beside YAv. aor. šiiāother branches, Greek, as we have seen, has no perfect in Homer at all. Germanic, generally a good repository of inherited perfects, has two preterito-presents from the root ∗ ǵneh3 -, but neither is etymologically what it seems to be: Go. kann is a transformed nasal present, and OIcel. 1, 3 sg. kná ‘can’ is an analogically altered form of the strong verb ∗ knē( j)an (= OE cnāwan).¹³ The only IE branch with a well-formed, potentially old perfect of the root ∗ ǵneh3 - is Celtic, where OIr. 1 sg. ad.gén, 3 sg. .géuin ‘know(s), knew’ and Welsh adwaen point to earlier ∗ gegna, ∗ -e, with generalized weak stem.¹⁴ The question must be asked whether this Celtic stem is a retention or an innovation. It is not hard to find cases where a particular tense stem of a particular verb can be projected back to the parent language on the basis of its occurrence in a single language or branch. Routine instances include the “stative” present middle of the root ∗ steu- ‘proclaim,’ found only in Hitt. 3 sg. ištuwāri ‘becomes known’ < PIE ∗ stuu̯-ór,¹⁵ or the thematic present ∗ néiH-e/o- ‘lead,’ found only in Indo-Iranian (Ved. náyati, YAv. naiieiti). These examples, despite their isolation, are convincing because the relevant forms are predicted by the morphological and semantic patterning of the roots ∗ steu- and ∗ neiH-, respectively.¹⁶ But this is not the case with the putative perfect ∗ ǵeǵn(ó)h3 - in relation to the root ∗ ǵneh3 -. Unlike the nearly synonymous perfect ∗ u̯(ó)id-, which is robustly attested all over the family (cf. Ved. véda, Gk. (ϝ)oἶδα, Go. wait, etc.), the expected reflexes of ∗ ǵeǵn(ó)h3 - are remarkable mainly for their absence. This is because the PIE perfect was properly a middle-aligned (“protomiddle”) formation, associated with other protomiddlebased formations in derivational complexes that I have called “stative-intransitive systems” (Jasanoff 2003: 154 ff.). The root ∗ ǵneh3 -, unlike its near synonym ∗ u̯eid-, did not conform to the stative-intransitive pattern; it had neither the characteristic ¹² And has been repeated by me more than once, e.g. in Jasanoff 2003: 61–62. As will emerge from what follows, however, the locus of the Vedic 1, 3 sg. perfect in -au and the Latin perfect in -uī could not have been in this root. ¹³ Pace Harðarson 1993: 80. I likewise find it unlikely that an inherited perfect ∗ (ǵe)ǵnō- could have been transformed into a West Germanic verbum purum ∗ knējan, as claimed in LIV (170). More attractive is the possibility that ∗ knējan replaced ∗∗ knēsan, the Germanic counterpart of Hitt. ganešzi (cf. Jasanoff 2019: 17). ¹⁴ The Welsh form goes back to ∗ ate-wo-gegn- (LIV 170). ¹⁵ To which, assuming the antiquity of the Hittite form, I would suggest adding PGmc. ∗ stuwai[þ] ‘atones for’ (cf. Jasanoff 170). ¹⁶ ∗ steu- formed a “stative-intransitive system” (see below), with the foundational h2 e-conjugation aorist ∗ stóu-/∗ st(é)u- attested in Ved. pass. aor. ástāvi ‘has been praised.’ In ∗ neiH-, the presence of a robust s-aorist (cf. Ved. anaiṣam, Hitt. 3 sg. pret. naiš, 2 sg. impv. mid. nešḫut) and the parallelism with other verbs of motion or change of physical state (e.g. Lat. uehō : perf. uēxī ‘convey,’ OCS vedǫ : aor. věsъ ‘lead,’ Ved. dáhati: aor. adhākṣam ‘burn,’ etc.) assure a thematic present for at least the “Inner” IE languages (Jasanoff 2003: 224–227).

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h2 e-conjugation aorist ∗ ǵnóh3 -/∗ ǵn(é)h3 - nor the “stative” root present in 3 sg. ∗ -ór of stative-intransitive systems.¹⁷ The primary derivatives of ∗ ǵneh3 - are morphologically active; when they mean ‘know’ (stative = Ger. kennen), this is typically a development of ‘come to know, recognize’ (inchoative = Ger. erkennen). Gk. ´ γιγνωσκω, with both stative and inchoative readings, perfectly illustrates the semantic fluidity of the root. In Latin the stative sense ‘know’ is represented by (cog)nōuī, synchronically a “perfect,” but historically an aorist meaning ‘I have recognized.’ In Romance, the cycle is repeated: Fr. connaître, It. conoscere, and Sp. conocer, the reflexes of inchoative (cog)nōscō ‘come to know, recognize,’ mean simply ‘know.’ OIr. ad.gén < ∗ gegna, then, is probably not old. The root ∗ ǵneh3 - did not make a perfect in PIE; when the need for a perfect arose in the individual IE languages, the languages either created a new form from scratch according to the productive method (so Skt. jajñau, Celtic ∗ gegna) or modified an existing present or aorist for the purpose (so Go. kann, OIcel. kná; Lat. gnōuī). A historical explanation of ἔγνωκα thus need not start from the presumption that ἔγνωκα arose from ∗ γέγνωκα (vel sim.) via some combination of sound change and analogy; no halfway plausible account along these lines has ever been discovered.¹⁸ The other possibility is that ἔγνωκα is not historically a perfect at all, but a retooled present or aorist. In that connection attention turns specifically to the inherited aorist ἔγνων, -ως, -ω. The general functional overlap of the perfect and the aorist needs no discussion. In the particular case of ∗ ǵneh3 -, the act of recognizing, as seen in the examples just discussed, commonly results in knowing.¹⁹ In some situations the ´ aorist of γιγνωσκω can only be translated by what is, in effect, a Greek perfect. At Il. 20.19–21 Poseidon asks Zeus why he has summoned the gods together: τὸν δ’ ἀπαμειβ´oμενoς πρoσέφη νεφεληγερέτα Zεύς. ἔγνως ἐννoσίγαιε ἐμὴν ἐν στήθεσι βoυλὴν ὧν ἕνεκα ξυνάγειρα. ‘Then Zeus, the cloud-gatherer, answered him, and said: Thou knowest, O Shaker of Earth, the purpose in my breast, for the which I gathered you hither’ (transl. Murray)

It was from usages like this, I suggest, that the perfect ἔγνωκα came into being. Speakers, especially young speakers, took the aorist ἔγνων in its resultative stative ¹⁷ There is, to be sure, a hapax passive aorist ájñāyi at RV VI. 65. 1 (ájñāyi tirás támasa´s cid aktū́n ‘[Uṣas] has been recognized even across the shadows of darkness’). But this is a productively made oppositional passive to the active root aorist ∗ ájñāt, parallel, e.g. to ádhāyi ‘has been put’ beside active ádhāt and (a)dāyi ‘has been given’ beside active ádāt. ¹⁸ Note that even under the assumption of Zukoff ’s sound change of ∗ -gn- > ∗ -ŋn-, there would have been no reason for inherited ∗ γέγνωκα [-ŋn-] to be unstable. The reduplication pattern indicated by the orthographic sequence γ_γν- remained viable at the key period in Greek, as shown by the persistence ´ of the present γιγνωσκω. ¹⁹ In English too, “recognize” has a common stative reading (“I recognize that. . .” ).

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´ value to be the missing perfect of γιγνωσκω. But the paradigm ἔγνων, -ως, -ω, etc. did not have the formal trappings of a perfect. While the augment could be parsed as a kind of reduplication (albeit here in a root of the “wrong” structure), proper perfects ended in -α, -ας, -ε, preceded in vowel-final roots by a hiatus-breaking -κ-. The solution for innovative speakers was to recharacterize the emerging perfect ἔγνω- by adding perfect morphology—the type of renewal seen (mutatis mutandis) in forms like substandard English drownded, flewed, knewed for standard drowned, flew, knew, or OE ēode ‘went’ for pre-OE ∗ ēo.²⁰ A formal parallel, as it happened, was already available in the language: in the compounds of the verb “to stand,” the perfect, for historically independent reasons, was made by substituting -κα, -κας, -κε, etc. for the -ν, -ς, -Ø of the nearly synonymous aorist (cf., e.g. aor. ἀνέστη ‘(has) stood up’ : perf. ἀνέστηκε ‘is standing,’ etc.).²¹ The result, for innovators, was a split: on the one hand, the “real” aorist ἔγνων, -ως, -ω; on the other, the new perfect ἔγνωκα, -κας, -κε—a transparent analogical innovation at the moment of its creation, but a descriptive anomaly for synchronic grammarians ever since.

²⁰ See, e.g. Rasmussen 1999: 382. The etymology of the “ēo-” part of ēode is disputed; the identity of the -de element as the redundantly added suffix of the dental preterite is not. ²¹ Another such case was ῥέω ‘flow,’ with aor. ἐρρύη and perf. ἐρρύηκε.

9 The surface position of Hittite subordinating kuit H. Craig Melchert

9.1 Introduction We find in Middle and New Hittite the use of kuit, neuter nominative-accusative singular of the interrogative-relative pronoun, as a subordinating conjunction.¹ Its most frequent sense by far is causal ‘since, because’ (compare Latin quod), but like the typologically comparable Sanskrit yád, it may express a range of relationships of the subordinate to the main clause.² Eventually in New Hittite it functions as a complementizer ‘that’ with verbs of perception (‘to see,’ ‘to hear,’ ‘to know’), but notably not verbs of speech: see Cotticelli-Kurras (1995).³ As elucidated by the late Gary Holland in a series of conference presentations unfortunately never published (e.g. Holland 2011), the first steps leading to this grammaticalization may be observed in the MH Mas¸at Letters:⁴ (1) HKM 3:3–4 (Mas¸at letter; MH/MS) ŠA LÚ.KÚR=mu kuit uttar ḫatrāeš n=at enemy-GEN.SG=1SG.DAT which word-ACC.SG write-PST2SG CONJ=it AŠME hear-PST1SG ‘I have heard the matter of the enemy that you wrote to me about.’ (2) HKM 2:4–8 (Mas¸at letter; MH/MS) ŠA ANŠE.KUR.RA.ḪI.A=mu kuit uttar horse-GEN.PL=1SG.DAT which word-ACC.SG

ḫatrāeš write-PST2SG

¹ I assume the standard division of Hittite texts and manuscripts into successive periods labeled Old, Middle, and New (often conventionally dated very approximately to 1670–1450, 1450–1380, and 1380–1200 BC). The sigla OH, MH, and NH refer to the date of composition, OS, MS, and NS to the date of the manuscripts. In glosses DN = divine name, GN = place name, PN = personal name, PTCL = particle. ² The claim in Hoffner and Melchert (2008: 415) of an exclusively causal sense is likely an oversimplification, but compelling instances of temporal or concessive use are rare. ³ Her alleged example with ‘to write’ (1995: 93) does not exist. ⁴ I stress that this tells us nothing about the dating of these letters relative to other MH texts. They are merely by far our largest collection of MH correspondence.

H. Craig Melchert, The surface position of Hittite subordinating kuit. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © H. Craig Melchert (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0009

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H. CRAIG MELCHERT n=ašta kāšma ANŠE.KUR.RA.ḪI.A karū parā neḫḫun CONJ=PTCL PTCL horse-ACC.PL already out send-PST1SG ‘A s to/for/regarding the matter of the horses that you wrote to me about, I have already sent horses out.’

In (1) ŠA LÚ.KÚR kuit uttar ‘the matter of the enemy which’ is part of a regular preposed relative clause resumed by =at ‘it,’ but in (2) ŠA ANŠE.KUR.RA.ḪI.A kuit uttar cannot be so analyzed, since it is never resumed in the main clause: it has become part of a subordinate clause to which the following clause merely refers. Suppression of the contextually redundant uttar ‘matter’ leads to a fully grammaticalized subordinating conjunction kuit ‘(as to the fact) that, (seeing) that’: (3) HKM 7:3–10 (Mas¸at letter; MH/MS) LÚ.MEŠ kiššan=mu kuit ḫatrāeš kāša=wa šapašalliēš thus=1SG.DAT that write-PST2SG PTCL=QUOT spy-ACC.PL piyenun… nu=ššan apēdani uddanī send-PST1SG CONJ=PTCL that matter-DAT-LOC.SG weranza=pat ēš call-PTCP.NOM.SG=PTCL be-IMV2SG ‘A s to the fact that you wrote to me as follows: “I have sent spies…” (further quoted speech), be fully attentive (lit. called) to that matter!’ In favorable contexts it is a short further step from ‘seeing that’ to ‘because, since,’ but the eventual bleaching to a complementizer ‘that’ is also unsurprising.⁵

9.2 Standard position of subordinating kuit Given its derivational history, we would expect kuit to stand in C of CP (see the analysis of Sanskrit yád by Hale 2007: 204), and its typical position early in its clause supports this. It is important to make explicit that Hittite does not have overt wh-movement, as shown by Goedegebuure (2009) and confirmed by Huggard (2011: 88–91). However, once grammaticalized as a subordinator/complementizer, kuit would behave like other Hittite subordinating conjunctions like māḫḫan ‘when, as soon as,’ kuitman ‘while, until,’ and others. Unlike them, kuit never occurs clause-initially. As per Melchert (2015: 5–8), this reflects that kuit is prosodically weak and cannot occur first in a phonological phrase, requiring a full phonological word to its left as its host. That its typical clause-second position is mostly phonologically ⁵ I underscore that the conjunction kuit is an innovation of Middle Hittite. It is never found in OH/OS or in NS copies of assured OH compositions. For arguments that OH kuit=a is not a form of the subordinating conjunction see Goedegebuure (forthcoming).

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conditioned by prosodic flip and not syntactically is shown by structures that cannot be explained as due to syntactic movement: (4) KBo 4.4 iii 29–30 (Annals of Muršili II; NH) URU nu=mu Iyaḫreššaš kuit KUR CONJ=1SG.DAT GN.NOM.SG because land-NOM-ACC.SG URU Piggainarešša=ya kūrur ēšta GN.GEN.SG=and hostile-NOM-ACC.SG be-PST3SG ‘Because Iyahressa and the land of Piggainaressa were hostile to me.’⁶ (5)

KUB 5.3+ ii 1 (Oracular inquiry; NH) ANA ÚŠ kuit šer ŠA DINGIR-LIM TUKU.TUKU-za plague-DAT-LOC.SG because for deity-GEN.SG anger-NOM.SG SIxSÁ-at determine-MED-PASS.PST3SG ‘Because anger of a deity was determined for the plague.’

In (4) the position of kuit violates the coordinate-structure constraint, while in (5) the required phonological hosting of kuit comes at the cost of making the postpositional phrase ANA ÚŠ šer (ḫingani šer) a discontinuous constituent.

9.3 The problem There are, however, at least thirty examples where subordinating kuit appears quite late in its clause:⁷ (6) KUB 14.1 Vo 89–90 (Indictment of Madduwatta; MH/MS) m URU nu Attaršiyaš LÚ Piggaya=ya ANA d UTU-ŠI CONJ PN-NOM.SG man-NOM.SG GN-GEN.SG=and His Majesty-DAT.SG LÚ.MEŠ kurēwaneš kuit self-governing-NOM.PL because ‘Since Attarsiya and the man of Piggaya are self-governing with respect to His Majesty.’ Here kuit follows not only a full subject, but also two constituents of the predicate. In a nominal sentence it stands last, but if an optional ašanzi ‘(they) are’ had been used, it would have been pre-verbal, as in (7): (7) KBo 5.3 iv 11–12 (Deeds of Šuppiluliuma I; NH) nu ABU=YA genzuwalaš kuit ēšta CONJ father=my-NOM.SG merciful-NOM.SG since be-PST3SG ⁶ Hittite often shows singular number agreement with the second of conjoined subjects. ⁷ I have systematically searched digitized data bases of assured MH compositions in MS and of assured NH compositions. Finding no differences in usage, I then also searched MH texts in NS copies. These added only a handful of further instances.

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H. CRAIG MELCHERT n=aš ŠA MUNUS-TI memiyani kāri CONJ=3SG.NOM woman-GEN.SG word-DAT-LOC.SG wish-DAT-LOC.SG tiyat step-PST3SG ‘Because my father was merciful, he acceded to the word of the woman.’

My first response to this pattern was to entertain that kuit might stand in the preverbal focus position established by Goedegebuure (2014: Chapter 7). However, several facts quickly refuted this idea. First, it is far from clear that the replacing and selective focus she identifies for this position makes sense for causal kuit. Furthermore, not all apparent instances of kuit in the predicate can possibly be construed as preverbal: (8) HKM 8:12–19 (Mas¸at letter; MH/MS) n=ašta LÚ.KÚR QATAMMA kuit KUR-e CONJ=PTCL enemy-NOM.SG thus because land-DAT-LOC.SG anda lammar lammar iattari into at every moment march-PRS3SG ‘Since the enemy thus enters the land at every moment.’ Here the kuit appears after the subject and a manner adverb of the predicate but is separated from the verb by a locatival phrase and a temporal adverb.⁸

9.4 One provisional analysis What all examples of postponed kuit known to me have in common is that kuit follows a discourse-salient constituent. This fact suggests the possibility that the late position of kuit in cases like (6)–(8) might be epiphenomenal. It is well established that constituents in Hittite in additive focus marked with the particle =a/ya ‘also, even’ are regularly fronted, appearing to the left of full nominal or accented pronominal subjects, unless it is the subject that is itself in such focus: see Goedegebuure (2014: Chapter 8)—also for recognition of the quite distinct use of =a/ya for genuine clause coordination. Similarly, those marked with the particle =a/ma, indicating contrastive focus, are also overwhelmingly fronted: see for the exceptional non-fronted examples Sideltsev and Molina (2015).⁹ In ⁸ See also the example in KBo 4.4 iii 59 (NH). Some instances where the kuit is not strictly preverbal are merely apparent exceptions, conditioned by the requirement of a phonological word as host: ammuk=ma=za parā ḫandānza kuit UN-aš ešun ‘Because I was a providential person’ (KUB 1.1+ i 46–47; NH). Syntactically, kuit is preverbal. As per Melchert (2015), the leftmost constituent in Hittite phonological phrases carries the primary phrasal stress—here the DP-initial adjective parā ḫandānza, by which kuit must be hosted. Compare for the resulting discontinuous constituent example (5), where the kuit likewise follows the initial constituent of the postpositional phrase. ⁹ My formulation in terms of fronting follows common practice and is not intended to make any theoretical claim.

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Melchert (forthcoming) I show that non-focused fronted constituents represent topicalization of various types and that both multiple topics and combinations of additive or contrastive focus with topicalization (in that order) are also far from rare: (9) KBo 4.6 Ro 21–23 (Prayer regarding Gassuliyawiya; NH) d Lelwanin f Gassuliyawias INA URU Samūha kuwapi¹⁰ tuk GN.LOC when 2SG.ACC DN.ACC PN.NOM tuēl GÉME-TUM Ù-az austa 2SG.GEN slave-NOM.SG dream-ABL see-PST3SG ‘When in Samuha your slave Gassuliyawiya saw you, Lelwani, in a dream.’ The locatival phrase ‘in Samuha’ is a new topic, while ‘you, Lelwani’ is anaphoric, raising to topichood the goddess introduced in the two preceding clauses. (10) KUB 22.70 Ro 82 (Oracular inquiry; NH) kī=ma EGIR-anda f Nārus KAxU-az kissan this-ACC.SG=PTCL afterwards PN.NOM mouth-ABL as follows IQBI say-PST3SG ‘But this afterwards Naru said from (her own) mouth as follows’ (direct quote follows) As frequently with a change of topic, the direct object ‘this’ is in contrastive focus, while the temporal adverb is merely topicalized. Both appear to the left of the full nominal subject, not in their usual position in the predicate.¹¹ Since strict proof of fronting in Hittite requires appearance of a constituent of the predicate to the left of a full nominal or pronominal subject, I naturally concentrated entirely on such cases in establishing topicalization. There is no doubt, however, that subjects may also be in additive or contrastive focus, and these co-occur with kuit: (11) KBo 2.6+ iii 6 (Oracular inquiry; NH) GIDIM=ya kuit TUKU.TUKU-uanza dead-NOM.SG=also because angry-NOM.SG ‘Because also the dead (person) is angry.’ For an example with contrastive focus =ma see KBo 5.13 i 12 (NH). In such instances where a single constituent is focused or topicalized no prosodic flip is necessary for the kuit to be properly hosted. ¹⁰ The surface position of kuwapi ‘when’ is phonologically conditioned like that of kuit. ¹¹ Several who read a draft of Melchert forthcoming protested that some constituents that I label topics are unlikely to have such a role. I must insist that word order and in some cases scopal facts show that temporal and local expressions in the left periphery in Hittite, both nominal case forms and adverbs, cannot be scene-setting elements in FrameP, but must be analyzed as displaced from their unmarked predicatival positions.

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Given undeniable cases of fronting of a contrastively focused constituent plus a topic, the following clause with postponed kuit without a full nominal subject may be analyzed just like (10):¹² (12) KBo 4.14 iii 23–24 (Charges of a king against a subordinate; NH) tuk=ma karū kuit kē INIM.MEŠ peran 2SG.DAT=PTCL previously since these words-NOM-ACC.PL before GAM tiyan DÙ-nun down place-PTCP.NOM-ACC.SG make-PST1SG ‘Since I had already had these words laid down before you.’ The ‘you’ has been fronted away from its postposition ‘before’ because it is in contrastive focus versus the generalized ‘personal servants of the king’ in the preceding context, while ‘already’ is a new topic reminding the addressee that the admonition that follows had already been made before. Subjects are par excellence topics in a discourse, and I am not aware of any facts precluding the assumption that Hittite subjects in surface clause-initial position may have undergone a normally invisible raising to a TopicP in the left periphery. In (8), repeated here as (13), the preceding context shows that the subject ‘the enemy’ is a resumed-mention topic across four clauses, while ‘thus’ is also an anaphoric topic linked to the predicates of those clauses. Their topicality is confirmed by the instruction that follows (with the topicalization of ‘thus’ implying impatience/frustration on the part of the speaker, the Hittite king, at the ease with which the enemy has entered the country and committed various depredations): (13) HKM 8:12–19 (Mas¸at Letter; MH/MS) n=ašta LÚ.KÚR QATAMMA kuit KUR-e CONJ=PTCL enemy-NOM.SG thus because land-DAT-LOC.SG anda lammar lammar iattari into at every moment march-PRS3SG ‘Since the enemy enters the land thus at every moment,’ (if you catch up with him somewhere, you should strike him!) Likewise in (6), repeated here as (14): (14) KUB 14.1 Vo 89-90 (Indictment of Madduwatta; MH/MS) m URU nu Attaršiyaš LÚ Piggaya=ya ANA CONJ PN-NOM.SG man-NOM.SG GN-GEN.SG=and His d LÚ.MEŠ UTU=ŠI kurēwaneš kuit Majesty-DAT.SG self-governing-NOM.PL because ‘Since Attarsiya and the man of Piggaya are self-governing with respect to His Majesty’ (while Madduwatta is a servant of His Majesty. Why has he aligned himself with them?) ¹² The same applies to KUB 14.8 Vo 27–28 and KUB 23.1+ ii 8–9 (both NH).

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Both the coordinated subject and ‘His Majesty’ are resumed-mention topics, but the identification of the former as ‘self-governing’ is not merely a comment with new information, but a new topic, whose saliency lies in the contrast with the status of Madduwatta as a mere servant of the Hittite king. See (23) below for another example of three topicalized constituents in a single clause. Example (7), repeated here as (15), may be analyzed in the same fashion: (15) KBo 5.3 iv 11–12 (Deeds of Šuppiluliuma I; NH) nu ABU=YA genzuwalaš kuit ēšta n=aš CONJ father=my-NOM.SG merciful-NOM.SG since be-PST3SG CONJ=he ŠA MUNUS-TI memiyani kāri tiyat woman-GEN.SG word-DAT-LOC.SG wish-DAT-LOC.SG step-PST3SG ‘(Precisely) because my father was merciful, he acceded to the word of the woman.’ Once again, the fact that the father of the king was merciful is not a mere comment characterizing the resumed-mention topic of ‘my father,’ but a new topic underscoring that he finally yielded to the plea, which he had previously rejected, in an unusual, unexpected act of compassion.¹³ Likewise in the example cited in footnote 8: ammuk=ma=za parā ḫandānza kuit UN-aš ešun ‘(Precisely) because I was a providential person.’ This is not merely an affirmation that the author Hattušili III was blessed, but an insistence that he uniquely enjoyed the providence of Ishtar, his patron goddess. As is typical in inflected languages where the person and number of the subject are expressed in the endings of the finite verb, Hittite uses accented pronominal subjects only where they are salient (Hoffner and Melchert 2008: 278). Their very use thus suggests that they are topics. Besides the example just cited see also: (16) KUB 14.1 Ro 26 (Indictment of Madduwatta; MH/MS) ug=a=wa=za manninkuwan kuit nu=war=at 1SG.NOM=PTCL=QUOT=REFL near since CONJ=QUOT=it ūk ḫūdāk walaḫmi 1SG.NOM at once strike-PRS1SG ‘(Precisely) because I am close by, I will strike it (the hostile country) at once.’ In these words of Madduwatta the first ‘I’ is in contrastive focus to the troops of the Hittite king mentioned in the preceding clause. The topicalized ‘near’ is also implicitly contrastive with the more distant position of the Hittite troops. Note the anaphoric topic use of ūk ‘I’ in the second clause, despite the marking of the ¹³ One may contrast KUB 19.37 ii 15–17 (Annals of Muršili II, NH), where the cause-effect relationship is entirely predictable and kuit stands in its typical position: nu=mu URU Timmuḫalaš kuit kappilalliš ēšta…nu=kan URU Timmuḫalan ANA d U EN=YA šippandaḫḫun ‘Because Timmuhala was hostile to me … I consecrated Timmuhala to the Storm-god, My Lord’ (making the city off limits to its previous inhabitants).

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subject on the finite verb. An unmarked formulation of the same content would have read nu=wa=za manninkuwan kuit nu=war=at ḫūdāk walaḫmi, where in the nominal sentence the use of the reflexive particle sufficiently marks the person and number, given the first-person singular wal(a)ḫmi in the following clause (Hoffner and Melchert 2008: 362–363). (17) KUB 17.21 iv 5–6 (Prayer of Arnuwanda I and Ašmunikal; MH/MS) nu wēš DINGIR.MEŠ-aš kuit naḫḫanteš nu CONJ 1PL.NOM god-DAT-LOC.PL since fearing-NOM.PL CONJ DINGIR.MEŠ-aš EZEN4 .HI.A EGIR-an=pat arwašta god-GEN.PL festival-DAT-LOC.PL behind=PTCL stand-PRS1PL ‘(Precisely) because we are god-fearing, we always attend to (lit. stand behind) the festivals of the gods.’ Although the immediately preceding context is lacking, the entire theme of the prayer makes it clear that ‘we’ (the pious Hittites) are being contrasted with the impious Kaskeans who have despoiled the gods’ temples and stolen the offerings to them. Since the verb naḫḫ- ‘to fear’ applies to all kinds of fear, the gods also surely stand in contrast to the Kaskeans: the Hittites fear the gods, not the enemy. I emphasize once again that the same content could have been unambiguously expressed in an unmarked construction: nu=za DINGIR.MEŠ-aš kuit naḫḫanteš, where the reflexive particle plus the first-person plural verb of the second clause would have assured a reading: ‘Because we are fearing toward the gods.’ I am confident that other combinations of contrastive focus plus topic standing before kuit may be analyzed in a similar fashion in all cases with sufficient context,¹⁴ and likewise subject DPs plus a second topic (DP or adverb) preceding kuit.¹⁵ Two other classes of examples call for further comment. First, there is a case where one of the two putatively topicalized constituents is the sentence negation: (18) IBoT 1.36 i 56 (Instructions for the Royal Bodyguard; MH/MS)¹⁶ LÚ LÚ nu MEŠEDI Ì.DU8 wašduli conj bodyguard-nom.sg gatekeeper-acc.sg error-dat-loc.sg GIŠ ēpzi ŠUKUR=wa ŪL kuit aušta seize-prs3sg spear-acc.sg=quot not since see-pst2sg ‘The bodyguard shall catch the gatekeeper in (his) error (saying): “Since you did not see the spear”’ (if some person tries to go up, will you ever see him?)

¹⁴ MH/MS: HKM 44:2–6, HKM 55: 36–39, KUB 17.21 iv 6–10; MH/NS: KUB 13.2 i 5–6; NH: KBo 3.4+ i 16–18, KBo 4.4 ii 9 and iii 59–63, KBo 5.6 i 18, KBo 5.8 i 37–38, KBo 11.1 Vo 15, KBo 19.76+KUB 14.20 i 37, KUB 1.1+ iv 5–6, KUB 21.19+ i 23. ¹⁵ MH/MS: HKM 17:26–30, KUB 14.1 Vo 56 and 85, KUB 23.72 Ro 36, KUB 31.79 Ro 7. ¹⁶ I regard this text as a MH composition, with Goedegebuure (2014: 21) and others. The very use of subordinating kuit (three times) argues against the tentative suggestion of Miller (2013: 103) that the text is OH.

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The ‘spear’ is a resumed-mention topic, the theme of the passage being that the gatekeeper is not to allow bodyguards to pass carrying their weapon, but the negative is a new topic, whose topicality is explained by the rest of the direct speech of the bodyguard. That the sentence negation may be topicalized is independently established: (19) Bo 86/299 ii 98–99 (Treaty of Tuthaliya IV with Kuruntiya; NH) n=at katta tuel=pat NUMUN-anza ḫarzi CONJ=it subsequently 2SG.GEN=PTCL progeny-NOM.SG hold-PRS3SG ŪL=at=ši=kan arḫa danzi not=it=3SG.DAT=PTCL away take-PRS3PL ‘Subsequently only your progeny shall possess it (the land of Tarhuntassa). They shall not take it away from them!’¹⁷ In an unmarked formulation we would find n=at=ši=kan ŪL arḫa danzi. The sentence negation is also frequently, though not obligatorily, topicalized in negative rhetorical questions (Hoffner and Melchert 2008: 341 and 343 with references). There are also five examples where kuit follows a full subject (standing or not in contrastive focus) plus the finite verb. One instance will suffice as an illustration: (20) KUB 13.4 i 25–26 (Instructions for priests and temple personnel; MH/NS) nu=šši naššu adanna peškezzi našma=šši akuwanna CONJ=3SG.DAT either eat-INF give-PRS3SG or=3SG.DAT drink-INF peškezzi nu=za apāš EN=ŠU give-PRS3SG CONJ=REFL 3SG.NOM master=his-NOM.SG azzikezzi akkuškezzi kuit n=aš eat-PRS3SG drink-PRS3SG because CONJ=3SG.NOM ZI-an arḫa lānza soul-ACC.SG away release-PTCP.NOM.SG ‘He (a servant) either gives him (his master) to eat or gives him to drink, and (precisely) because he, his master, eats and drinks, he is relaxed in his mind’ (and is favorably attached to him)¹⁸ Both apāš EN=ŠU and azzikezzi akkuškezzi are anaphoric topics, the former a resumed-mentioned topic over four intervening clauses that describe the servant. Use of the accented third-person pronoun and the appositional ‘his lord’ is motivated to make clear the shift of topic from the servant to the master. The latter’s act of eating and drinking is also promoted to topichood, since it is the triggering event for the master’s attitude.¹⁹ ¹⁷ Hittite here uses third singular agreement with the collective singular warwalan- ‘seed; progeny.’ ¹⁸ All the finite verb forms show the so-called marked imperfective stem, here expressing habituality. Hittite uses an accusative of respect for ‘as to his soul/mind.’ ¹⁹ The other examples are all NH: KBo 3.6+ iii 45–46, KBo 16.17+2.5a+5 iii 34–35, KUB 14.13+ iv 3–5, and KUB 14.14+ Vo 29–31.

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However, there is a non-trivial issue regarding the notion that a finite verb may be fronted as a topic. Bauer (2011) refuted earlier claims regarding verb fronting in Hittite, showing that virtually all examples involve either contrastive focus marked with =a/ma or less frequently additive focus marked by =a/=ya. It is noteworthy, however, that the single exception she cites (2011: 246, note 33) involves precisely causal kuit: (21) KUB 1.1 iv 11–13 (Autobiography of Hattušili III; NH) šallanunun=war=an kuit ammuk nu=war=an make great-PST1SG=QUOT=3SG.ACC since 1SG.NOM CONJ=QUOT=3SG.ACC ḫuwappi DI-ešni ḫuwappi DINGIR-LIM-ni evil lawsuit-DAT-LOC.SG evil deity-DAT-LOC.SG parā ŪL kuwapikki tarnaḫḫun forth not ever/anywhere let go- PST1SG ‘(Precisely) because I (and no one else) made him great, I never/nowhere consigned him to an evil lawsuit (or) to an evil deity.’²⁰ The use of the accented subject pronoun suggests that we are dealing with another instance of multiple topics, but the author chose here to give the goddess’s action more prominence than her responsibility for it. Obviously, the topicalization of the subject cannot strictly be proven. In any case, this example suggests that the finite verb may in fact be topicalized in a causal clause marked by kuit, thus permitting the same analysis of examples like (20). Finally, I feel compelled to acknowledge what is arguably the most extreme case of putatively late kuit: (22)

KUB 1.1+ iv 7–8 (Autobiography of Hattušili III; NH) d ammuk=ma LUGAL-UTTA IŠTAR GAŠAN=YA 1SG.DAT=PTCL kingship-ACC.SG DN.NOM lady=my-NOM.SG annišan=pat kuit memišket formerly=PTCL since speak-PST3SG “Since it was I to whom, Ishtar, My Lady, had repeatedly promised the kingship before” (at that time Ishtar, My Lady, appeared to my wife in a dream (saying): ‘I will proceed ahead of your husband, and all of Hattusha will come over to the side of your husband’)

The ‘me’ is in contrastive focus. It is followed by no less than three topicalized constituents. This clause is paragraph-initial, and one might suppose that the contrastive focus on ‘me’ underscores a change of topic from Sipaziti, the topic of the preceding two clauses. However, the so-called autobiography of Hattušili III is one of the most highly rhetorical compositions in Hittite literature, and anyone reading the text or ²⁰ Bauer gives no explicit textual reference, but I am confident that this is the single case of verb fronting without contrastive focus involving a causal subordinate clause to which she refers.

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hearing it recited would know that the contrast is actually with Hattušili’s archrival Urhi-Tešup. The latter is last mentioned by name 16 clauses earlier, but he is the running theme of the entire intervening discourse, and Sipaziti is introduced only as his subordinate. Moreover, shortly after the last naming of Urhi-Tešup comes a rhetorical question about him put in the mouth of a hypothetical interlocutor and addressed to Hattušili (KUB 1.1+ iii 74–75): annišan=war=an LUGAL-eznanni kuit tittanut ‘why did you previously install him (i.e., Urhi-Tešup) in the kingship?’ It thus becomes clear that ‘kingship’ and ‘previously’ are also resumed-mention topics, while Ishtar as the chief patron of Hattušili is the theme of the entire text, allowing her to be raised to topichood at virtually any time. While ostensibly the kuit clause merely introduces Ishtar’s assurance of his accession to kingship, it is formulated to recall at whose expense his triumph comes and its having been repeatedly promised long before. Lest this account of a contrastive focus plus three topicalizations seem strained, I offer the following incontrovertible example of triple topicalization: (23) KBo 14.21 i 21–22 (Oracular inquiry; NH) [AN]A d Pirwa MUNUS.LUGAL=y[a] ANA EZEN4 MU.KAM DN.DAT DN.DAT=and festival-DAT-LOC.SG year-GEN.SG 1 GU4 9 UDU.HI.A. . . LÚ SANGA IŠTU É=ŠU 1 cow-ACC.SG 9 sheep-ACC.PL priest-NOM.SG house=his-ABL peskezzi give-PRS3SG ‘(What if ) to Pirwa and the Queen for the annual festival the priest gives from his house one cow, nine sheep … (further list of offerings)?’ One may question just how much saliency adheres to the second or third topic, but the cited example is one of five such sentences in the text, and the rationale seems clear enough: the deity or deities to be honored come first, second comes the particular festival in which the offerings are to be made, and finally comes the specifications of the offerings. These all may vary, while the provision that the priest supplies the offerings ‘from his house’ is a constant.²¹

9.5 Conclusion I believe that the preceding analysis of instances of subordinating kuit ‘because, since’ appearing superficially late in the clause instead of in its typical clausesecond position is viable. They result from cases where the clause subject is either ²¹ We find another instance of three constituents topicalized to the left of the subject (Bo 86/299 iv 30–43; NH) in the so-called colophon of the text (a scribal addition indicating the topic or incipit of the text and sometimes the identity of the scribe who incised the text). Here also the hierarchical order makes good sense: first comes the direct object, the treaty tablet itself (its provisions), second the place where the text was at least ostensibly dictated and written down, third the long list of witnesses. Least salient is the subject, the name of the scribe who merely incised the text.

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in contrastive focus or topicalized in combination with other topicalized constituents. I have, however, qualified it as provisional for good reason. Careful readers will have noticed my negative formulation of the basis for it: that I know of no facts precluding that subjects, as topics, may stand in a TopicP in the left periphery (perhaps even routinely). I cannot at present offer positive evidence for this premise. In the absence of such evidence and a rigorous formal syntactic analysis, this proposal is far from assured. Furthermore, many syntacticians now posit both focus and topic positions at the left periphery of the vP.²² Sideltsev and Molina (2015) analyze non-fronted examples of contrastive focus =ma as standing in preverbal focus. That may well be correct, but one must consider the possibility that such instances stand in the vP FocusP position.²³ Given our still limited understanding of the unmarked order of constituents within the predicate other than preverb and verb, the question of a vP topic position in Hittite must also remain open. I wish merely to indicate that my analysis regarding the subjects in the examples discussed could be correct, but the structural position of the putative second (and subsequent) topics could be in the vP. I hope that further research by others who control formal syntax and discourse analysis far better than me may be able to confirm, refute, or refine my tentative conclusions.

Acknowledgment I am pleased and honored to contribute to this most merited tribute to Andrew Garrett, a friend of long standing whose impressive breadth of contributions to our field spans synchronic and diachronic phonetics, phonology, and syntax and language families from ancient Indo-European Anatolian to Uto-Aztecan. A formal syntactic account of my chosen topic is beyond my abilities, but I hope my survey of the facts will help guide others to a full solution.

²² I am indebted to Joseph Eska for bringing this to my attention. See for ample references Eska (2016: 35 note 6). ²³ In their cited examples (2015: 237), the constituent marked with =ma definitely cannot be in FocusP of the left periphery, but its structural position within the predicate is harder to determine.

10 PIE ∗meh2- ‘grow, be fruitful’ and Proto-Basque ∗ma, ∗ maha ‘fruit’ An apple by any other name… Juliette Blevins

10.1 Proto-Indo-European words for apples and other important plants Words for agricultural crops and valuable trade items are common Wanderwo¨rter, so it is not surprising that words for ‘apple,’ like Latin malum and Albanian mo¨lle, appear to be loans from Greek.¹ Nevertheless, traditional reconstructions of the Proto-Indo-European lexicon suggest two distinct terms for apple (Malus domestica L.): ∗ h2 éb(e/ŏ̄ )l-, based on Celtic, Germanic, Baltic, and Slavic as shown in (1); and, possibly, ∗ méh2 l-o-, whose form-meaning nexus is based primarily on Greek (Pokorny 1959; Friedrich 1970; Joki 1964; Friedrich 1970; Hamp 1979; Adams 1985; Campbell 1990; Blazˇek 1995; Beekes 2010, 2011; Watkins) as in (2).²

¹ Medieval Basque toponyms are from the Becerro Galicano de San Millán de la Cogolla (Becerro Galicano Digital), with earliest attestations given in square brackets. If a Proto-Basque form is included in Blevins (2018), it is in plain typeface; bold PB reconstructions are new. Basque forms are cited from the OEH; if the main entry is distinct from the cited form, it is enclosed in parentheses, as in e.g. B molko (mulko), where the OEH entry is mulko. EHHE = Euskal Hiztegi Historiko-Etimologikoa (Lakarra et al. 2018). ² This is an exploratory work, and it should be stressed from the start that both ‘apple’ cognate sets in IE are highly problematic, and that the comparanda in (1) are often attributed to borrowing and diffusion, as opposed to direct inheritance. PIE reconstructions in (1) and (2) are from Fenwick (2016) in which PIE ∗ h2 éb(ŏ̄ )l- and ∗ méh2 lo- are derived from a common phytonym. Following that work, stems are reconstructed using PIE phonology regardless of the number of branches in which a single stem is represented in order to maintain regularity with respect to morphological changes. Compare these with PIE ∗ h2 eb-(e/ŏ̄ )l‘apple’ with a CVC root identified (Wodtko et al. 2008: 262–266), and PIE ∗ abel- (Fortson 2010: 45, 79) where the initial laryngeal is absent, since comparanda are limited to languages which do not evidence PIE laryngeals. The Oscan placename Abella (noted by Virgil in the Aeneid as ‘apple-bearing’) is sometimes included in the cognate set in (1). Latin mālum, Albanian mollë, and Hittite ša-ma-lu, ša-am-lu ‘apple; ?apricot,’ have been included in the cognate set in (2) (Kroonen 2016), but the first two are more

Juliette Blevins, Proto-Indo-European ∗ meh2 - ‘grow, be fruitful’ and Proto-Basque ∗ ma, ∗ maha ‘fruit’. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Juliette Blevins (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0010

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The purpose of this chapter is to explore external support for PIE ∗ meh2 - ‘grow (big), flourish, be fruitful’ as the root of ∗ méh2 l-o- ‘apple, apple tree.’ (1) PIE ∗ h2 ébl- ‘apple, apple tree’ (from Fenwick 2016) PIE ∗ h2 ébl- ‘apple, apple tree’ → thematic ∗ h2 ébl-o- → English apple, Old High German apful, Crimean Gothic apel, Old Norse epli, Old Prussian woble, Old Czech jáblo, Old Irish ubhall, ubhull, Welsh afal, Breton aval ‘apple’ → amphikinetic coll. ∗ h2 ébōl(-s) → Proto-East Baltic ∗ â̄ bōl (gen. ∗ ābelés) ‘apple’ ∗̂ ābōl(s) → Latvian ā̂bols, Latgalian uobals, Lithuanian obuolỹs, óbuolas ‘apple’ ∗ ābelés → Latvian ā̂bele, Latgalian uobeļs, Lithuanian obelìs, obelė̃ ‘apple tree’ PIE ∗ h2 ébl̥ -dʰro-m ‘apple-instrument’? → Old Norse apaldr, Old English apuldor, apuldre, Old High German affoltra, affaltar ‘apple tree’ PIE ∗ h2 ébl̥ -ko- ‘having apples’ → Middle Irish ablach, abhlach ‘having apple trees’ PIE ∗ h2 ébl̥ -ni- ‘having apples’ → Old Prussian wobalni, Czech jablonˇ, Old Church Slavonic aблaнь ‘apple tree’ PIE ∗ h2 ébl̥ -no-s (m.), ∗ h2 ébl̥ -n-eh2 (f.) ‘of apples’ → Celtic ∗ áβallos (m.) → Gaulish avallo ‘apples’ → Celtic ∗ áβallā (f.) → Old Irish abhall, Old Breton aballen ‘apple tree’ (2) PIE ∗ méh2 l-o- ‘apple, apple tree’ (from Fenwick 2016) PIE ∗ méh2 l-o- ‘apple, apple tree’ → Attic μῆλoν, Doric μᾶλoν ‘apple, tree-fruit’ PIE ∗ meh2 l-éy-o- ‘made of apples’ → Attic μηλέα, Ionic μηλέη ‘apple tree’ PIE ∗ méh2 l-eiw-o- ‘to do with apples’ → Attic μήλειoς ‘apple-bearing’ PIE ∗ méh2 l-ih2 -no- ‘of apples’ → Attic μήλινoς, Aeolic, Boeotian μ´αλινoς ‘of apples’ The PIE root ∗ h2 éb(ŏ̄ )l- in (1) or ∗ abel- (Fortson 2010) has “a shape that seems un-Indo-European” and is attributed by some to prehistoric borrowing from a non-Indo-European language (Fortson 2010: 79). The occurrence of ∗ b, in particular, is noteworthy, since it is rare in the proto-language. The second form, ∗ méh2 l-o-, in (2), is based solely on Greek (thoughsee footnote 2), and therefore,

commonly treated as loans from Doric Greek μᾶλoυ ‘apple, tree-fruit,’ while the Hittite word may be borrowed from Hattic ša-a-wa-at ‘apple’ (Blazˇek 1995: 17). A third suggested Indo-European term for apple is Iranian ∗ amarna:- (Blazˇek 1995: 16), however, this may have the same root as Sanskrit, āmrám ‘mango,’ for which, see (3b.vii).

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its antiquity and PIE status have also been questioned.³ Beekes (2010: 944) and Watkins (2011: 55) attribute the Greek term to Mediterranean (non-IndoEuropean) origins. Even with these doubts about the Indo-European ancestry of each proto-form, the phonological similarity of the two roots has led some researchers to attempt to derive one from the other, or both from a single parent term (e.g. Gamkrelidze and Ivanov 1995; Zavaroni 2007) with unconvincing results. A recent endeavor along these lines is Fenwick (2016), in which both terms in (1) and (2) are derived from a general phytonym, PIE ∗ meh2 -l ‘growing thing, fruitful thing,’ itself a denominal form of PIE ∗ meh2 - ‘grow, increase, mature, be fruitful.’ From the ∗ -l- stem ∗ meh2 -l, is it suggested that further stem-extensions produced terms for specific cultivated and wild plants as detailed in (3). (3)

PIE ∗ meh2 - ‘grow, mature, be fruitful’ and derivatives from Fenwick (2016) a. ∗ meh2 -, ∗ moh2 -, ‘grow, mature, be fruitful’ → b. ∗ méh2 -l, ∗ móh2 -l ‘growing thing, fruitful thing’ → i ∗ móh2 -l-s (gen. ∗ méh2 -l-s) ‘growing thing, plant’ ii ∗ (s)móh2 l-u (gen.∗ (s)m̥h2 l-éw-s) ‘a plant’ → Homeric Greek μῶλυ ‘moly, a fantastic herb’ Hittite ša-ma-lu, ša-am-lu [∗ sṃlu] ‘apple’ ∗ iii m̥h2 l-w-eh2 ‘a plant’ → Latin malva ‘mallow’ iv ∗ m̥h2 l-éw-sk-yo- ‘a plant’ → Old Prussian bleusky, Lithuanian pliū͂škis ‘reed’ Old Church Slavonic бπющъ, Polish bluszcz, Russian пπющ ‘ivy’ v ∗ móh2 l-o- ‘fruit vine, grapevine’ → Lydian μῶλαξ ‘type of wine’ Old Hittite ma-(a-)aḫ-la-aš [∗ má̄ ḫlas] ‘branch of a grapevine’ ? Classical Armenian mol ‘sucker, runner, stolon’ vi ∗ méh2 l-o- ‘fruit of a tree (n.), fruit tree (f.)?’ → Doric Greek μᾶλoν ‘apple’ vii ∗ h2 éml-o- by analogy with ∗ h2 ém-ro- ‘sour’ → Sanskrit āmráḥ ‘mango tree,’ āmrám ‘mango’ ∗ h2 éml̥ -no- → Pashto maṇa, Shughni mūn, Yidgha åmuno ‘mango’ viii ∗ h2 ébl-o- by assimilation → the rich North-West Indo-European apple terminology, including all terms in (1) above.

³ The form of ∗ méh2 l- may also be problematic. At least one PIE noun, ∗ seh2 -ul ‘sun’ (Fortson 2010: 79, 123) has a similar shape, with what is analyzed as an old nominative ∗ -l, but such nouns are rare.

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Bolded forms in (3) indicate the two central innovations that distinguish Fenwick’s analysis from previous ones.⁴ The root in (3.b.vii), ∗ h2 éml-, is claimed to have undergone irregular metathesis from earlier ∗ méh2 l-: C1 VC2 C3 - → C2 VC1 C3 -. Fenwick suggests an analogical basis for this metathesis: ∗ méh2 l-o- forms a nearminimal pair with PIE ∗ h2 em-ró- ‘sour, bitter, raw,’ and the semantic association of ‘apples’ and ‘sour’ has typological support within and outside of Indo-European. Analogical pressure from PIE ∗ h2 em-ró- ‘sour, bitter, raw’ triggers the metathesis, producing a true minimal pair, which is continued in Sanskrit (4). The strength of association between these two lexemes is claimed to be evidenced by two further shifts: meanings of the two words were interchanged, and accent was leveled across both forms to the final pattern of ∗ h2 em-ró, as in (4).⁵ (4)

After ∗ méh2 l- >> ∗ h2 éml- metathesis (Fenwick 2016) a. PIE ∗ h2 em-ró- → Sanskrit amláḥ ‘sour,’ āmláḥ ‘tamarind’ (with -l-!) b. PIE ∗ h2 éml-o- → Sanskrit āmráḥ ‘mango tree,’ āmrám ‘mango fruit’ (with -r-!)

The second novel aspect of Fenwick’s (2016) analysis is motivation for ∗ h2 éml-o> ∗ h2 ébl-o- (3b.viii). Here, Fenwick makes reference to phonetic naturalness. In /ml/ clusters, early velic lowering in anticipation of the oral resonant, can result in partial or complete denasalization of the historical nasal stop, in this case /ml/ > [mb l], [bl], with both regular and sporadic cases reported in the literature (Ohala 1993, 1997; Whiting 2004; Czaplicki 2010).⁶ Since the focus here is PIE, the developments in (3b.vii–viii) which involve post-PIE analogical and sporadic change, are not considered further. There are many grounds on which Fenwick’s (2016) proposal in (3) could be criticized, from the assumption of a productive ∗ -l- stem, to the seemingly random list of plants like mallow and ivy that are claimed to be semantically related to ‘apple.’ However, the purpose of this study is to attempt to illuminate points of agreement between earlier studies, by bringing external data to bear on two hypotheses about the PIE lexicon integral to (3): first, that PIE included a root ∗ meh2 - with a meaning like ‘grow, thrive, be fruitful’; and second, that PIE also had stems or words derived from ∗ méh2 - referring to culturally important plant or plants. ⁴ Fenwick (2016) notes that the semantic shift from one fruit tree to another is not unexpected, since apples were uncommon in the subtropical and tropical regions of the Indian subcontinent where mangos thrive. However, on the phonological side, she does not comment on the initial vowel length in Sanskrit: the expected forms are ∗∗ amra-, ∗∗ amla- with initial short vowels. Fenwick’s (2016) analysis is also distinctive in including, in this cognate set, Homeric Greek μῶλυ, name of an unknown plant, Latin malva ‘mallow’, and the Baltic and Slavic terms for ‘reed’ and ‘ivy’ in (3.iv). ⁵ The basis of Fenwick’s (2016) reconstruction of PIE accent for the forms in (4) is unclear to me. The Sanskrit forms are unattested in Vedic. ⁶ As Fenwick (2016) notes, there is evidence for sporadic excrescent [b] in the history of Indo-Iranian ∗ h2 eml-o ‘tree fruit, mango’ itself, as in Proto-Dardic ∗ āmbrá → Degano Pashayi āmbrék, Kashmiri amb, ambəri- and Middle Indic ∗ āmb(r)a → A´soka Prakrit aṃba, Pāli amba. However, note that in all these cases, the nasal is maintained.

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A PIE root ∗ meh2 - is suggested by Kloekhorst (2008: 541) on the basis of Hittite mai-i /mi- ‘to grow (up); to thrive, to prosper; (midd.) to be born’ and its Anatolian cognates. Derived forms of this root in Hittite include mijantila- (adj.) ‘fruitful,’ mijanu-zi ‘to make (branches) fruit-bearing’ and mijātar /mijann- (n.) ‘growth, increase, proliferation, abundance.’ Kloekhorst goes on to suggest on semantic and formal grounds that the root of these forms may be one and the same as PIE ∗ meh2 - ‘big, much’ based on Celtic and Germanic (Old Irish már, mór, Middle Welsh mawr ‘big’ < proto-Celtic ∗ māros; Gothic mais, Old High German mēro ‘more’ < proto-Germanic ∗ mō-is-). Incorporating the Anatolian semantic contribution to the reconstruction yields PIE ∗ meh2 - ‘grow (up), grow (big), flourish, be fruitful,’ more or less in line with the gloss in (3a).⁷ From PIE ∗ meh2 -, Fenwick (2016) suggests a PIE nominal stem ∗ meh2 -l-, ∗ moh2 -l- ‘growing thing, fruitful thing’ (3b) on the basis of a range of plants, plant-parts, or plant-related terms in (3bii-vi). Of those terms, those with undeniable cultural importance are Old Hittite ma-(a-)aḫ-la-aš [∗ má̄ ḫlas] ‘branch of a grapevine, vine’ (3b.v) and Greek terms for the apple and related plants (Doric μᾶλoν ‘apple,’ Attic μῆλoν ‘apple; also of other stonefruits (Ph., Dsc.); (seed-)capsule of a rose (Thpr.)’ (3b.vi). The only other plant on this list that might be both derived from this stem, and of cultural importance is Homeric Greek μῶλυ ‘moly, a fantastic herb,’ the name of an unknown plant, though Beekes (2010: 990) treats it as having a probable pre-Greek origin, and states that “IE etymologies (see Frisk) have to be rejected.” In sum, there is reasonable evidence for the PIE root in (5a) (Kloekhorst 2006, 2008), but far less support for the stem in (5b), even after weeding out random plants, superficial look-alikes, and forms like Hittite ša-ma-lu, ša-am-lu which require positing an otherwise unmotivated ∗ s-mobile (Kroonen 2016). (5)

A revised PIE root and stem, after weeding a. ∗ meh2 -, ∗ moh2 - ‘grow (up), grow (big), flourish, be fruitful’ b. ∗ méh2 -l-, ∗ móh2 -l- ‘growing thing, flourishing thing, fruitful thing,’ in: i ∗ meh2 l-o-, moh2 l-o-, ‘branch of grapevine, grapevine’ Old Hittite ma-(a-)aḫ-la-aš [∗ má̄ ḫlas] ‘branch of a grapevine’ ? Classical Armenian mol ‘sucker, runner, stolon’ ∗ ii méh2 l-o- ‘apple, apple tree’ Doric μᾶλoν ‘apple,’ Attic μῆλoν ‘apple; stonefruit’

A long-recognized problem with the comparanda in (5b) is the semantic distance between ‘branch of grapevine’ and ‘apple’ (Tischler 1983: 89ff ). I suggest that ⁷ This root should not be confused with homophonous PIE ∗ meh2 - ‘(occurring at the) right or proper time’ (cf. Hittite. mēḫur ‘time,’ Latin mātūrē 'at the right time, speedily,’ māne ‘early,’ mātūrus ‘ripe.’ ) LIV (428) lists ∗ mejH- ‘heranreifen, gedeihen’ based on the same Hittite data. Compare the Anatolian root and derivatives with Sanskrit māyu ‘(tree) gall,’ the abnormal growth on leaves, twigs, roots, or flowers of many plants, referred to in some languages, like English as apple, as in oak apple or oak gall.

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the meanings are related by the concept of plant domestication through grafting: grafting produced fruitful, flourishing plants, and the PIE stem ∗ méh2 -l-, ∗ móh2 l- referred to these. In support of this, first consider Old Hittite mā́ḫla- ‘branch of grapevine,’ which referred not to the entire rooted plant, but specifically to young shoots and branches that could be transported and transplanted or grafted (Gu¨terbock and Hoffner 1989: 112–113). In addition, these branches were highly valuable items in Hittite culture, with a law against stealing mā́ḫla- (ibid). Second, consider the history of plant domestication in Eurasia. Grapes are known to have been domesticated in the third or fourth millennium BCE (Zohary and Spiegel-Roy 1975; Mudge et al. 2009), as they root easily from cuttings. However, apples, pears, and other woody species do not root easily from cuttings. Domestication of these fruits came later, at the beginning of the first millennium BCE when grafting was discovered (Mudge et al. 2009: 439). If the PIE stem ∗ méh2 -l-, ∗ móh2 -l- ‘growing thing, flourishing thing’ was associated with domesticated fruits, then, the expectation is that, in 4000 BCE, it would have only been used to refer to grapes, figs, pomegranates and/or olives, while, by 1000 BCE, the term might have been applied to apples, pears, and/or apricots. The tentative nature of the formulas in (5) might be strengthened by external evidence. If PIE had a root ∗ meh2 -, ∗ moh2 - ‘grow (up), grow (big), flourish, be fruitful’ and a derived stem ∗ méh2 -l-, móh2 -l- ‘growing thing, flourishing thing, fruitful thing,’ then ancient languages hypothesized to be related to PIE might show evidence of relevant culturally significant phytonyms cognate with these PIE forms. I suggest that Proto-Basque (PB), as reconstructed by Blevins (2018, 2020), might be such a language.

10.2 Advances in Proto-Basque reconstruction The Euskarian language, Basque, and its extinct relation, Aquitanian, are traditionally thought to constitute an isolate, unrelated to any other known languages (Martı´nez-Areta 2013). However, a new reconstruction of Proto-Basque by Blevins (2018) challenges this view. Building on a long tradition of Basque scholarship, Blevins (2018) uses the comparative method and internal reconstruction, informed by previously underappreciated alternations and asymmetries in Basque sound patterns, to reconstruct Proto-Basque with important phonological features not found in earlier analyses, including: proto-phonemes ∗ m and ∗ ph ; a single sibilant ∗ s; and initial ∗ sT clusters where T is a voiceless stop. In the same study, the comparative method is used to compare this new Proto-Basque with Proto-Indo-European as standardly reconstructed (Rix et al. 2001, 2014; Fortson 2010), suggesting regular sound correspondences in basic vocabulary and grammatical formatives. Table 10.1 summarizes the regular sound correspondences between ProtoBasque and Proto-Indo-European (cf. Blevins 2018: 135). On the basis of these

PIE AND PROTO-BASQUE Table 10.1 Proto-Basque/Proto-Indo-European sound correspondences after Blevins (2018).

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regular sound correspondences in basic inherited vocabulary, Blevins (2018: 134) proposes the Proto-Indo-European-Euskarian Hypothesis: namely, that these sound correspondences are evidence of common descent. Conservative phonological and morphological features of Proto-Basque in relation to Proto-IndoEuropean suggest that Proto-Basque did not descend from Proto-Indo-European. Instead, Proto-Basque and Proto-Indo-European are viewed as sister languages, or daughters of sister languages, descending from the same mother tongue. Most of the regular sound correspondences between Proto-Basque and ProtoIndo-European vowels and consonants in Table 10.1 are well supported by lexical comparisons in Blevins (2018). However, in order for these lexical correspondences to be taken as evidence for the Proto-Indo-European-Euskarian hypothesis, it must be shown that these correspondences are not due to contact and that they are not accidental. One attempt at this demonstration is the quantitative study of Blevins and Sproat (2021).⁸ While quantitative evidence for proposals of long-distance relationships is important, the most promising linguistic hypotheses may be those that shed new light on each of the proto-languages being compared (Blevins 2018: 201–206). In reviewing the Indo-Europeanist literature on terms for apple and other plants, new features of Proto-Basque phytonyms became apparent, and, at the same time, aspects of Proto-Indo-European phytonyms appeared to receive external support from the Proto-Basque reconstructions. Details of these comparisons are offered in Section 10.3. The exploratory nature of this study should be emphasized; as stated from the start, many earlier studies attribute anomalies in IE words for ‘apple’ to indirect vs. direct inheritance.

10.3 Cognate fruit terms in Proto-Indo-European and Proto-Basque? 10.3.1 PIE ∗ meh2 - ‘grow (up), grow (big), flourish, be fruitful’ The PIE full-grade verbal root ∗ meh2 - ‘grow (up), grow (big), flourish, be fruitful’ (5a) is compared to PB ∗ maha ‘fruit; vine’ ≪ ∗ ‘growing thing, flourishing thing, fruitful thing.’ Blevins (2018: 311–312) reconstructs PB ∗ ma- ‘fruit,’ and compares it to PIE ∗ meh2 - ‘good’ [CW:51], but questions the semantic distance: “The phonological correspondence with PIE ∗ meh2 - … is exact, but the semantic connection is not. PIE derived forms … may suggest a closer semantic relationship to ‘fruit’….” As we ⁸ To date, errata in Blevins (2018), which cites over 1200 Basque words, include three loans and three neologisms. Contrary to the view of Ariztimuño, Zuloaga, and Krajewska (2019), none of these errors compromise the general Proto-Indo-European-Euskarian Hypothesis, the correspondences in Table 10.1, or the cognate sets examined in this chapter.

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have seen above, if PIE ∗ meh2 - is hypothesized to have the meaning and derived meanings in (5), then the semantic match is better than originally thought. While the PIE/PB ∗ meh2 -/∗ ma- phonological comparison is exact (Cr11, Cr16 of Table 10.1), review of the Basque data, and augmentation of the lemma as in (6) supports two distinct roots: PB ∗ ma ‘fruit’ (6i), and PB ∗ maha ‘fruit; vine, fruitbearing plant’ (6ii).⁹ At present, the derivational relationship between these two roots in ProtoBasque is unclear.¹⁰ (6) Proto-Basque ∗ ma, ∗ maha i. ∗ ma ‘fruit’ B ma- ‘fruit’ in the following compounds: B mabiska, mabixka ‘mallow, Malva sylvestris’ (biska, bixka ‘birdlime, viscosity used for catching birds’) [mucilage is present in fruit] B madari ‘pear’ < ∗ ma-da-ari (∗ da- ‘drink,’ ∗ -ari ‘food’; cf. edari, edaari ‘drink’ (n.))¹¹ B magarda ‘buckthorn, boxthorn, Lycium intricatum; fruit of beech tree, wild rose, blackberry, flowering nightshade’ (cf. garda (karda) ‘thistle, barbed head of thistle’) [some of these fruits have barbs]¹²

⁹ Recall that in earlier proposals, Proto-Basque is reconstructed without ∗ m as a contrastive phoneme in the core lexicon. For this reason, there has not been much discussion of the fruit-related terms in (6) as a class, though in some cases, initial m-, ma- have been treated as “expressive” prefixes. Trask’s (2008: 48) view is representative: “The consonant /m/, absent from Pre-Basque, plays no role at all in the inflectional morphology, and no role in word-formation except in the noun-forming suffix -men ~ -mendu, borrowed from Lat. -mentum. A partial exception is the expressive syllable ma-, apparently created precisely because the rarity of /m/ in the language conferred upon it a special expressive value.” One could reconstruct PB ∗ ma or ∗ ma(h) for ‘fruit,’ where final ∗ h is continued only before vowel, or metathesized when a sonorant ∗ {r,l,n} follows. Some words for ‘strawberry’ could be probative, however, see footnote 10 on problems involved there. ¹⁰ Basque words for ‘strawberry’ are not included in (6) as folk etymology and contamination make reconstruction difficult. They include malubi (HN,Z), maulubi (A), mallugai (V ), mallugi (V ), malluki (V,G), marrubi (G), marrobi (old L), marubi (HN, L), maidubi (HN), mahuri (HN), maurgi (Z), mauri (HN), and mahali (LN). While some of these, like mahali, may continue ∗ maha, others, like marrubi, may be influenced by Lat. rubeus ‘red’ or by Lat. marrubium ‘Marrubium, hoarhound,’ a flowering herb. Also not included here is B umaho (umo) ‘ripe, in season; bletted’; OEH suggests a Romance source, as humano is a term associated with bletting fruit in some languages of Italy. ¹¹ B madari ‘pear’ is thought by some to derive from B udare ‘pear’ via prefixation of ma-, a meaningless or expressive morpheme (Michelena 1977: 271–272; Trask 2008: 278; EHHE 171–172). There are two weaknesses in this analysis. First, the recurrence of ma- in the range of fruit terms shown in (6) is treated as accidental. Second, the oldest form, udare, has final e (cf. mB El peral de Açquonarro Udare [1290]), in contrast to madari with final i. ¹² B magarda might be considered a new formation based on kardu, gardu ‘thistle; chard’ h word-initially (Blevins 2018: 60–70). Some compounds, like makal, makatz in (6i) precede this change, while others, like marri < ma + harri ( oo (Blevins 2018: 30), and in most varieties of Basque, oo > o followed. As a consequence, the expected reflex of ∗∗ moho is B mo, or (rarely) moo. One word that might continue PB ∗ moho as moo- is B mootelu ‘canutos de hilo que se mueven en el telar/ spindles moving on the loom.’ B mootelu may be a calque of Cast. canuto ‘piece of cane stalk between two knots,’ < ?∗ moho-the-l-o ‘stalk- NMZ-L-INSTR.’ Apart from mootelu, there is no evidence of PB ∗ moho.

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(10) PB ∗ mol(h) ‘plant, plant growth’¹⁶ B armol ‘scree, scree in the middle of a field’ (ar- CM of harri ‘rock’) B mola ‘large amount, heap, pile, crowd, heap’ B moldu ‘shaking branches of a tree with a stick to knock fruit down’ (-du < ∗ -thu PTCP) B molko (mulko) ‘cluster, bunch’ (-ko NMZ) B molo < ∗ molh-o ‘bush, clump, tuft’ (of plants) (∗ -o INSTR) B molohorrika ‘giant plant, acanthus (Acanthus mollis) or hogweed’ [all plants with large leaves, clump-forming] (horri ‘leaf,’ horrika ‘leaf, bract’) B molorri ‘acanthus, giant plant’ (horri ‘leaf ’) B olomolo ‘wild oats’ (olho ‘wild oats’) B muilo1–7,8 , mollo ‘bush, clump, tuft; sprigs of vine’ < ∗ molh-o (+ DIM palatalization) B muilo ‘tow (from flax)’ B amulu ‘tow (coarse broken fibre); 2nd class fibre from flax’ (∗ haNMZ) B muilo2 ‘wheat fungus, black mold growth on mature wheat heads’ B ota-mulu ‘gorse bush’ (ota- CM of ote ‘gorse’) (11)

PB ∗ mos ‘plant, plant growth’ B moskil < ∗ moskhil ‘plant growth, growth on branches’ (∗ khil ‘branch’) in: B moskildi ‘grove, group of bushy plants’ (-di < -doi ‘grove, group’) B muskil ‘shoot, scion, bud (of plant)’ [B muskilez muskil ‘from branch to branch’ (-ez INSTR) B mospel ‘dark place; shady, with little light’ (bel ‘dark’) B mosta ‘flock of one hundred or two hundred sheep’

10.3.3 Comparing apples and grapes: putting it all together Suggested PB cognates for PIE full grade and o-grade roots and stems in (5) are shown in (12). In terms of continuations of the PIE formatives in (5), we have near-homologous forms in Basque for Old Hittite, Classical Armenian, and Greek, minus thematic vowels, as shown in (13), keeping in mind the tentative nature of B maaltz ‘wild pear’ as per footnote 14. ¹⁶ An additional plant term that may also continue this stem is B moli-intxaur ‘a variety of walnut (B intxaur ‘walnut’),’ which is said by Azkue (1905–1906) to be a variant of manu-intxaur (itself a variant of mari-intxaur) which both refer to the biggest variety of walnut. Walnut trees have lush foliage, large leaves, and broad leaflets.

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(12)

PIE/PB root and stem comparisons PIE PB with ∗ -s NOM ∗ ∗ ∗ (5a) meh2 maha maha-s ∗ ∗ ∗ (5b) meh2 -l ? maha-l ? maha-l-s ∗ ∗ (5a) ∗ moh2 mo mo-s ∗ ∗ (5b) moh2 -l mol(h) –¹⁷

(13) Form correspondences i. PIE ∗ méh2 l-oDoric μᾶλoν ‘apple,’ Attic μῆλoν ‘apple’ PIE ∗ m{e,o}h2 -l-o-s Old Hittite ma-(a-)aḫ-la-aš ‘branch of a grapevine’ PB ?∗ maha-l-s B maaltz ‘wild pear’ ii. PIE ∗ moh2 -l Class. Armenian mol ‘sucker, runner, stolon’ PB ∗ mol(h)/-kho B molko ‘cluster, bunch’ PB ∗ molh/-o B muilo7,8 , mollo ‘bush, clump, tuft; sprig’ If, as suggested earlier, PIE ∗ meh2 - ‘grow (up), grow (big), flourish, be fruitful’ is associated with the fruitfulness of domesticated fruit plants, then a hypothetical sister language might show a distribution of fruit and plant terms not unlike those reconstructable to Proto-Basque, including PB ∗ maha-(s) ‘grapevine; grape,’ which, based on botanical remains, appears to be the earliest domesticated fruit in the Iberian peninsula (Pérez-Jordà et al. 2021).¹⁸ In addition to this archeobotanical evidence, there may be linguistic evidence for early production of wine in contrast to cider. The Common Basque word for ‘wine’ is ardo, with dialectal variants ardão, ardo, with earliest attestations in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries (OEH).¹⁹ This word is a historical compound: ∗ dar ‘strong’ + ∗ da-n-o ‘drink-PTCINST’ (cf. edan ‘to drink’) (Blevins 2018: 246). Loss of initial ∗ d- shows us that the form pre-dates contact with Indo-European languages in the Iberian Peninsula (Blevins 2018: 43–44). The word for ‘apple’ in Basque is sagar, and the word for cider is a transparent compound: sagardo < sagar + ardo ‘apple wine.’ On this basis, it seems that wine production preceded cider production in the Basque-speaking world. Note that Basque sagar ‘apple’ has no relation to the Basque plant-related terminology compiled in (6), (9), (10), (11), and no apparent relation to either of the common PIE reconstructions for ‘apple,’ ∗ h2 éb(e/ŏ̄ )l- and ∗ méh2 l-o-. The earliest ¹⁷ There is some evidence for PB ∗ mol-s ‘bunch, heap’ (e.g. B molso, moltso, moltzo, multzo ‘heap, group, large amount’), however, Romance loan sources are also possible (cf. Latin multus ‘much, many’). ¹⁸ Early domestication of grapes in contrast to apples is supported by archeobotanical evidence. A recent study by Pérez-Jordà et al. (2021) based on plant seeds from fruit species across the Iberian Peninsula, shows a movement of Vitis vinifera, from about 1000 BCE in the south, arriving in the East and the Ebro Valley by 900 BCE, and to the northeast by 700 BCE. In contrast, seeds of Pyrus malus appear around 900 BCE in the south, but not until the seventh century BCE in the east, and then, not until the fourth century BCE in the northeast. ¹⁹ A newer compound, mahatsardo ‘grape-wine,’ is not attested until the mid-19th century.

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known attestation of this term is in 1086, in a medieval toponym: … in loco vocatur Sagarraga…. The general view is that sagar is an inherited native Basque word.²⁰ The EHHE (2009: 511) follows Lakarra (1995) in identifying a prefix /sa-/ as a formal unit on the basis of morphological analysis, and proposes /gar/ as a wellformed monosyllabic root, but no etymology or semantic content of prefix or root is offered.

10.4 Concluding remarks Quantitative evidence for proposals of long-distance linguistic relationships is important, but the most promising linguistic hypotheses may be those that shed new light on each proto-language being compared (Blevins 2018: 201–206; Fortescue and Vajda 2022). Proto-Indo-European ∗ méh2 l-o- ‘apple’ and related terms in (13) may be cognate with independently reconstructed Proto-Basque phytonyms, lending possible external support for both. At the same time, the frequent borrowing of words referring to important agricultural products should make one wary of accepting the PIE-PB cognates suggested here without solid internal support for the respective reconstructions in each family.

Acknowledgments It is a pleasure to offer this essay to Andrew Garrett whose delectable apple pies and serious scholarship have nourished and inspired so many. I thank Ander Egurtzegi, Ben Fortson, and two anonymous reviewers for comments on earlier drafts.

²⁰ Compare Markey (1988:63–64, footnote 5), where it is suggested that B sagar derives from sacrum in the Latin phrase mālum sacrum. The expected Basque loan form is ∗∗ zakuru: cf. B liburu HEIGHT IN AFF. (7)

Perfect Ca REDs in all roots lacking i,y or u,v Root Perf. root accented Perf. root unaccented Gloss a. dhar- da-dhár-a (1st sg.) da-dhr-é: (1st . sg. mid.) hold b. math- ma-má:th-a (3rd sg.) ma-math-úr (3rd pl.) shake st st c. patpa-pát-a (1 sg.) pa-pt-i-má (1 pl.) fly d. dha:- da-dhá:-tha (2nd sg.) da-dh-úr (3rd pl.) suck

The pattern in (7) holds of all but one of the 241 roots in Whitney 1885 that have attested perfects and lack a root allomorph with surface high vocalism.¹¹ The flip side of the a-RED pattern in (7) is that if a root contains an i or u in its zero grade, and if this vowel is recoverable in the perfect, in a sense made precise below, its perfect RED will use this i or u to satisfy HEIGHT IN AFF. We have seen such roots in (3). The list in (8) illustrates the basic point—zero-grade i/u surfaces as such in the perfect RED—and addresses two alternative hypotheses about the source of high vowels in these REDs: a harmony hypothesis (e.g. di-dviʂ-é would come from basic /da-dviʂ-é/ by regressive harmony¹²) and a glide vocalization scenario (e.g. vi-vyá:c-a comes from mapping a root-initial sequence vy to the CV [-ATR], in languages where [+high, -ATR] is impossible. See Faraklas and Williamson 1984 for similar generalizations, and an apparent exception. ¹⁰ In the perfect, Greek has CV reduplicants with /e/ vocalism, e.g. le-lu:-k-a. This /e/ is a distinct morph. The Ce- reduplicants are consistent with (4), if existential faithfulness protects the /e/ morph from raising. ¹¹ The exception is mimr̩kʂus from mrakʂ ‘stroke,’ perhaps a confusion with unrelated mimikʂus from myakʂ (8.h). ¹² On the idea that harmony is responsible for the Ci/Cu REDs see Kulikov 2005: 433.

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structure in RED). To evaluate the predictions of such accounts, (8) presents roots with high vocoids in different root positions, pre- or post-nuclear, in a root with two vocoids or just one. These different positions determine which high vocoids can and cannot vocalize in a zero grade root. This is relevant, because only root vocoids that do vocalize can influence the vocalism of RED. (8)

Perfect Ci/Cu REDs from roots with alternating y/i, v/u; constructed forms marked by ∗ Root Perf. root Perf. root Other zero grade Gloss full grade zero grade a. iaujyu-yo:j-a yu-yuj-é yuk-tá join b. uaijvi-ve:j-a vi-vij-é vik-tá tremble c. uiac vi-vyá:c-a vi-vic-us vi-vik-tás (pres.) extend d. duaiʂ di-dvé:ʂ-a di-dviʂ-é dviʂ-ʈá hate ∗ e. ciau cu-cyav-a cu-cyuv-é move f. nai:ni-ná:y-a ni-ny-us < ni:-tá lead /ni-ni:-ús u:ʂús < uʂ-i-tvá: g. uasu-vá:s-a dwell /u-uʂ-ús/ h. miakʂ mi-myákʂ-a mi-mikʂ-ús _ be situated

The first thing to note in the combined data of (7)–(8) is that affixal vowels are not eligible for inclusion in this RED: it’s pa-pt-ima, da-dh-úr (7c, d), not ∗ pi-ptima, ∗ du-dh-úr. I infer that DEP RED-ROOT, a ban on non-root material in RED, must outrank HEIGHT IN AFF. What then is the source of a in da-dh-ur, da-dhré? The analysis in Section 11.6 will propose that such a-REDs indirectly reflect the root vocalism of corresponding full grade perfects, items like da-dhár-a. The overall picture will be that both the preferred i/u and the dispreferred a vocalism of perfect REDs have as their source a root form found in the perfect, though not necessarily the one in their local BRed . The high vowels in the REDs of (8) don’t come from harmony. It is impossible to identify a consistent harmony trigger for the full set of REDS in (8). On one version of this idea, harmony can be triggered by a glide, as in su-ʂváp-a (3.d) or u-va:s-a (8.g). But glide-triggered harmony also predicts, given the preference for a local trigger, ∗ u-vya:c-a, ∗ du-dve:ʂ-a, ∗ i-yó:j-a instead of vi-vya:c-a, di-dve:ʂ-a, yu-yo:ja (8.c-d). Alternatively, if only vowels induce harmony, one predicts ∗ va-va:s-a, ∗ ma-myakʂ-a, ∗ sa-svá:p-a instead of u-va:s-a, mi-myakʂ-a, su-ʂvá:p-a. Nor can the high vowels in the REDs of (8) be seen as vocalized realizations of glides found in BRED. Here I refer to the possibility that the i of RED vi- in vi-vyá:c-a (8.c) is a syllabic version of the root-internal y-. Base glides can vocalize in the reduplicants of other systems (cf. Hayes and Abad’s 1989 on Ilocano) but the simplest vocalization mechanism—find the first vocoid and make it RED’s nucleus—fails to distinguish those Sanskrit glides that ‘vocalize’ under copying—in su-ʂváp-a,

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u-va:s-a, i-yaj-a—from those that don’t vocalize or are skipped—in va-vá:ç-a, di-dve:ʂ-a, not ∗ u-va:ç-a, ∗ du-dve:ʂ-a. In reality, what identifies the glides that do vocalize in the perfect RED is that they surface as syllabic in a form of the perfect root: the vowel in REDs like vi, di in vi-vya:c-a, di-dve:ʂ-a is the nucleus i of the zero-grade roots vic and dviʂ found in related perfect stems vi-vic-, di-dviʂ-. The RED of su-ʂváp-a, u-va:s-a contains the same u as sup and uʂ in su-ʂup-, u: ʂ-. For perfects like ni-ná:y-a, the source of RED’s high vowel is recoverable in syllabic form in zero grade root allomorphs like that of ni-ni: ni:-váns (Whitney 1889: §802). More on this below. ni: That the i/u REDs of the perfect reflect the nuclear quality of a zero grade root is also shown by roots like (9), e.g. svan, roots which lack any a-less form in zero grade contexts. Their perfects reduplicate only with Ca-. The comparison of (8) to (9) confirms that for u or i to appear in the perfect RED there must exist a syllabic u or i in a form of that root. If this form is missing, RED adopts the a of its BRed. Further details in Steriade 1988.¹³ An additional restriction, that a zero grade C0 i/uX root allomorph be found in the perfect, is motivated below. (9)

Ca REDs from roots with invariant glides; asterisks mark constructed forms Root Perfect: accented and No i/u zero grade Gloss unaccented root a. suansa-svá:n-a sa-svan-úr no ∗ sun sound ∗ b. dhuans da-dhva:ns-a da-dhvas-é no ∗ dhu(n)s scatter c. khia: ca-khya:-u ca-khy-ús no ∗ khi see d. ua:çva-vá:ç-a va-va:ç-é no ∗ uç bellow

Note that the perfect roots of ca-khy-ús (9.c) and ni-ny-ús (8.f ) look identical, Cy, in the surface prevocalic context, while their REDs differ, Ca vs. Ci. Our account differentiates the REDs based on perfect forms with a zero grade root in which an inucleus surfaces unambiguously, forms like ni-ni:-vans. For the root khya: (9.c), a ∗ khi: zero grade is missing throughout, including in the perfect: its Ca reduplicant follows from this fact. I have argued that the key property identifying roots with perfect RED in Ci, Cu is that they have, independently of reduplication, a zero grade with i, u vocalism. (10) shows that this correlation is robust. I consider both roots containing a high vocoid, glide or vowel, and the 241 roots C0 aX roots illustrated in (7), which are included in the figure of the bottom right cell.

¹³ Whitney (1889: §784, §785.c) seems aware of a narrow version of this idea when he conditions the possibility of u-/i- REDs for roots like vas- and vyac- (8.g, c) on the existence of other forms (“various of their verbal forms and derivatives”) that “abbreviate va to u” or ya to i, i.e. some form with a zero grade vocalization of the glide. In a different partial acknowledgment of our generalization, states that, with two exceptions, no Vedic perfect contains RED i unless the zero grade of the relevant root also does.

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(10) Zero grade in CiX, CuX correlates with perfect RED in Ci, Cu among C0 uaX, C0 auX roots

I will analyze only the majority pattern in (10), which lies on the diagonal connecting su-ʂvap- to sa-svan-. The RED i in the exceptional items like si-ʂyand- tends to be flanked by T_Ty, T = a coronal: a sporadic local, bi-directional assimilation, possibly combined with the effect of HEIGHT IN AFF, is perhaps operating here. Some of these irregular forms have variants with the predicted vocalism: e.g. classical sa-syand-é. A correlation similar to (10), but noisier, between CiX, CuX root zero grades and Ci, Cu reduplicants is found in the sparse data of class 3 presents: e.g. ju-hó:-ti, juhu-té: from /hau/, /hu/ ‘sacrifice’; or ci-ke:-ʂi, ci-ki-ta:m from /kai/, /ki/ ‘perceive’ compared to sa-sas-ti from /sas/ ‘sleep,’ ma-mat-si from /mad/ be exhilarated.’ This observation is made by Sandell 2011, who supplies precise figures. It’s likely, however, that the mechanisms generating the present and perfect REDs differ, as seen below.

11.6 Optimal Paradigms and perfect Sanskrit REDs To analyze the correlation in (10) between the perfect zero grade vocalism and the perfect RED vocalism, one must explain perfects like su-ʂvá:p-a, where RED and its BRed mismatch on the vowel. Such forms are almost always accompanied by zerograde perfects like su-ʂup-ús, with matched RED and BRed . The mechanism that can produce identical reduplicants from divergent root allomorphs, as in {su-ʂvá:pa, su-ʂup-ús}, is a version of McCarthy’s Optimal Paradigms (OP, 2005): perfect reduplicants must be identical. The OP constraint operating here must affect the perfect REDs only. The reduplicated stems don’t match in their entirety, because their roots are differentiated by ablaut: -ʂváp-a vs. -ʂup-úr. Further, there is no tendency toward identity across all reduplicants of any one verb, as (3) shows. Outside the perfect, the identity between reduplicants within any subparadigm is a side effect of other rankings (e.g. HEIGHT IN AFFDESID ≫ IDENT ±HIGH B-R), or is subordinated to rhythmic constraints, as in the aorist, or to IDENT B-R, as in the intensive. To take up this last case, the REDs of intensives must individually match the vocalism of their respective BRed for [±front]/[±round], though not for [±high], and this generates divergent RED pairs in intensives differentiated by ablaut: {da:-dha:-, de:-dhi:-ya-}

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on dha: ‘set,’ or {ça:-ca:s, çe:-çiʂ-} on ça:s ‘order.’ Only the perfect offers evidence of a uniformity effect among reduplicants, which does not emerge from independent factors. These observations suggest the constraint in (11), which bans differences between perfect REDS. (11)

OP IDENT: PERF RED: a ∗ for any feature mismatch in the vocalism of cognate perfect REDs.¹⁴

OP IDENT: PERF RED is undominated in the perfect. It must outrank IDENT B-R, to allow reduplicative paradigms in which one perfect RED mismatches its BRed , as suin su-ʂváp-a does. In turn, IDENT B-R must outrank HEIGHT IN AFF, to guarantee that at least one perfect RED matches the nucleus of its BRed . This allows paradigms like {su-ʂváp-, su-ʂup-}, while blocking {∗ su-ʂvan-, ∗ su-ʂvan-}. The effect of HEIGHT IN AFF amounts then, in the perfect, to this: if a perfect RED satisfies HEIGHT IN AFF and if it also matches the height of its BRed , OP IDENT will generalize its shape to all other perfect forms. (12) presents the analysis of two abbreviated two-member paradigms, each containing a form in full-grade and one in zero-grade, from two root types: an alternating root, svap/sup, and an invariant one, svan/svan. (12)

OP IDENT: PERF RED, IDENT [±SYLL] B-R >> IDENT [±HIGH] BR >> HEIGHT IN AFF

a.

UR: /suap/REDperf = aff

i.

su-ʂváp-a, su-ʂup-ús

OP IDENT

IDENT [±HIGH] B-R * (su-ʂváp-)

ii.

sa-sváp-a, sa-sup-ús

iii.

sa-sváp-a, su-ʂup-ús

*!

b.

UR: /suan/REDperf = aff

OP IDENT IDENT [±SYLL] B-R

i.

su-ʂván-a, su-ʂvan-é

ii.

su-ʂván-a, su-ʂvan-é

iii.

sa-sván-a, sa-svan-é

HEIGHT IN AFF

* (sa-sup-)

*!* * IDENT [±HIGH] B-R

HEIGHT IN AFF

*!* (sui-ʂváin-) *!* (sui-ʂvián-) **

(12.a) illustrates how OP-IDENT excludes non-uniform candidate paradigms with divergent REDs, like {∗ sa-sváp-, su-ʂup}; and how HEIGHT IN AFF selects one uniform paradigm, (a.i), the one with a high RED, over another, (a.ii), with low RED. (12.b) shows how the constraints IDENT [±SYLL] and IDENT [±HIGH] B-R restrict Ci/Cu REDs to roots that have a syllabic i or u in a perfect zero grade. Candidates ¹⁴ A reviewer notes that other instances of paradigm uniformity constraints govern entire inflectional paradigms (McCarthy 2005 on Arabic; Albright 2010 on Yiddish). My sense is that we are only beginning to explore the range of attested possibilities in the scope of paradigm uniformity constraints. In Latin and Romanian, the perfect subparadigm is rhythmically uniform, while the non-perfect mostly isn’t (Steriade 2012).

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(b.i–ii) show the same surface form, but different patterns of failed correspondence, in one case between RED u and root a, and in the other case between RED u and root v. Not illustrated here is the effect of the ablaut constraint that causes a full-grade a in the root to delete before an accented morpheme, in forms like su-ʂup-ús. In roots like svan, ablaut is blocked, hence sa-svan-é, not ∗ su-ʂun-é. For present purposes we can attribute this to a lexically indexed faithfulness constraint which blocks alternations in the svan-type roots. The full story is that the blockage of ablaut is weakly predictable (Steriade 1988), but in ways that are not immediately relevant here. Roots which lack a vocalized i or u but have an a-less zero grade, like dhar/dhr (7.a), have perfect REDs of Ca shape: da-dhá:r-a, da-dhr-é:. For these, the alternative paradigm {∗ di-dhá:r-a, di-dhr-é} looks like a contender, because high i in ∗ di-dhr-é can’t be blocked by IDENT [±HIGH]: it lacks any root counterpart and that sets it free. In fact, despite their superior satisfaction of HEIGHT IN AFF, such Ci reduplicants are blocked by the combination of OP IDENT and IDENT [±HIGH] BR. (13) a. i.

Alternating roots without a zero-grade high vowel: da-dhá:r-a, da-dhr-é: UR: /dhar/REDperf = aff

OP IDENT

IDENT [±HIGH] B-R

ii.

da-dhá:r-a, di-dhr-é:

iii.

di-dhá:r-a, di-dhr-é:

HEIGHT IN AFF **

da-dhá:r-a, da-dhr-é: *!

* *! (i-a)

This OP-analysis differs from earlier ones, which rely on applying ablaut to RED (Steriade 1988), or on listing full and zero grade root allomorphs and letting RED access these listed forms, as suggested by Sandell 2010 for a similar pattern in the class 3 presents. The chief difference is that, in the OP-analysis, only root allomorphs found in a perfect form can license a Ci/Cu perfect RED. That’s because the analysis allows the root vocalism to have an effect on RED in only two ways: via IDENT B-R (as in su-ʂup-úr, where the Bred ʂup licenses su in RED), or indirectly, through the action of OP IDENT: PERF RED (as in the pair {su-ʂváp-a, su-ʂup-úr} where the second RED influences the first). The OP- IDENT constraint can only impose the quality of one perfect RED upon another perfect RED. Any other zero-grade forms—those of unreduplicated words, or those of reduplicated nonperfect forms—are predicted to not matter, as no constraints connect them to any perfect RED. A group of 31 roots allow us to test this prediction. All have zero-grade root allomorphs with i/u vocalism outside the perfect paradigm but not in the perfect. All these roots have Ca- perfect REDs. They form two groups. Fourteen of them have full grades in Ca: and zero grades in C0 i(:). The -i surfaces where a zero grade is expected, including in reduplicated forms, but not in the perfect. Thus stha: ‘stand’

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(14.a), with zero grade sthi in the verbal adjective sthi-tá, the intensive te:-ʂʈhi:-yaand elsewhere, loses all trace of its zero grade i in the perfect: ta-sth-é, ta-sth-ús, not ∗ ta-ʂʈhy-é, ∗ ta-ʂʈhy-ús. (14)

Ca- perfect REDs from Ca:/Ci roots Full grade Zero Perfect: full grade grade a. stha:sthi- ta-stha:-ú b. ça:çi:ça-ça:-ú c. ça:sçi:ʂça-çá:s-a d. dha:dhi:- – e. pa:pi:pa-pa:-ú

Perfect: zero grade Gloss ta-sth-é, ta-sth-ús ça-ç-a:ná ça-ça:s-ús da-dh-ús pa-p-é

stand sharpen order suck drink

The loss of i in the perfect zero grade of these Ca: roots correlates with the vocalism of the perfect RED: it’s ta ta-sthé:, not ∗titi-ʂʈh(y)-é:. Contrast a root like nai:/ni: ta ti (8.f ), whose zero grade i does surface in the perfect root and does determine RED’s vocalism: ni-ny-é, ni-ni:-va:ns.¹⁵ The synchronic mechanism leading to loss of i-from-a: in the perfect is obscure, but its consequences for reduplication are clear. This data shows that the vowel of a perfect RED comes from the surface root vowel of a perfect form. The mere existence of root i in sthi-tá (14.a) doesn’t license an i in a perfect RED, hence no ∗ ti-ʂʈh-é. This detail is predicted by the current analysis and contradicts the account in Steriade 1988, which had attributed the high vowels in perfect REDs to the fact that ablaut applies to RED independently of the root. Data like (14) is one reason to reject that analysis. The other are the complications it entails for the analysis of ablaut. The data in (14) also confirms a role for surface-oriented correspondence in the analysis. We predict that a vowel that’s absent from the surface root—like the i of sthi-tá, missing in ta-sth-ús—can’t condition the quality of RED. In a serial analysis this would be possible, because RED could copy the zero-grade i of intermediate -sthi-ús. That would predict RED ti, hence ∗ ti-ʂʈh-ús. The correct prediction, ta-sthús, is made by the parallel OP-analysis. (15) a. i.

OP IDENT: PERF RED >> IDENT [±HIGH] BR >> HEIGHT IN AFF UR: /stha:/

OP IDENT

IDENT [±HIGH] B-R

ta-stha:-u, ta-sth-é

iii.

ti-ʂʈha:-u, ti-ʂʈh-é

ii.

ta-ʂʈha:-u, ti-ʂʈh-é

HEIGHT IN AFF **

*! *!

*

¹⁵ In a perfect participle like ta-sth-i-vá:ns, from stha: ‘stand,’ the i is an epenthetic ‘union-vowel’ (Whitney 1889: §802). We can tell the difference between a genuine root i and a union vowel by finding only the former as a glide in prevocalic position: e.g ni-ny-úʂ-am from nay/ni: vs. ta-sth(∗ y)-úʂ-am. This detail sheds light on the status of the presuffixal i in ni-ni:-vá:ns vs. to ta-sth-i-vá:ns: it shows that the latter is not a root segment. This difference between root i and the union i determines the height of RED’s vowel, as explained in the text. See also fn. 13.

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In a similar category as the roots in (14), there is class of CarX roots that generate ir or ur in their zero grade instead of the expected r/r̩ (Whitney 1889: §242). These include kar/kr̩/ kir ‘scatter’; tar/tr̩/tir/tur ‘pass,’ par/pr̩/pur ‘fill,’ mar/mr̩/mur ‘die’, and sphar/sphr̩/sphur ‘jerk.’ When this ir/ur occurs in the perfect root, and only then, its vocalism appears in RED, generating indicatives like ti-tir-ús and optatives like tu-tur-yá:t, from tar/tr̩; or pu-sphur-é from sphar/sphr̩. While the zero grade ir/ur is synchronically unpredictable, high REDs like ti-tir-ús are also predicted by the present analysis. The further prediction is that only the ir/ur zero grades of the perfect have this effect on perfect REDs. This is also borne out: thus, kar/kr̩, has a zero grade, ki(:)r- that appears in the present indicative kiráti, the participle ki:r-ɳá, but not in the perfect. As predicted, the perfect Red is Ca: ca-ká:r-a, ca-kr-é, not ∗ ci-ká:r-a,∗ ci-kr-é. Likewise, mar/mr, whose desiderative mu-mu:r-ʂati shows a mu:r- zero grade, has a perfect ma-ma:r-a/ma-mr-ús, analyzable as in (13). The logic of the prediction was laid out above: an i or u in the root can affect RED only via IDENT B-R, so only if the i or u is contained in the surface form of some perfect BRed . One prediction of the analysis remains unverified: roots like tar/tr̩/tir/tur, which reduplicate in the perfect with Ci/Cu when in their zero grade, should keep that Ci/Cu reduplicant in their full grade: alongside ti-tir-ús we expect ti-tár-a∗ , comparable to su-ʂup-ús, su-ʂváp-a. The few attested forms show multiple variants: Ca REDS in ta-ta:r-a, ta-tar-úʂas; Ci REDS in ti-tir-vá:ns, ti-tir-ús, without any attested full-grade counterpart; and a Cu RED in the optative perfect tu-tur-yá:t. It is unclear if all these variants must be generated by the same lexicon/grammar and it is unclear if predicted items like ti-tár-a∗ are systematically missing. One of the rare roots that lacks a full grade a, jr̩mbh ‘gape’, has an epic perfect jajr̩mbh-é whose RED vocalism remains unexplained. In the absence of any perfect form with root a, the present analysis predicts no reduplication at all (DEP RED ROOT would block an inserted vowel) or a high vowel in RED, so ∗ ji-jr̩mbh-é. Here too, revisions are possible, but this datum seems too isolated to justify them. As a last note on uniformity in Sanskrit reduplicants, it is possible that the class 3 presents analyzed by Sandell 2011 offer yet another type of RED correspondence. Sandell (2011:231) suggests that “the vocalism of the [present] reduplicant very closely corresponds to the vocalism of the zero grade allomorph of a given root as it appears in the past passive participle or other morphological category that regularly takes zero grade of the root” (italics mine, DS). That would mean that roots like stha: ‘stand,’ with an i-zero grade in the passive participle sthi-tá, take their i-RED in a present like ti-ʂʈh-ati from sthi-tá and other similar zero-grade forms. Verbs like mad ‘enjoy,’ which lack any i/u-zero grade anywhere, reduplicate as Ca. This type of correspondence between forms that are lexically related but lack any morphosyntactic connection—e.g. the passive participle and the class 3 present—is not unprecedented.¹⁶ ¹⁶ Steriade 2008; Steriade and Yanovich 2015. This is also close to the analysis of perfect RED in Steriade 1988.

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But this conclusion is not secure for the Sanskrit data. Several verbs in Ca:/Ci display an Ci: allomorph of the root in the present (Whitney 1889: §661ff ), e.g. çi-çi:-masi from ça:/çi ‘sharpen,’ or mi-mi:-te from ma:/mi ‘measure;’ or pi-pi:te from pa:/pi ‘drink.’ Such forms, alongside presents like ma-mat-si from mad, can be analyzed by using a version of OP-IDENT RED limited to the present subparadigm: the Ci RED must come from a present CiX BRed . The Ca RED must be used in its absence. Many other present REDs, like bı´-bhar-ti/bı´-bhr-ati on bhar/bhr ‘bear,’ are of Ci shape in the absence of any i-vocalism in any zero grade form of the root. Their existence suggests a mix of grammars in the reduplicated presents. One of these contains HEIGHT IN AFF ≫ IDENT B-RED, a ranking comparable to that found in the desiderative, to generate items like bı´-bhar-ti. A distinct one contains, similar to the perfect, OP-IDENT RED:PRES ≫ IDENT B-RED ≫ HEIGHT IN AFF.¹⁷ This one would characterize presents like ma-mat-si and mi-mi:-te:.

11.7 Rhythmic alternations and HEIGHT IN AFF This last section verifies the statement of the constraint HEIGHT-IN-AFF (4.a), which uses RED’s morpho-prosodic category Affix, rather than the weight of RED’s syllable, to control the height of RED’s nucleus. This aspect of the analysis was justified earlier by noting that disyllabic reduplicants don’t raise their vowels, even in light syllables. The constraints in (4) are not critical to the paradigmatic analysis of RED, but they help explain why CV REDs prefer high vocalism. I show next that the reference to an abstract Affix constituent is further justified by contextual variations in the surface weight of RED. The general effect described next is that the syllable containing a Sanskrit RED can vary in its weight, but this variation does not alter the height of its vowel. The challenge for a parallel analysis is to characterize this combination of variable weight and invariant height. This can be done, if the target size of RED pertains to the unit Affix, rather than its associated surface syllable. Here are the basic facts in need of analysis. Any CC cluster makes a preceding syllable heavy in Sanskrit (Whitney 1889: §79) across almost any boundary, as in other old Indo-European languages. As a result, a light CV RED in a perfect like su su su su-ʂup-ús becomes heavy by position in related su su-ʂváp-a. Consider now roots like kʂaubh/kʂubh ‘quake,’ possessed of an invariant initial cluster. This cluster will cause every prefixal syllable attached to this root, including that of a CV-RED, to ¹⁷ Sandell’s formalization of the idea that a root Ci/Cu zero grade found in any form of the root licenses a Ci/Cu reduplicant makes use of Input-Output correspondence, because he takes full and zero grades to be lexically listed for all roots. But listing a stem allomorph is justified only if its relation to the rest of the paradigm is arbitrary, and that’s clearly not so for the Sanskrit zero grades. They are only occasionally unpredictable from the full grade, and only in respect to the loss of the a-vocalism. What is required is limited lexical indexing of the Faithfulness constraints that prohibit loss of the full-grade a or vocalization of an y/v from the full grade to i/u in zero grade.

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be heavy. If the perfect RED belongs to the Affix category, and this alone determines the height of RED’s vowel, according to the constraint HEIGHT IN AFF, the additional mora contributed by an initial CC cluster will not change the predicted outcome: it will not affect the mono-moraic size of the Affix, only that of the syllable that contains it. This idea is reflected in the evaluation in (16), and predicts the correct vocalism in the perfect RED of a root like kʂaubh: cu-kʂo:bh-a, cu-kʂubh-é. Similarly for the other Affix-sized REDs of the aorist, present and desiderative of such a root. (16)

Evaluating HEIGHT IN AFF in CC-initial roots

The key point here is that the copied material, RED proper, fits within one mora, as required of an Affix. RED’s syllable, however, contains further material in (16), and that makes it heavy. Had the constraint on RED’s height been conditioned by the surface weight of RED’s syllable, a root like kʂaubh could only reduplicate with Ca-, or Co:, as in the intensive, since its prefixal syllables are always heavy. A serial analysis can perhaps avoid facing this issue, if it can differentiate the derivational stage where a RED template is satisfied from that when HEIGHT IN AFFIX is enforced. But we’re interested in whether a constrained parallel analysis can do as well. A similar issue arises in the aorist. Here, the weight of RED varies contextually in a more complex way, but its height still does not co-vary with its weight. The aorist RED lengthens to CV: if, left unlengthened, it would be the first syllable in a sequence of two lights. The function of lengthening is rhythmic: to avoid a dibrach sequence in the predesinential stem, a recurrent effect in Sanskrit verb inflection. From the root svap we find the aorist si-ʂvap-as with short i in a syllable made heavy by the following ʂv; but also a-su:-ʂup-at with lengthened u: in an open syllable, before the light ʂu-. Similarly, the Sanskrit grammarians report from manth ‘shake’ two aorists, a-ma-manth-at, with short RED ma before a heavy root, and a-mi:math-at, with lengthened RED mi: before a light root syllable.¹⁸ Much more on this is found in Bendahman 1993: 119ff. The aorist RED is an Affix: all else being equal, it aims for mono-moraic size. It never contains a long vowel unless it’s light by position and the root syllable ¹⁸ A difference in height-and-weight—Ca vs. Ci:—in aorist REDs is frequently found in such pairs of forms. It seems to suggest that the a in this RED cannot lengthen. Only 2/41 Ca aorist REDs in Whitney 1885 contain long a:.

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is also light. In a few forms, RED remains a short CV even in a sequence of two lights: e.g. a-su-ʂav-us, from sau ‘press out.’ Together, these facts suggest that this RED’s default size is also CV. Then, being an Affix, it too is subject to HEIGHT IN AFFIX. That would explain why more than half of the aorist REDs in Whitney 1885 (N: 287; mostly supplied by grammarians) contain a high i/u that mismatches the height of the vowel in BRed . If we focus just on the 195 reduplicated aorists whose BRed s have a-vocalism, only 18% of these contain a Ca RED corresponding to the height of its BRed (like a-ma-manth-at). The vast majority have Ci or Cu REDs, like si-ʂvap-as, a-mi:-math-at, a-tu-ʂʈav-am. This raising pattern is similar to that of the desiderative, i.e. most aorist REDs raise regardless of paradigm structure, not seeking to match in height the vocalism of any root allomorph. Only a few operate with the ranking IDENT [±HIGH] B-R ≫ HEIGHT IN AFFIX . We now ask if the length variation peculiar to the aorist RED is compatible, in a parallel analysis, with the constraint HEIGHT IN AFFIX. The answer is comparable to that proposed above for perfects like cu-kʂo:bh-a. In an aorist like a-mi:-math-at, the aorist CV prefix is restricted, qua Affix, to occupying one mora. In a-mi:-math-at the vowel of this CV prefix is also linked to a second mora, as mandated by the ∗ DIBRACH constraint against light syllable sequences. But the monomoraic Affix constituent inside RED remains intact, and it continues to require a high vowel. The analysis in (16) illustrates this scenario: it shows an Affix constituent contained in, rather than coinciding with, RED’s syllable. This Affix requires that its nucleus be raised to high. (17)

∗

DIBRACH (no σ˘σ˘sequence), HEIGHT IN AFFAOR >> IDENT [±HIGH] BR

a, REDAffix, math, at

*DIBRACH

a.

a-mi-math-at | [[μ]Aff]σ

*!*

b.

a-ma:-math-at | [[μ]Aff μ]σ

c.

HEIGHT IN AFFAOR

IDENT [±HIGH] B-R *

*!

a-mi:-math-at | [[μ]Aff μ]σ

*

11.8 Conclusion This study has developed an Optimal Paradigm (McCarthy 2005) account of the identities observed among Sanskrit perfect reduplicants. An antecedent of this analysis is Bjorkman’s (2010) account of correspondence among the reduplicants of Kinande. Bjorkman notes that alternatives are available to the OP/Uniform Exponence approach she develops for Kinande (cf. Downing 2006 and references there). These alternatives are missing for Sanskrit.

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The variety of OP IDENT constraint used here differs from earlier ones in that only one subparadigm of the verbal system, the perfect, is targeted. Within it, only REDs are provably driven to be identical.¹⁹ The RED shape generalized by OPIDENT throughout the perfect is selected in part by Markedness constraints, as in McCarthy’s 2005 original cases. I close on an open question. Inflectional paradigms give rise to two apparently divergent uniformity mechanisms. The prevalent one appears to be analyzable only in terms of an asymmetric form of correspondence, in which one cell determines the shape of all others, regardless of phonological markedness considerations, in the manner in which derivational bases asymmetrically influence their derivatives (Benua 1997). The mechanisms that identify the base in such cases appear to vary (Albright 2010). The less common uniformity type is the one studied here, in which Markedness determines which cell generalizes its properties throughout the paradigm. The use of OP-IDENT is well suited to this class. A unification of these two uniformity mechanisms is perhaps achievable, but this task is left to future work.

Acknowledgment This chapter is dedicated to Andrew Garrett, as a memento for our debates on the synchronic analysis of analogy.

¹⁹ A generalized OP analysis can rank ABLAUT, the constraint triggering zero grade, above a version of OP-IDENT that mandates identity of the entire predesinential stem of the perfect, root plus RED, rather than just identity of RED. Then forms in a perfect will have identical roots only when higher-ranked ABLAUT allows this; but, since RED is unaffected by ABLAUT, all perfect REDs will emerge identical, as in the present analysis. I have not developed this analysis because it requires much additional machinery to prevent ABLAUT from over-applying.

12 Sound symbolic words in Séliš-Ql’ispé Sarah Thomason

12.1 Introduction This chapter is an analysis of sound-symbolic words in Séliš-Ql’ispé (also known as Montana Salish, formerly known as Salish-Pend d’Oreille and, earlier, as Flathead), with a special focus on words with the shape C1 VC2 C2 C2 (C2 ), a formation that is apparently shared by just one sister dialect (Spokane) but not by any other Salishan languages. The great majority of the language’s sound-symbolic constructions are onomatopoetic (noise) words (‘snap,’ ‘crackle,’ ‘pop,’ ‘gurgle,’ etc.). But a few represent now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t sights, e.g. ‘twinkle,’ and a few others represent particular kinds of movements. Examples of the various types are c’ossss ‘the sound of a rattlesnake rattling,’ mal’l’l’l’ ‘a gurgling noise, as from bubbles,’ p’aqqqq’ ‘a bunch of little moving lights, for instance the sequins on a jingle-dress,’ and xʷállll ‘shaking, shivering.’ My topic in this chapter is whole sound-symbolic words, not sound symbolism in the form of phonological distortion for affect, as discussed, for instance, in most of the chapters in Hinton et al., eds., 1994b. Séliš-Ql’ispé does also have affective sound symbolism, most regularly in diminutive constructions, which feature glottalization of most non-prefixal and non-inflectional resonant consonants (see Thomason forthcoming for details, and see Nichols 1971 for discussion of comparable features in other western Native North American languages). But these and other affective phonological distortions are unconnected to the sound-symbolic words discussed below. The first thing that needs to be said about Séliš-Ql’ispé (S-Q) sound-symbolic words, unfortunately, is that it isn’t always easy to identify them with confidence. Two formations, C1 VC2 C2 C2 (C2 ) and total-reduplication words, are exclusively sound-symbolic. But two other constructions, ‘plain’ sound-symbolic words and words with C(V )C reduplication plus the suffix -ı´lš, are used to form non-soundsymbolic as well as sound-symbolic words. In such formations, distinguishing sound-symbolic words per se from words for (for instance) a noise-making action sometimes seems to be impossible. It might be an easier task if I had more examples of noise words in texts, but I have very few. Almost all of my examples come from direct elicitations like ‘What’s your word for the sound of a ruffed grouse’s drumming?.’

Sarah Thomason, Sound symbolic words in Séliš-Ql’ispé. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Sarah Thomason (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0012

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Often speakers give a gloss that clearly indicates a noise word, even though the form of the word doesn’t seem obviously onomatopoetic. So, for instance, i ˇcép ‘the sound of something soft, like a blanket, hitting the ground’ and i ɫ-cˇ-cˇép ‘it’s soft’ are both formed from the root ˇcép,¹ and the difference in meaning is arbitrary; only the expanded form i ˇcépppp ‘the sound of lots of soft things, like blankets, being put down’ is unambiguously marked formally as a noise word. (See below for a bit more explanation of the function of the stative particle i.) But sometimes the gloss is itself ambiguous; a typical example is c’m’c’úm’lš ‘mouse squeaking,’ which may refer either to the action or to the noise itself, or perhaps to both. Examples of this sort suggest that the boundary between sound-symbolic words and regular vocabulary is fuzzy. Of course it may be that some noise words are not sound-symbolic at all. I have not found a definition of sound symbolism in the literature that would make it possible to separate noise words that are sound-symbolic definitively from noiserelated words that aren’t. A well-known definition of the world’s most famous sound-symbolic category is Doke’s characterization of the African ideophone as ‘a vivid representation of an idea in sound’ (1935: 118, as cited in Childs 1994: 179); this is itself a vivid characterization, but it doesn’t suggest a usable criterion for deciding whether a given word is sound-symbolic or not. More prosaic definitions can be found in dictionaries of linguistics, for instance this one from Trask (1997: 203): ‘sound symbolism (also phonaesthesia) A relation between the sound of a word and its meaning which is not totally arbitrary, which shows some degree of iconicity. The most familiar type is onomatopoeia, but there are others.’

Trask’s definition of iconicity is also relevant here, because it includes soundsymbolic formations other than imitations of sounds (1997: 108): iconicity A direct connection between the form of a word and its meaning. The most familiar type is onomatopoeia, in which the sound of the word represents a non-linguistic sound with some directness: boom, meow, clink, whiz. But other types exist: for example, the light and fluttery sound of the Basque word tximeleta (roughly, chee-may-LAY-tah) seems to represent the light and fluttery appearance of the creature it denotes, a butterfly. Iconicity is not rare in languages, but its opposite, arbitrariness, is none the less the norm. ¹ The word i ɫcˇˇcép is a diminutive form, with the diminutive prefix ɫ- and reduplication of the first root consonant. In this and many of the other examples in this chapter, the i is a demonstrative particle (or perhaps even a demonstrative root) with stative meaning; it is one of two alternative markers of a construction usually translated into English as adjectival.

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These definitions provide a good characterization of the phenomenon of sound symbolism, but they don’t offer criteria for distinguishing iconic from arbitrary words. Hinton et al. list some typical characteristics of sound symbolism, in particular reduplication, unusual segments and suprasegmentals, and specific semantic and pragmatic fields which ‘crop up again and again for sound-symbolic vocabulary’ (e.g. ‘mimicry of environmental and internal sounds’) (1994a: 9, 10). But they don’t claim any of these features as criterial, and in fact they are not diagnostic. For instance, in some languages, including Séliš-Ql’ispé, at least some soundsymbolic words seem to be phonologically and/or morphosyntactically ordinary, so deviation from the language’s canonical syllable structure, phonetic inventory, morphological composition, or other structural norms isn’t a reliable criterion for membership in the category. Mimicry is itself difficult or impossible to define; ˇcép doesn’t strike me as particularly soft-sounding, for example, but it may well strike a Salish speaker, consciously or unconsciously, as soft-sounding. (I have not found it helpful to ask consultants for such judgments about onomatopoeia, but my experience may not be universal.) In any case, although it is possible that there are valid criteria in the literature that I haven’t discovered, I have included in this chapter all promising candidates—all the noise words in my database, together with the few sight and movement words that clearly belong here—without trying to arrive at a formal set of criteria for establishing sound-symbolic status. I have 168 examples in all. Formally, Séliš-Ql’ispé sound-symbolic words fall into four general categories that display varying degrees of embeddedness in the language’s morphological and syntactic structure and varying degrees of conventionalization. All these expressive lexical items reflect the two tribes’ ecology in important ways, from local flora and fauna (e.g. ruffed grouse drumming) to cultural phenomena like the elaborate jingle-dresses worn at powwow celebrations. After describing the four categories in Section 12.2, I will comment on their phonology and their degree of embeddedness in the language’s morphological and syntactic structure (Section 12.3). In Section 12.4 I consider the question of productivity of the main processes by which the forms are derived and also their degree of conventionalization, primarily as indicated by the existence of cognate forms in Spokane, a dialect of the same unnamed language as Séliš-Ql’ispé, and Colville-Okanagan, a closely related Southern Interior Salishan language. It isn’t possible to trace the history of the language’s sound-symbolic formations definitively, but I can make a few tentative historical comments. The main body of the chapter concludes in Section 12.5 with brief remarks about Séliš-Ql’ispé sound symbolism as compared with sound-symbolic patterns elsewhere in the world, especially in the Americas. Finally, the Appendix contains all the examples that I have identified, together with all the sound-symbolic cognates in Spokane and

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Colville-Okanagan that I’ve found in dictionaries of Spokane (Carlson & Flett 1989) and Colville-Okanagan (Mattina 1987).

12.2 Categories of Séliš-Ql’ispé sound-symbolic words Séliš-Ql’ispé sound-symbolic words fall into four general categories. First, there are 35 ‘plain’ forms—forms with no reduplication and no suffix -ı´lš—as illustrated in example (1). Some of these are simple roots. Others are morphologically complex, usually with an added lexical suffix (indicated by a preceding =). All the words in this category that I’ve found refer to noises, not sights or movements. All the noise words consisting of a simple root (with or without the demonstrative particle i) seem to denote a one-time noise (1a-e), but a very few of the morphologically complex forms have to do with continuous or repeated sounds (e.g. 1f ). (1)

a. b. c. d. e. f.

i láy’ ‘sound of a car door closing’ i ɫáqʷ ‘sound of a wet blanket shaking’ i ɫep’écˇ’ ‘sound of a stick hitting something’ i páw ‘sound like sth cracking on a board or door slamming’ cı´xʷ-t ‘sound of glass smashing’ s-x̣ʷóq’ʷ=lqs ‘snore, sound of snoring’

The second category, with 52 examples, comprises words of the form C1 VC2 C2 C2 (C2 ). When the instances of C2 can be counted, most of the words have four of them; a few have only three. The instances can be counted when C2 is an oral stop, an affricate, or a glottalized resonant, because each of these is pronounced separately in a consonant sequence. Fricatives and nonglottalized resonants other than /l/, however, are nonindividuated continuous sounds. (The phoneme /l/ is usually pronounced with a very brief stop onset; see Flemming et al. 2008: 474.) I have more or less arbitrarily spelled the uncountable type with four instances of the C2 . Some of these words are related to ‘plain’ forms, as with i ˇcép and i ˇcépppp above, or i láy’ (1a above) and i láy’iʔiʔiʔ in (2)a below.² Some of the forms in this category are also related to sound-symbolic words in -ı´lš, e.g. i méllll ‘things going in and out of sight’ and mlméllš ‘you keep seeing it moving.’ As the glosses of i ˇcépppp and i láy’iʔiʔiʔ suggest, this formation is associated with such concepts as plurality, continuous action, and repeated action. But not always, or at least not specifically in every instance: words like those in (2)b-e don’t seem to involve plurality or continuous or repeated action necessarily. Still, all the words ² The form i láy’iʔiʔiʔ contains three instances of the regular vocalization of y’ when not next to a vowel; the underlying form is /lay’y’y’y’/.

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in this category refer to a noise of some duration, as the examples in (2) show. This makes the meaning difference between this formation and the -ı´lš formation unpredictable, since both involve durative actions or states. Example (2) illustrates this category and contains all three of its ‘sight’ words and both of its ‘movement’ words. (2)

a. b. c. d. e. f. g. h. i. j.

i láy’iʔiʔiʔ ‘persistent rattling noise’ i c’áx̣ x̣ x̣ x̣ ‘sound of frying food’ i k’ʷı´cˇcˇcˇcˇ’ ‘creakingsound of a tree starting to fall’ i xʷáwuuu ‘the noise the wind makes’ i cússss ‘rustling noise when you walk in dry leaves’ i cı´kʷkʷkʷkʷ ‘little shiny things sparkling like stars winking’ i méllll ‘things going in and out of sight’ i p’áq’q’q’q’ ‘a bunch of little moving lights’ i múkʷkʷkʷkʷ ‘moving fast invisibly’ xʷállll ‘shaking, shivering’

Almost all the words in the third category, which is almost as common as the second (51 examples), have the form C1 (V )C2 –C1 VC2 -ı´lš (including variant forms of this suffix, -álš and -lš); examples are given in (3). Only three words in this category deviate from the usual pattern in that they lack the prefixed reduplication: c’ı´ʕ’ʷlš ‘it’s squealing,’ ɫákʷlš ‘slapping noise,’ and kʷ’ɫ-x̣ʷiƛ’lš ‘the noise made by a large animal moving through brush; crackling.’ Like the second category, this one indicates durative noises, often with a sense of plurality or repeated action (see the examples in (3)). Unlike the second category, however, this formation is not confined to sound-symbolic words; it also has the more general function of indicating durative actions or states, e.g. pupéwlš ‘breathe’ and qʷn’qʷn’ı´lš ‘he’s having a hard time.’ Moreover, the reduplication pattern in this formation is by no means confined to onomatopoetic words and words with comparable meanings: it is one of the language’s most common distributive plural formations. This category includes one sight word ((3)g) and five movement words (e.g. (3)g-h). Some of the forms in this category correspond to forms in other categories, sometimes with slight differences in meaning but with no clear pattern of semantic differentiation: compare, for instance, mkʷmúkʷlš ‘moving around invisibly’ with i múkʷkʷkʷkʷ ‘moving fast invisibly’ (faster than mkʷmúkʷlš), and compare also 3d below (the prefix kʷ’ɫ- means ‘under’) with i x̣ʷı´ ƛƛƛƛ’ ‘the noise of cracking sticks, the sound of a large animal moving through the brush.’ Several of the words in this category correspond to noise words in Spokane, but, interestingly, none of the Spokane words has the suffix -ı´lš; see (3)b, for instance.

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(3)

a. lulı´wlš (cf. i lı´wuuu (cf. Spok. lı´wlı´wlı´wlı´w b. suʔsuw’ı´lš (cf. Spok. súʔsúʔsúʔ c. ɫp’ɫóp’lš d. kʷ’ɫ-x̣ʷƛ’x̣ʷı´ ƛ’lš e. cˇocˇošı´lš (cf. es-cˇoš-mı´ f. lx̣ʷlx̣ʷı´lš g. mlméllš (cf. i méllll h. iʕ’ʷı´ ʕ’ʷlš

‘a bell ringing’ ‘the sound of ringing’) ‘the sound of continuous ringing of bells’) ‘sound of whispering’ ‘sound of whispering’ ‘the sound of sniffling after someone has been crying’ ‘noise made by a large animal moving through brush’ ‘sound of hollering’ ‘hollering/yelling while dancing’) ‘the sound of crumpling paper, of a mouse moving around’ ‘it keeps moving in and out of sight’ ‘things going in and out of sight’ in (2)g above) ‘something trembling, shaking, moving fast back and forth’

The fourth and last category (30 examples) comprises forms without the suffix -ı´lš but with some kind of reduplication, though not always the same type as in the third category. Formally, this category is something of a hodgepodge, an ‘everything else’ category; possibly these forms don’t all belong together. Some of the forms do have the same reduplication pattern as in the third category, e.g. s-n-m’lm’álq’ʷ ‘echo, echoing sound’ (the two prefixes are, in order, the nominalizer and locative ‘in’). One form has suffixed C1 C2 reduplication: uláqlq ‘the sound of little frogs singing’ (cf. Spokane ʔuráqʔuráq ‘sound of a frog croaking in the early spring’ and Colville-Okanagan s-w’ar’ák’=xn’ ‘frog’). And some words have total reduplication, with each vowel stressed; examples are given in (4). This last type also occurs in both Spokane and Colville-Okanagan (e.g. (4)a). (4) a. cácácá (cf. Spok. cácácá (cf. Colv.-Ok. caʕ-caʕ-cáʕ b. i púmpúmpúmpúm c. t’áɫt’áɫt’áɫ d. líwlíwlíwlíw (cf. Spok. líwlíwlíwlíw e. ɫákʷɫákʷɫákʷɫákʷ (cf. Spok. ɫáp’ɫáp’ɫáp’ɫáp’ f. šícˇšícˇšícˇ g. (i)yác’yác’yác’yác’

‘hollering noise, when you’re getting beaten up’ ‘wailing sound, sound of a tantrum, pitiful’) ‘holler, cry’) ‘sound of a drum’ ‘a sound of something flopping around or slapping’ ‘sound of water dripping into buckets’ ‘sound of continuous ringing of bells’) ‘sound of wet moccasins slapping the floor’ ‘sound of feet slapping the floor’) ‘shuffling sound’ ‘creaky sound when you walk on fresh snow’

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12.3 The structure of Séliš-Ql’ispé sound-symbolic words Phonologically, there is nothing especially startling about any of these S-Q words— except for the two (possibly paralinguistic) forms xʷšššš ‘the sound an arrow makes flying by’ and pspsps ‘a farting sound,’ which lack a vocoid vowel. All the words in the ‘plain’ and -ı´lš categories, in fact, are perfectly ordinary S-Q words, phonologically, morphologically, and syntactically; they are structurally indistinguishable, as far as I can tell, from non-sound-symbolic words. The distribution of root-initial consonants in the sound-symbolic words as a group, including all four categories, is somewhat skewed in several respects, however. First, several phonemes are more common as C1 in these words than one would expect given their modest numbers as root-initial consonants in the general lexicon. The most striking of these are /l/ (C1 in 14 sound-symbolic words), /xʷ/ (12 words), and /x̣ʷ/ (16 words). Also, the two labialized pharyngeal consonants, /ʕʷ/ and /ʕ’ʷ/, occur as initials in a total of ten sound-symbolic words, but as initials in only eight other words (and even some of these eight others have glosses that might suggest sound symbolism). The language’s most common root-initial consonants are the labials /p/ (99 roots) and /m/ (95 roots); /p/ occurs as C1 in 17 sound-symbolic words—more than any other phoneme—but /m/ in only seven. The next two most common root-initial consonants are /t’/ (89 roots) and /t/ (85 roots); /t’/ is root-initial in 14 sound-symbolic words, while /t/ appears as C1 in only four. The dorsal stops—/kʷ/, /k’ʷ/, /q/, /q’/, /qʷ/, and /q’ʷ/—are all well represented as root-initial consonants in the general vocabulary but almost entirely absent as C1 in sound-symbolic words; all but /k’ʷ/, however, are fairly common as C2 in these words. There are a number of interesting phonological features in the second and fourth categories, C1 VC2 C2 C2 (C2 ) and the ‘reduplication, no -ı´lš’ category. The most striking of these features is the C1 VC2 C2 C2 (C2 ) formation itself: like other Salishan languages, S-Q has several productive reduplication processes, but none involves more than two or at most three identical consonants in a row. This makes the four-consonant sequences in this category remarkable. (They do not, however, violate any general syllable-structure rules, because there is in principle no limit on the number of consonants that can occur in sequence in a monosyllabic S-Q word: there are seven obstruents in a row, for instance, in the onset of sxʷcˇšt’sqá ‘a person whose job it is to take care of stock, a shepherd,’ and similarly complex forms are rather easy to find.) Another striking feature of this formation concerns glottalization: almost always, when the root’s C2 is a glottalized oral stop or affricate, all but the final instance of the C2 is deglottalized in the sound-symbolic word. The few exceptions to this generalization occur when, as in example (5)d below, the only elder who provided the form idiosyncratically glottalized all the stops in sequence (though she deglottalized, as other elders did, in numerous other forms). Deglottalization

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is not unique to this formation in S-Q; it affects all but the last of two or more glottalized oral stops or affricates in sequence elsewhere in the language too, for instance in unstressed derivatives of the root t’úkʷ’ like tkʷʼntés ‘he put one thing down.’ But deglottalization is on especially prominent display in C1 VC2 C2 C2 (C2 ) forms, thanks to the large number of identical deglottalized stops or affricates in sequence. It’s also noteworthy that if the C2 is a glottalized lateral affricate /ƛ’/, as in i x̣ʷı´ ƛƛƛƛ’ ‘the noise of cracking sticks’ and i x̣ʷóƛƛƛ’ ‘the sound of hard things crunching together,’ deglottalization produces a nonglottalized lateral affricate— a phone that occurs in the language only as a result of the deglottalization rule. Note that only oral stops and affricates undergo deglottalization: glottalized resonant consonants, for example the four instances of /l’/ in mal’l’l’l’ ‘a gurgling noise, as from bubbles,’ always retain glottalization in sequences of more than one glottalized segment. All the other examples I’ve found of words in this category with a glottalized stop or affricate C2 are given in (5) (a-g), together with three examples showing that deglottalization does not affect glottalized resonants ((5)h-j). I’ve included Spokane cognates, where possible; note that Spokane does not undergo this deglottalization process. (5)

a. i kʷ’ı´cˇcˇcˇcˇ’ (cf. Spok. kʷ’icˇ’cˇ’cˇ’ b. i lóqʷqʷqʷq’ʷ c. i p’ácccc’ (cf. Spokane p’ác’c’c’ d. i p’áq’q’q’q’ (cf. Spok. hi p’aq’q’q’q’ e. p’átttt’ (cf. Spok. p’at’t’t’ f. i x̣ʷı´qqq’ g. i yı´qqqq’ (cf. Spokane yı´q’q’q’ h. i láy’iʔiʔiʔ i. i mál’l’l’l’ j. i t’ı´l’l’l’l’

‘the creaking sound a tree makes as it begins to fall’ ‘sound of a falling tree’) ‘the sound of a stomach growling’ ‘a chipmunk noise; the noise of diarrhea and farting’ ‘sound of flatus and diarrhea simultaneously’) ‘a bunch of little moving lights’ ‘sound of tinder-dry grass burning’) ‘sound of a cow pie plopping, of a cow pooping’ ‘sound of a cow pooping’) ‘the sound of cracking’ ‘a creaking noise’ ‘sound of lots of creaking bones’) ‘a rattling noise’ ‘a gurgling noise’ ‘the sound of tearing’

Another point worth mentioning about this category, though it is not an oddity of any kind, is that a regular phonological rule vocalizes a vocoid consonant phoneme when it is not next to a vowel phoneme. Nonglottalized vocoid consonants are uncomplicated: i lı´wuuu ‘the sound of ringing’ (the root is lı´w) and i xʷáwuuu ‘the noise the wind makes (root xʷáw), for example. In the form i ɫóoooo ‘the sound of rain hitting,’ the first unstressed o was originally /ʕʷ/; the

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last three are regular vocalizations of the labialized pharyngeal (and in fact one elder pronounced the word i ɫóʕʷʕʷʕʷʕʷ). A glottalized vocoid consonant regularly vocalizes as vowel plus glottal stop in S-Q, and /y’/ does so three times in (5)h. The only other noteworthy phonological feature of sound-symbolic words is in the fourth category: forms with total reduplication have one stress per syllable, unlike ordinary words in the language, which have only one stress per word (and in which unstressed vowels generally disappear); examples are given above in (4). Of course it is possible that these forms should be treated not as complex lexical units, but as sequences of several repeated words, as in an English sentence like That was a very very very weird movie. I am provisionally analyzing them as single words because the speakers seem to treat them as units—not just S-Q speakers, but apparently also Spokane and Colville-Okanagan speakers, given the spelling of the Spokane examples in Carlson and Flett 1989 and one Colville-Okanagan example ((4)a above). (In the other Colville-Okanagan example I’ve found, however, the syllables are spelled as four different words: p’əs p’əs p’əs p’əs ‘Coyote’s call to his helpers.’ ) If the S-Q examples are single words, then the stress pattern is remarkable, a clear identifier of a sound-symbolic word. As noted at the beginning of this section, all examples of ‘plain’ and -ı´lš noise words are phonologically and morphosyntactically ordinary: they display no differences at all from non-onomatopoetic words, aside from skewing in the distribution of their root-initial consonants. Therefore, although the examples in each of these two categories belong to a single lexical subclass by virtue of their semantic unity, it is not yet clear whether they constitute a single structural subclass or not. The situation is different with the C1 VC2 C2 C2 (C2 ) and total-reduplication formations. Syntactically, these are interjections. When I asked consultants for a sentence using i púɫɫɫɫ ‘splash!,’ for instance, they gave me N’em i púɫɫɫɫ sqlew súps n’e ˇcɫsp’étkʷm ‘The beaver’s tail will go splashhhhh when he hits the water on purpose’ (lit. ‘will splashhhhh beaver his.tail when he.hits.on.water’). Both of these formations are also inert morphologically, as far as I can tell, except for the presence of a preceding demonstrative particle i, which carries a stative (though not necessarily a durative) meaning—and which occurs also with some ‘plain’ forms, but never with a form that has the suffix -ı´lš. Roughly half of the words of the C1 VC2 C2 C2 (C2 ) and total-reduplication types have roots that are unique to these formations in my data. Although at least some of these exclusively sound-symbolic roots probably do occur in non-sound-symbolic formations as well, some of them are likely to be exclusively sound-symbolic in fact. Examples are i ˇc’áxʷxʷxʷxʷ ‘a knocking noise,’ i hámmmm ‘a buzzing noise,’ i kʷássss ‘hissing noise of water or grease on something hot,’ i lóqʷqʷqʷqʷ’ ‘the noise of a stomach growling,’ i xʷáwuuu ‘the noise the wind makes, and cácácá ‘hollering.’ The remaining roots in words of these two types occur in other formations as well, sometimes including other sound-symbolic formations. So, for instance, three different sound-symbolic words are formed from the root mél: i mél ‘the

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sight of something moving, you just see it and it disappears,’ i méllll ‘a bunch of things—you’re not too sure what they are—going in and out of sight,’ and mlméllš ‘it keeps moving, showing and then disappearing, you keep seeing it moving.’ In cases where the root occurs in formations other than sound-symbolic ones, its morphosyntactic behavior is identical to that of any other root. An example is the root xwép ‘spread,’ which occurs in two sound-symbolic formations—i xʷép ‘the sound of something like a blanket being spread’ and xʷépppp ‘the sound of a bunch of blankets being spread’—and in all ordinary contexts as well, e.g. xʷépn ‘I spread it (a blanket or some similar flexible thing).’

12.4 Productivity and conventionalization of Séliš-Ql’ispé sound-symbolic words Productivity is hard to judge for S-Q sound-symbolic words, partly because of the limitations of my data; it is quite possible that some noise words my consultants gave me were neologisms. The two phonologically odd words, i xʷšššš ‘the sound of an arrow flying by’ and pspsps ‘a farting sound,’ seemed to be new thoughts for them, for instance, and at least a few of the C1 VC2 C2 C2 (C2 ) words may have been invented on the spot too. I do have definite evidence that the -ı´lš formation, at least, is productive: when I asked for a word for the lowing of a bull or the mooing of a cow, one elder jokingly said that it could be mumúwlš ‘the sound of mooing’—and then assured me hastily that it’s not a REAL Salish word. Of course it isn’t; but the fact that it could be formed as a joke shows that the formation itself is alive. In fact, the suffix -ı´lš is very widely used in S-Q in general, so it is not surprising if it is as productive in this semantic domain as it is in other domains. The question of conventionalization is easier to address, both because the same words turned up in different sessions in different years—indicating that they were part of the lexicon and not one-time inventions—and because many of the words are either precisely cognate with noise words in Spokane and occasionally in Colville-Okanagan or related to other noise words in those languages. The complete list of cognates and related noise words is in the Appendix; here are a few examples: (6)

a. cı´xʷt ‘the sound of glass smashing’ Spok. cı´xʷ ‘sound of fine glass smashing’ b. i cˇép ‘sound of something soft, like a blanket, hitting the ground’ Spok. ˇcep ‘soft; sound of something soft hitting the ground’ c. i láy’ ‘a noise like the sound of car door closing’ Spok. lay’ ‘a single tinny sound, like a tin pan hitting the floor’

SOUND SYMBOLIC WORDS IN SÉLIŠ-QL’ISPÉ d. i láy’iʔiʔiʔ Spok. láy’iʔiʔ e. i c’áx̣ x̣ x̣ x̣ Spok. c’áx̣ x̣ x̣ x̣ f. t’áɫt’áɫt’áɫ Spok. t’áɫɫt’áɫɫ g. cácácá Spok. cácácá Colv.-Ok. caʕ-caʕ-cáʕ h. lı´wuuu Spok. lı´wlı´wlı´wlı´w i. suʔsuw’ı´lš Spok. súʔsúʔsúʔ

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‘a rattling noise, like a wagon going along’ ‘sound of many tin objects hitting the floor’ ‘the sound of frying food’ ‘sound of frying food’ ‘a clapping sound’ ‘sound of a galloping horse’ ‘hollering’ ‘wailing sound’ ‘holler, cry’ ‘the sound of ringing’ ‘the sound of continuous ringing of bells’ ‘the sound of whispering’ ‘the sound of whispering’

The existence of cognates and related forms makes it overwhelmingly likely that the words have a history stretching back over several to many generations. There are other possibilities: a noise word could have been borrowed from one of the other languages, or the same sound-symbolic word could have been invented in two or even all three of the languages. But cognacy seems more likely than borrowing and much more likely than accidental similarity. Most of the cognates I have are from the ‘plain’ and C1 VC2 C2 C2 (C2 ) categories, and most are precisely cognate with Spokane forms. (In fact, my systematic search for S-Q noise words began when I noticed one or two matchings between S-Q and Spokane C1 VC2 C2 C2 (C2 ) forms; I then used the list of words under ‘sounds’ in Carlson & Flett 1989 as a jumping-off point for my own elicitation of noise words.) The most interesting thing about these cognates is the evidence they provide for the history and stability of the C1 VC2 C2 C2 (C2 ) formation, which is exclusively sound-symbolic, phonologically unusual even within the Salishan family, and outside the normal morphosyntactic system. Even if some of the forms in this category are recent innovations, the evidence indicates that, once formed, a C1 VC2 C2 C2 (C2 ) word is easily integrated into the language’s lexicon. Finally, I have found just one example that seems to illustrate a feature of soundsymbolic words that is common in some other languages—namely, a failure to undergo regular sound changes. The general topic has been addressed repeatedly in the literature; Mithun comments, for instance, that ‘Expressive vocabulary, particularly exclamations, seems highly resistant to replacement in Iroquoian languages’ (1982: 55). For whatever reason, the phenomenon is not prominent in Séliš-Ql’ispé. The only irregular sound change that seems likely to be due to sound symbolism is in uláqlq ‘the sound of little frogs singing’ (and in its Spokane cognate ʔuráqʔuráq ‘sound of a frog croaking in the early spring’). Etymologically, this word had /k/ or /k’/, as shown by the partly cognate forms in other Interior Salishan languages: Colville-Okanagan s-w’ar’ák’=xn’ ‘frog,’

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Columbian wark ‘frog,’ Coeur d’A lene warcˇ ‘frog,’ Lillooet wəlik’ ‘sound of frog,’ and Thompson River Salish wlək’ze ‘tree toad’ (the last four forms are from Kuipers 2002: 192). Séliš-Ql’ispé and Spokane, as dialects of a palatalizing Southern Interior Salishan language, would be expected to have /cˇ/ in their ‘croak’ words: like Coeur d’A lene, but unlike the other languages with cognate forms, they underwent a change that replaced all non-labialized velar obstruents with alveopalatals. The fact that they instead replaced an original /k/ with /q/ suggests that palatalization was blocked because of the expressive nature of the word ‘croak’—perhaps (to speculate) because dorsal stops seem closer to croaking sounds than alveopalatal affricates seem. Other S-Q words also show irregular developments of dorsal obstruents, including replacements of velar by uvular stops (Thomason 2016), but this is the only word that suggests a sound-symbolic motive.

12.5 Conclusion: sound-symbolic words in Séliš-Ql’ispé and in other languages I have not searched the literature systematically for material to compare with my Séliš-Ql’ispé data, but a few comments can be made about the place of S-Q sound-symbolic words in the cross-linguistic context of sound symbolism. All but a handful of my examples are noise words, and these are an exact match for two of the common characteristics of sound symbolism mentioned by Hinton et al. (1994a: 9–10, and see Section 12.1 above): they are based on ‘mimicry of environmental and internal sounds,’ and three of the four categories involve some sort of reduplication. But the words, as we saw above, do not have any unique phonological features, unlike sound-symbolic words in many other languages. Not surprisingly, given their imitative and iconic nature, the S-Q forms with total reduplication belong to a type of sound-symbolic expression that is found in a great many languages around the world. Here are three typical examples: the word for ‘insistent rapping on the door’ is kpuk-kpuk-kpuk in the African language Kisi (Childs 1994: 190); kap! kap! kap! (kap!) is ‘the sound of a grizzly bear clacking its teeth’ in the Algonquian language Meskwaki (Fox) (Lucy Thomason, p.c. 1999); and the word for ‘a fish’s tail flopping on the ground is polpolpol…’ in the Australian language Yir-Yoront (Alpher 1994: 173). It’s worth noting that in many languages such forms can be extended at will, as Alpher notes for this and similar Yir-Yoront forms; this feature contrasts with S-Q words with total reduplication, where total reduplication is limited to three or four instances (and likewise in the Spokane and Colville-Okanagan cognates). I have not found any close matches between the S-Q C1 VC2 C2 C2 (C2 ) formation and sound-symbolic words in other languages—especially as the S-Q formation seems to be conventionally limited to three or four instances of the C2 . There are, however, numerous examples of repetition of a final syllable or VC half-syllable

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elsewhere. Pomo, for instance, has forms like /kililililil/ ‘rumbling, thundering, roaring,’ and the final VC may be ‘alternated indefinitely to indicate prolongation, pulsation,….’ (Oswalt 1973: 180). Indefinitely long final CV repetition also occurs (or occurred) in Lower Chinook (Boas 1911: 636), e.g. [hálElElElElElE] ‘noise of flight of an arrow.’ Interestingly, though, one of the most similar formations I’ve found occurs in Nez Perce, whose speakers have had close contacts with S-Q speakers for hundreds of years. These contacts are reflected in extensive lexical transfer (Pharris & Thomason 2005), and there is apparently mutual or one-way structural interference as well. Nez Perce, like Pomo, has VC reduplication, but the few forms I’ve seen have only two or three repetitions, as in S-Q: yóxoxoxox ‘tumbling out of Coyote’s excrement-children,’ t’ákakak ‘west wind,’ c’álalal ‘katydid’ (Aoki 1994: 16). Probably the main conclusion that should be drawn at this point is that a great deal of work is still needed on the identification and analysis of sound-symbolic words in S-Q, and on S-Q sound symbolism more generally. And in a broader context, a comparative study of sound-symbolic words in Salishan languages is likely to be rewarding.

Acknowledgments As always, I am immensely grateful to the Séliš-Ql’ispé Culture Committee of the Confederated Salish and Kootenai Tribes, St. Ignatius, MT, for their generous support of my work on Séliš-Ql’ispé since 1981. I am also grateful to the Culture Committee and its Council of Elders for permission to publish this chapter. During the period when I collected most of the data for this chapter I was working with an extraordinarily knowledgeable and dedicated group of elders, most consistently Harriet Whitworth, Dorothy Felsman, John Peter Paul, Agnes Paul, Felicite Sapiye McDonald, Louis Adams, Josephine Quequesah, Noel Pichette, Michael Durglo, Margaret Finley, and Alice Camel. Sadly, they are all gone now. But I will never forget the great debt of gratitude that I owe them. I wish to dedicate this chapter to Andrew Garrett, a scholar for whom I have long had the greatest respect. Andrew and I share several core research interests, most centrally historical linguistics and the documentation of languages of small communities; this chapter focuses on the latter area.

Appendix Below are all the examples of sound-symbolic words that I have identified so far in Séliš-Ql’ispé. The entries also include the Spokane and Colville-Okanagan cognates that I’ve collected from Carlson and Flett 1989 and Mattina 1987,

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respectively. In most cases there is no direct cognate for a S-Q form; sometimes Spokane or even Colville-Okanagan has a sound-symbolic word in a different formation, but sometimes the cognate forms may not be sound-symbolic. The entries in this Appendix are organized according to the formation categories: first the ‘plain’ forms with no reduplication and no suffix -ı´lš, then words of the form C1 VC2 C2 C2 (C2 ), then forms with prefixed reduplication plus the suffix ´ı lš, and finally forms with reduplication but without -ı´lš. In spite of my attempt to avoid uncertain forms, some of the words below may not be sound-symbolic forms at all—they may, for instance, refer to the action of making the noise rather than to the noise itself. Similarly, this list no doubt omits some sound-symbolic words that I’ve overlooked because the glosses I have do not clearly indicate their sound-symbolic status.

A12.1 ‘Plain’ forms (35 examples): • cı´xʷ-t ‘the sound of glass smashing’; Spokane cı´xʷ ‘sound of fine glass smashing.’ • n-cʔı´š ‘sound of water burning on the outside of a kettle; also, when the water is starting to heat up.’ (Cf. i-es-ncı´š-m ‘I’m heating it up.’ ) • c’al’é, c’aal’é ‘rattle made of deer rawhide with rocks inside.’ This may not be a noise word itself, but cf. the Spokane noise word c’al’ ‘sound made by falling sticks or spurs. Cf. also Colville c’aʔ-tán ‘rattle (of snake).’ • c’ı´ip’ana ‘the sound a chickadee makes.’ • i ˇcép ‘the sound of something soft, like a blanket, hitting the ground.’ Compare i ˇcépppp below. Spokane ˇcep ‘soft; sound of something soft hitting the ground.’ • es-cˇoš-mı´ ‘yelling/sounds made while dancing (a specific type of sound made while doing traditional dances).’ This may not be a noise word per se; cf. ˇcn ˇcošmı´ ‘I made that noise (i.e. that special noise),’ and also Spokane ˇcoš(ı´) ‘shout’. Compare ˇcocˇošı´lš below. • ɫ-cˇ-cˇ’áxʷ ‘a little knocking sound’ (with a diminutive prefix ɫ- and diminutive C1 - reduplication). See i ˇc’áxʷxʷxʷxʷ below, and cf. Spokane ˇc’axʷ ‘knocking sound.’ • i ´ıɫkʷ ‘the sound of a branch scraping.’ Compare i ilı´ɫkʷ ‘the sound of branches scraping, or of a horse or buffalo wallowing in dust or mud, or some similar sound.’³ ³ The laterals spelled ɫ in these words are phonetically voiceless approximant l sounds—that is, allophones of /l/—not voiceless fricative [ɫ] sounds as in /ɫ/. I’ve spelled them with ɫ because that is the conventional spelling for all voiceless lateral continuants in the language. The convention is nonideal, since it conceals the phonemic distinction between /l/ and /ɫ/, and at least some elders hear the difference between [l̥ ] and [ɫ]; but it doesn’t lead to serious confusion.

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• i láy’ ‘a noise like the sound of car door closing.’ Compare i láy’iʔiʔiʔ below. Spokane lay’ ‘a single tinny sound, like a tin pan hitting the floor’ (and láy’iʔiʔ ‘sound of many tin objects hitting the floor’). • ɫákʷ ‘a slapping noise, the slapping noise of wet moccasins, lap up (water).’ Cf. i ɫáqʷ ‘the sound you make when you shake a wet blanket.’ Compare ɫákʷlš and ɫákʷɫákʷɫákʷɫákʷ. Spokane ɫakʷ ‘slapping noise,’ ɫakʷ ‘it made a slapping noise.’ • i ɫáqʷ ‘the sound you make when you shake a wet blanket.’ Cf. ɫákʷ ‘a slapping noise,’ which may be related to this form by a sound-symbolic velar/uvular alternation (see e.g. Kuipers 1981: 325). Compare ɫqʷɫáqʷlš and ɫáqʷɫáqʷɫáqʷ. • i ɫep’écˇ’ ‘the sound of a stick hitting something.’ Spokane lep’écˇ’ ‘sound of a flat, heavy object hitting a flat surface.’ • ƛ’áw’ ‘the sound of stepping or falling in the mud.’ Compare the non-soundsymbolic uses of this root, e.g. i ƛ’awácˇlexʷ ‘muddy ground,’ and cf. Spokane hi ƛ’áʕʷcˇ’ ‘it’s muddy.’ • i mél ‘the sight of something moving, you just see it and it disappears.’ Compare mlméllš and i méllll below. Spokane hi mél ‘it appears and then disappears in front of you as when you are watching someone walk through trees.’ • i páw ‘the sound of anything cracking on a board, or a door slamming, or some similar sound.’ Compare pupáwlš. • púʔ ‘the sound of hitting something hard, a hard, cracking sound.’ • n-p’ı´q’ʷ=ps ‘the sound of a fart, or of a motorcycle.’ • n-tt’lqʷ=ó(ps) ‘the sound of a motorcycle: ripping sound from the back end.’ • i t’apáx̣ʷ ‘the sound of something hitting the water; something making that sound.’ Spokane t’apáx̣ʷ ‘sound of a huge splash when a heavy object hits the water.’ • i t’áqʷ ‘a bursting noise, the sound of a fire cracking or a balloon bursting.’ Compare i t’áqʷqʷqʷqʷ and es-t’t’qʷál’qʷ(o)m’m’ ‘the sound of trees bursting from extreme cold (when the moisture in the trees freezes and the trees pop—it sounds like a rifle shot).’ • t’ı´qʷ, i t’ı´qʷ ‘a smashing sound, as of bugs or cherries or anything that makes such a noise when smashed.’ Spokane t’iqʷ ‘small bursting sound, such as that of a louse being smashed between the fingernails; sound of a small-gauge shotgun.’ (Cf. Colville t’iqʷ-t ‘burst, explode,’ t’qʷ-qʷ-iqʷ ‘shot, explosion’—but it’s not clear whether these Colville words refer to the noises or to the making of the noises, and it’s also not clear whether the Colville cognate belongs with this entry or the preceding one.) • t’móq’ʷ ‘the sound of something you pull off, like hair from your head, or pull out, as when you pull a root out of the ground.’ Spokane t’amáq’ʷ ‘sound of a big root being pulled out of the ground.’ • t’w’áq ‘the sound of a string or rope breaking’; but this word is also used to refer to the breaking, not only to the sound of breaking. Spokane t’awáq

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SARAH THOMASON ‘sound of a sudden snapping of string or rope.’ Colv.-Ok. t’w’qa-m ‘break a rope or string’ is apparently not a noise word. es-xʷancó ‘a deer snorting; the sound of a deer snorting.’ (Also transcribed as es-x̣ʷoncó.) Cf. xʷaxʷancó ‘a deer snorted more than once,’ Colv.-Ok. xʷn-cʕat ‘snort of an animal,’ and Colv.-Ok. xʷən ‘noisy or roaring sound.’ i xʷép ‘the sound of something like a blanket being spread.’ Compare xʷépppp below, and cf. xʷépn ‘I spread it (a blanket or some similar thing).’ Spokane xʷep ‘to lay out, to spread out flat; sound of spreading out a blanket or table cloth.’ (Cf. Colv.-Ok. xʷip-m ‘spread out’—not a noise word.) i x̣é ƛ’ ‘a crunching, biting noise, a gnawing sound; chewing your fingernails.’ (Cf. x̣ƛ’x̣ƛ’ı´lš below, and cf. Spokane x̣ƛ’(ı´) ‘chew, eat.’ ) x̣ʷáq’ʷ ‘a grinding sound.’ See i x̣ʷáqʷqʷqʷq’ʷ ’sound of grinding/sharpening,’ and cf. x̣ʷáq’ʷn ‘I ground it up, I sharpened it.’ Spokane x̣ʷáq’ʷ ‘a grinding sound.’ i x̣ʷiƛ,’ i x̣ʷéyƛ’ ‘a breaking sound; the sound of a knuckle cracking.’ See below: i x̣ʷiƛƛƛƛ’ and kʷ’ɫ-x̣ʷiƛ’lš. Spokane x̣ʷiƛ’ ‘sound of cracking sticks, such as kindling being broken up.’ i x̣ʷı´q’ ‘a cracking noise, as when a tree begins to fall.’ Compare i x̣ʷı´qqq’ below. x̣ʷı´q’ʷ ‘the sound of something being poked (not necessarily a loud sharp sound).’ Compare x̣ʷq’ʷx̣ʷı´q’ʷlš. Spokane x̣ʷiq’ʷ ‘sound of a stick being poked around in a jar or can.’ x̣ʷóƛ’ ‘a crackling noise, a crunching sound,’ x̣ʷoƛ’éneʔ ‘a crackling noise; cracklins, what’s left over from rendering grease, noisy when you chew it.’ Compare i x̣ʷóƛƛƛ’ and x̣ʷƛ’x̣ʷóƛ’lš, below. s-x̣ʷóq’ʷ=lqs ‘the sound of snoring, a snore’ (=lqs is a lexical suffix, perhaps meaning ‘nose.’ Cf. es-x̣ʷóq’ʷ=lqs-i ‘she’s snoring.’ ) Compare x̣ʷq’ʷx̣ʷóʔoq’ʷlš. Spokane x̣ʷóq’ʷ ‘sound a pig makes, sound of snoring.’ Cf. Colv.-Ok. xʷaq’ʷ=lqs-m ‘snore’ (apparently the action, not the noise). n-yol=qn ‘a big deep voice.’ ʕay-ı´m ‘a growl.’ (But this refers to the action, not to the actual sound.) ʕʷox̣ʷ ‘a slapping sound, the sound of berries hitting canvas; water being poured; sound of a leaking faucet.’ See i ʕʷóx̣ʷx̣ʷx̣ʷx̣ʷ below. Spokane ʕʷox̣ʷ ‘sound of rushing water or water being poured.’

A12.2 C1 VC2 C2 C2 (C2 ) words (52 examples): • i cı´kʷkʷkʷkʷ ‘little shiny things sparkling, such as sequins on a jingle-dress, sparks flying up, or stars winking.’ • i cı´nnnn’ ‘the sound of humming, just the noise.’ • i cússss ‘rustling noise when you walk in dry brush, or pushing through brush.’ Cf. ˇcn cscúslš ‘I walked through dry brush or leaves, rustling,’ and

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Colv.-Ok. n-cus-cs=cn ‘purple aster, Aster conspicuus’—which, according to one of Mattina’s consultants, is derived from a word meaning a rattling noise. i c’áx̣ x̣ x̣ x̣ ‘the sound of frying food.’ Cf. ˇcn esc’áx̣i ‘I’m frying something.’ Spokane c’áx̣ x̣ x̣ x̣ ‘sound of frying food.’ i c’óssss ‘rattling noise, as of rattlesnakes rattling or deer-hoof staffs rattling.’ Cf. c’ós-m-i-s ‘he rattled it.’ Compare c’sc’óslš. i ˇcépppp ‘the sound of a lot of blankets being put down (or a similar sound).’ Compare i ˇcép. i ˇc’áxʷxʷxʷxʷ ‘a knocking sound—woodpecker noise, sound of carpenters hammering, sound of knocking as of a salt cellar being set down sharply on a table.’ See ˇc’xʷcˇ’xʷa´lš below. Spokane ˇc’axʷ ‘knocking sound’ and ˇc’xʷxʷáxʷ ‘he started making a knock-knocking sound.’ i hámmmm ‘a buzzing sound, e.g. the sound of a motor, or of bees or flies buzzing.’ Spokane ham ‘droning sound, sound of a motor, sound of a fly.’ hı´iiip ‘the sound of a ruffed grouse drumming.’ This word fits into this category if—as is possible—its underlying form is hiyyyy and -p is a suffix; but es-hı´p-i ‘a ruffed grouse is drumming’ suggests that the stop may be part of the root. i kʷássss ‘the hissing sound of steam, when you pour water on something hot; the sound of grease dripping continuously on a fire.’ Compare kʷaskʷas below. Spokane kʷassss ‘sound of fat frying,’ and cf. also Spokane kʷ’sss ‘sound of something scorching and shriveling up.’ i k’ʷı´ˇcˇcˇcˇc’ ‘the creaking sound a tree makes when it’s beginning to fall.’ Spokane k’ʷicˇ’cˇ’cˇ’ ‘sound of a falling tree,’ and cf. Spokane kʷecécˇ ‘sound of a tree falling, breaking other tree limbs as it goes.’ i láy’iʔiʔiʔ ‘a rattling noise, like a wagon going along’—the same noise as with i láy’ above, only continuous. Compare also c-l’il’iy’alš and láy’láy’láy’láy’. Spokane láy’iʔiʔ ‘sound of many tin objects hitting the floor.’ i lı´qqqq ‘the noise of a lot of threads breaking, e.g. a shirt coming unraveled when you tear it.’ Spokane lı´qqqq ‘sound of many threads breaking simultaneously,’ and cf. Spokane liq ‘sound of breaking thread or string.’ i lı´wuuu ‘the sound of ringing, as of a bell, or a tin plate hitting the floor and bouncing around, or coins falling on the floor, or even your ear (when your ears are ringing).’ Cf. Spokane lı´wlı´wlı´wlı´w ‘the sound of continuous ringing of bells.’ i lóqʷqʷqʷq’ʷ ‘the sound of a stomach growling.’ Compare lq’ʷlóq’ʷlš below, and cf. Spokane lq’ʷq’ʷáq’ʷ ‘sound of a great amount of water in the stomach.’ i lóx̣ʷx̣ʷx̣ʷx̣ʷ ‘the sound of wagon wheels rolling.’ See above, lx̣ʷlx̣ʷı´lš ‘the sound of crumpling paper, the sound of a mouse moving around, anything rattling,’ and cf. Spokane lx̣ʷx̣ʷóx̣ʷ ‘sound of many hard-soled shoes on a floor.’

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• i lóʕ’ʷʕ’ʷʕ’ʷʕ’ʷ ‘the sound of a stomach growling.’ Cf. Spokane s-n-l’a ʕ’ʷmʼn’=ʔ=én’cˇ ‘growling stomach’ (with what looks like affective glottalization of the resonant consonants in the suffixes). • i ɫóoooo ‘the sound of rain hitting, coming down.’ Cf. Spokane ɫo ‘sound of a steady rain.’ • i ƛ’óqʷqʷqʷqʷ ‘the sound of knuckles cracking.’ Cf. qʷ’óqʷm ‘he cracked his knuckles.’ Cf. also Spokane ƛ’oqʷ(ú) ‘poke; sound of a popping joint’ and Colv.-Ok. n-ƛ’qʷ=úps ‘spank,’ which is not a noise word (though it might of course be sound-symbolic). • i ƛ’óx̣ʷx̣ʷx̣ʷx̣ʷ ‘the sound of something round (e.g. marbles or huckleberries) rolling around.’ Cf. Spokane ƛ’x̣ʷx̣ʷx̣ʷóx̣ʷ ‘sound of round objects falling into a container.’ • i mál’l’l’l’ ‘a gurgling noise, as from bubbles or foam.’ Spokane mal’l’l’(l’) ‘sound of a gurgling stomach or brook, sound of liquid gurgling in a bottle as one drinks without stopping.’ • i méllll ‘a bunch of things—you’re not too sure what they are—going in and out of vision (e.g. watching through a picket fence and seeing a bunch of horses go by).’ Compare i mél above and mlméllš below. • i múkʷkʷkʷkʷ ‘moving fast invisibly (e.g. tossing and turning in bed).’ Compare mkʷmúkʷlš ‘moving around invisibly, but not moving as fast BThans as i múkʷkʷkʷkʷ.’ • i náʕʕʕi ‘the sound of a dog growling.’ • i pámmmm ‘the buzzing sound in your head when you’re drunk (lightheaded); clattering sound, like banging pots and pans.’ Compare pmpmá(lš?) below. • i pátttt ‘the sound of gurgling (as of boiling water).’ Spokane pátttt ‘sound of gurgling or bubbling, expelling air from diarrhea,’ and cf. Spokane pátpátpát ‘bubbling sound of a boiling pot.’ • i púɫɫɫɫ ‘a big splash, the sound of a tree or something else big falling into the water; the slap of a beaver’s tail in water’ (as in the sentence N’em i púɫɫɫɫ sqlew súps n’e ˇcɫsp’étkʷm ‘The beaver’s tail will go splashhhhh when he hits the water on purpose’ (lit. ‘will splashhhh beaver his.tail when he.hits.on.water’). Compare pɫpúɫlš, and cf. Spokane puɫ ‘splash, sound of a splash’ and Colv.-Ok. s-pʔuɫ ‘spray.’ • i p’ácccc’ ‘a chipmunk noise; the noise of diarrhea and farting.’ Spokane p’ác’c’c’ ‘sound of flatus and diarrhea simultaneously.’ • i p’áq’q’q’q’ ‘a bunch of little moving lights, like sequins on a jingle-dress or vest, or Christmas tree lights, or the lights of a city that you see winking when you’re moving close to the city, or the sparks you see when grass is burning.’ (One elder commented that the longer the word is, the shinier the sight is—but on all repeats the elders gave only this one form.) Spokane hi p’aq’q’q’q’ ‘sound of tinder-dry grass burning.’

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• p’átttt’ ‘a cow is pooping, the sound of a cow pooping.’ Spokane p’at’t’t’ ‘sound of cow pies hitting the ground.’ • q’éyɫɫɫ ‘the sound of water falling, sound of a waterfall.’ Cf. the Pend d’Oreille place name N-q’eyɫ-kʷu-m ‘place of the sound of water falling,’ the falls near the mouth of the Swan River in Bigfork, MT. • i sáyiii ‘the sound of the breeze in trees.’ Spokane i sáy, sáyyyy ‘the sound of voices.’ • i soʕʷʕʷʕʷʕʷ ‘the sound of really hard rain.’ • hoy tallll ‘the sound of rope or string coming unwrapped.’ • i t’ákʷkʷkʷkʷ ‘wood popping (firecrackers, or wood in a fire).’ See the following entry: these two forms might be related by a sound-symbolic velar/uvular alternation (see e.g. Kuipers 1981: 325). And cf. Spokane t’akʷ ‘sound of breaking loose, sound of bursting (e.g. balloon).’ • i t’áqʷqʷqʷqʷ ‘the sound of a fire crackling, the sound of popping wood, of firecrackers popping.’ See the previous entry; and see also i t’áqʷ above—just one pop. • i t’ı´l’l’l’l’ ‘the sound of tearing, ripping.’ Cf. t’l’t’ı´l’-i-s ‘he tore his shirt.’ Spokane t’ı´l’l’l’l’ ‘sound of yardage being torn apart,’ and cf. Colv.-Ok. t’l’á-m ‘tear open.’ • xʷállll ‘shaking, shivering.’ Compare xʷlxʷalı´(lš). • i xʷáwuuu ‘the noise the wind makes.’ • i xʷépppp ‘the sound of a bunch of blankets being spread.’ Compare i xʷép above. • xʷšššš ‘the sound an arrow makes flying by.’ • xʷúllll ‘sound of wings flapping (a bunch of birds took off all at once).’ Compare xʷlxʷúllš. • x̣´ıqqqq’ ‘a cracking sound (as when trees are falling over).’ Cf. Spokane x̣iq ‘rub; rasping or rubbing sound,’ and Colv.-Ok. c-xk-xk-ilx ‘make noise rubbing’ (the Colv.-Ok. suffix -ilx is cognate with Séliš-Ql’ispé -ilš). • i x̣ʷáqʷqʷqʷq’ʷ ‘sound of grinding/sharpening.’ See x̣ʷáq’ʷ ‘a grinding sound,’ and cf. Spokane x̣ʷaq’ʷ ‘to grind; grinding sound.’ • i x̣ʷı´ ƛƛƛƛ,’ i x̣ʷéyƛƛƛƛ’ ‘the noise of cracking sticks, the sound of a large animal moving through the brush.’ Compare i x̣ʷiƛ,’ i x̣ʷéyƛ’ above and kʷ’ɫ-x̣ʷƛ’x̣ʷı´ ƛ’lš below. Spokane x̣ʷiƛ’ƛ’ƛ’ ‘sound of cracking sticks,’ and cf. Spokane ˇc’ɫ-x̣ʷı´ ƛ’-i-s ‘he broke sticks to represent objects of value to be gambled at a stick game’ and Colv.-Ok. x̣ʷiƛ’-nt ‘break things.’ • i x̣ʷı´qqq’ ‘the sound of cracking.’ Compare i x̣ʷı´q’ above. • i x̣ʷóƛƛƛ’ ‘the sound of hard things (e.g. rocks) crushing or crunching together.’ Compare x̣ʷóƛ’ above and x̣ʷƛ’x̣ʷóƛ’lš below. • i yáx̣ x̣ x̣ x̣ ‘the sound of lightning.’ • i yı´qqqq’ ‘a creaking noise, like the noise made by dry trees rubbing together or a creaking floor.’ Compare iq’yı´q’lš below. Cf. yiqqq’lexʷ ‘earthquake’

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(with a lexical suffix = úlexʷ ‘earth’). Spokane yı´q’q’q’ ‘sound of lots of creaking bones’; cf. also Spokane yiq’ ‘sound of creaking bones, sound of creaking timbers’ and Colv.-Ok. n-yq’=ı´sk’it=m ‘jump and groan.’ • i ʕʷóɫɫɫ ‘sound of water falling.’ • i ʕʷóx̣ʷx̣ʷx̣ʷx̣ʷ ‘the sound of roaring water or of loudly running water, the sound of a toilet flushing.’ Compare ʕʷox̣ʷ above. • i ʕʷúxʷxʷxʷxʷ, i úxʷxʷxʷxʷ ‘the noise of a fire crackling.’

A12.3 Words with C(V )C- reduplication and -ı´lš (51 examples): • c-cncnı´lš ‘the distant noise of thunder coming, or any noise you hear coming, like a car; he’s mumbling, saying things under his breath, talking to himself, scolding himself; the sound of people talking over there (mumbling, you can’t hear the words).’ Colv.-Ok. cncnilx ‘roar, thunder.’ • c’ı´ʕʷ’lš ‘it’s squealing.’ This word may refer to the action and not the sound itself, so possibly it doesn’t belong here. It is one of only three unreduplicated (possible) noise word with this suffix that I’ve found. This is in any case a singular form; see the plural form below. Cf. Spokane c’iʕʷ’ ‘squeaky sound of a bird or mouse.’ • c’m’c’úm’lš ‘the sound of a mouse squeaking.’ • c’oʕʷ’c’ı´ʕʷ’lš ‘they’re squealing (pigs, babies, baby birds, etc.).’ Cf. the singular c’ı´ʕʷ’lš just above. • c’sc’óslš ‘the sound of bones rattling.’ Compare i c’óssss, and cf. c’ós-m-i-s ‘he rattled it.’ • ˇcocˇošı´lš ‘sound of hollering.’ Cf. es-cˇoš-mı´ ‘hollering/yelling while dancing.’ The root /cˇoš/ was almost certainly originally either /cˇʕʷš/ or /cˇʕxʷ/; cf. the Colv.-Ok. root kʕxʷ, as in kaʕxʷ-ám ‘yell, holler.’ • ˇc’xʷcˇ’xʷálš ‘a knocking or pounding sound, the sound of teeth chattering, or hammering nails–anything knocking.’ The suffix -álš is a variant of -ı´lš. Compare i ˇc’áxʷxʷxʷxʷ above. • ehehéylš ‘sound of moaning and groaning.’ Cf. es-ehehéylš-i ‘s/he is moaning and groaning.’ • hahahálš ‘sound of laughter.’ Cf. x̣ax̣ax̣´ı lš ‘laughing hard, laughing all the time.’ • haʕʷhaʕʷálš, hawhawálš ‘the sound of hollering, scolding.’ Cf. es-haʕʷhaʕʷálš-i, es-hawhawálš-i ‘s/he is bawling someone out.’ • iʕʷ’ı´ʕʷ’lš ‘something trembling, shaking, moving rapidly back and forth.’ • lq’ʷlóq’ʷlš ‘a stomach is gurgling, there’s a lot of water in it making noise.’ Compare i lóqʷqʷqʷq’ʷ above. Cf. Spokane lq’ʷq’ʷáq’ʷ ‘sound of a great amount of water in the stomach.’

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• lulı´wlš ‘bell ringing; the sound of throwing your pots and pans (when you’re not feeling like doing dishes).’ Compare above: i lı´wuuu ‘the sound of a bell ringing’ and i lı´wlı´wlı´wlı´w ‘the sound of water dripping into buckets (under a leaky roof ).’ Cf. Spokane lı´wlı´wlı´wlı´w ‘the sound of continuous ringing of bells.’ • lulwı´lš ‘the sound of hoofs – hoofed animals running.’ • lx̣ʷlx̣ʷı´lš ‘the sound of crumpling paper, the sound of a mouse moving around, anything rattling.’ Compare i lóx̣ʷx̣ʷx̣ʷx̣ʷ above. • c-l’il’iy’alš ‘rattle, a rattling noise.’ Compare i láy’ and i láy’iʔiʔiʔ above, and láy’láy’láy’láy’ below. Spokane láy’iʔiʔ ‘sound of many tin objects hitting the floor.’ • ɫákʷlš ‘slapping noise; make a slapping noise with wet moccasins.’ Compare ɫákʷ above and ɫákʷɫákʷɫákʷɫákʷ below, and cf. ɫqʷɫáqʷlš ‘the sound of a dog’s tongue lapping water.’ • ɫc’ɫúc’lš ‘sound of a person fighting through underbrush, sound of many branches snapping back into place.’ • ɫp’ɫóp’lš ‘the sound of sniffling after someone has been crying.’ • ɫqʷɫáqʷlš ‘the sound of a dog’s tongue lapping water.’ Compare ɫáqʷɫáqʷɫáqʷ, and cf. ɫákʷlš ‘slapping noise’ above. • ƛ’qʷƛ’óqʷlš ‘the sound of creaking bones, creaking joints.’ • mkʷmúkʷlš ‘moving around invisibly (e.g. under a blanket, tossing and turning).’ (Not moving as fast as i múkʷkʷkʷkʷ, above.) • mlméllš ‘it keeps moving, showing and then disappearing, you keep seeing it moving.’ Compare i mél and i méllll above. • mumáwlš, m’um’áw’lš ‘the sound of meowing.’ The second form, which has affective glottalization of the non-suffixal resonant consonants, is said to be used if the sound is really loud. • ohoʕ’ʷohóʕ’ʷlš ‘he keeps coughing continuously.’ Cf. Spokane hec-hoʔhóʔ-i ‘a cough (from a cold)’ and Colv.-Ok. s-ʕ’áhaʕ’ ‘catch cold.’ • ɫ-oʕ’ʷsoʕ’ʷsı´ ‘sound the little birds make.’ I include this form here because on the hypothesis that it’s truncated from ɫ-oʕ’ʷsoʕ’ʷsı´lš. This root is unattested elsewhere in my data; it is most probably /ʕʷs/, with, in the sound-symbolic word, phonetically predictable [o] vowels and diminutive glottalization of the resonant pharyngeal consonant (as well as a diminutive prefix ɫ-). • plpı´llš ‘stagger, staggering.’ • pɫpúɫlš ‘the sound of an elk or other animal walking in water; the sound of a kid playing in the water.’ Compare i púɫɫɫɫ above. • pmpmá ‘making a lot of noise, as with pots and pans’; this truncated form probably originally ended in -álš, which is why it’s included in this section. Compare i pámmmm above.

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• pmpmı´lš ‘the sound of a drum.’ (Some elders use this instead of i púmpúmpúmpúm below.) • pqpáqlš ‘when a whitetail runs away and you see the tail going like that [waves hand back and forth], the tail going in and out of sight.’ • ptptálš ‘the sound of splatting when something soft (rotten fruit, cow pies, etc.) hits the ground.’ Compare pátttt above, and cf. also ptát ‘something soft (like loose excrement) fell out’; also Spokane pátpátpát ‘bubbling sound of a boiling pot.’ • pupáwlš ‘making a cracking or slamming sound.’ Compare i páw above. • pupuwálš ‘sound of drumming.’ Compare puʕʷáʕʷ below, and cf. Colv.-Ok. pu-pw-ʕálx ‘make noise’ (and pw-mı´n ‘a drum’). • suʔsuw’ı´lš ‘the sound of whispering.’ Cf. Spokane súʔsúʔsúʔ ‘sound of whispering.’ • tstsálš ‘sound of howling (by a wolf, or loud noise made by people or other animals)’. Cf. es-tstsáʔlš-i ‘they’re making noise.’ • es-t’kʷt’á(kʷlš) ‘the sound of crackling wood.’ Same as (variant form of ) t’kʷt’ı´kʷlš? Cf. Spokane t’akʷ ‘sound of breaking loose, sound of bursting (e.g. balloon).’ • t’kʷt’ı´kʷlš ‘the sound made when water is poured on hot rocks, or when you burn a certain kind of wood, a popping sound, or the sound of firecrackers.’ Same as (variant form of ) es-t’kʷt’á(kʷlš)? • t’m’t’m’álš ‘smacking (as in smacking the lips); a smacking noise, a slurpy noise.’ • uhewı´lš ‘a dog keeps barking continuously.’ (Noise word?) Compare uhéwhéw below. • ʔuw’əw’ı´lš, ʔuʔəwʔı´lš ‘making noise hollering for help, the sound of a person shouting.’ • wl’wél’lš ‘stagger, staggering.’ • xʷlxʷalı´(lš) ‘shaking, shivering.’ Compare xʷállll ‘shaking, shivering,’ and cf. Spokane xʷrxʷrı´lš ‘the shakes, tremors’ and Colv.-Ok. xʷárəlx ‘shivering.’ • xʷlxʷúllš ‘a bird is flapping around’ (sound of a bird flapping around?). Compare xʷúllll. • x̣ax̣ax̣´ı lš ‘laughing hard, laughing all the time’ (sound of laughing?). (The root was originally x̣áʕ.) Cf. hahahálš ‘sound of laughter.’ • x̣ƛ’x̣ƛ’ı´lš ‘a chewing noise, the sound of chewing (e.g. the sound of a dog chewing a bone or a person chewing hard candy or a worm chewing on wood).’ Compare i x̣éƛ’ above. • x̣px̣´ıplš ‘the sound of gnawing.’ • kʷ’ɫ-x̣ʷƛ’x̣ʷı´ ƛ’lš ‘the noise made by a large animal moving through brush, crackling.’ Compare i x̣ʷı´ ƛ’ and i x̣ʷı´ ƛƛƛƛ’ above.

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• x̣ʷƛ’x̣ʷóƛ’lš ‘the sound when you eat dry cereal without milk, or when a mouse is crunching, or eating chokecherries back when they pounded it (seeds and all).’ Compare x̣ʷóƛ’ and i x̣ʷóƛƛƛ’ above. • x̣ʷq’ʷx̣ʷı´q’ʷlš ‘the sound of a stick poking around.’ Compare x̣ʷı´q’ʷ above. • iq’yı´q’lš ‘it’s squeaky.’ Compare i yı´qqqq’ above, and Spokane yı´q’q’q’ ‘sound of lots of creaking bones.’

A12.4 Forms with reduplication but without -ı´lš (30 examples): • cácácá ‘hollering (maybe for help) when you’re getting beaten up.’ Spokane cácácá ‘wailing sound, sound of a tantrum, pitiful’ and Colv.-Ok. caʕ-caʕ-cáʕ ‘holler, cry.’ Presumably the S-Q and Spokane forms originally had a final pharyngeal consonant. • ɫ-c’sc’sqán’eʔ ‘the sound chickadees make, a kind of singing’ (with a diminutive prefix ɫ-). Cf. c’sqán’eʔ ‘chickadee’ and Spokane c’sqáqn’eʔ ‘chickadee.’ • i ilı´ɫkʷ ‘the sound of branches scraping, or of a horse or buffalo wallowing in dust or mud, or some similar sound.’ Compare the singular i ´ıɫkʷ above. • kʷaskʷas ‘sound of grease dripping on the fire.’ Compare i kʷássss above. • es-n-c-kʷɫkʷé ‘sound of groaning, moaning in pain.’ • lalacı´n; lalalalalala ‘women making a high-pitched noise.’ • láy’láy’láy’láy’ ‘rattling noise.’ Compare c-l’il’iy’alš, i láy’iʔiʔiʔ, and i láy’ above. Cf. Spokane láy’iʔiʔ ‘sound of many tin objects hitting the floor.’ • i lı´wlı´wlı´wlı´w ‘the sound of water dripping into buckets (under a leaky roof ).’ Compare lulı´wlš and i lı´wuuu. Spokane lı´wlı´wlı´wlı´w ‘the sound of continuous ringing of bells.’ • ɫákʷɫákʷɫákʷɫákʷ ‘the noise of wet moccasins slapping on the floor or ground.’ Compare ɫákʷ and ɫákʷlš above. • ɫáqʷɫáqʷɫáqʷ ‘lap lap lap’ (an animal’s tongue goes lap lap lap while drinking water). Compare ɫqʷɫáqʷlš above. • s-n-m’lm’álq’ʷ echo, echoing sound. • c-pmmı´m ‘the sound of thunder coming.’ (Some elders reject this word, using cncnı´lš instead.) Compare i púmpúmpúmpúm below and i páw and pupáwlš above. • pspsps ‘a farting sound.’ • i púmpúmpúmpúm ‘the sound of a drum (big or little).’ (Some elders reject this word, instead using pmpmı´lš ‘the sound of a drum.’ ) This word may be related to the root páw ‘clunk, crack, slam (as, the sound of a door slamming or a drumbeat),’ where the Séliš-Ql’ispé word for ‘a drum’ is entered: pu-mı´n. But páw clearly has no C2 m; compare i páw ‘the sound of a door slamming’

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SARAH THOMASON and pupáwlš ‘making a cracking or slamming sound,’ both of which appear under other headings in this Appendix. Cf. Spokane pum ‘sound of drum beat,’ pum-ı´n-tn ‘a drum’; Colville pumı´n ‘a drum.’ puʕʷáʕʷ ‘the sound of a drum.’ Compare pupuwálš, i páw, and pupáwlš above. es-šcˇ´ıˇc=šn-i ‘shuffling.’ (Noise word?) Cf. Colv.-Ok. c-xk-xk-ı´lx ‘there’s a rubbing noise.’ šı´ˇcšı´ˇcšı´ˇc ‘shuffling sound (the noise you make when you don’t lift your feet off the ground).’ es-tkʷtk’ʷ-m’ı´ ‘the noise a wild chicken makes, a wild chicken is making noise.’ Cf. tutututututu ‘the noise made by a male wild chicken during mating season,’ and cf. Lillooet tákʷxʷaʔ ‘sound a grouse makes’ and Shuswap təkʷtəkʷəlı´ ‘sound of the blue grouse’ (the Lillooet and Shuswap forms are from Kuipers 2002: 103). tutututututu ‘the noise made by a male wild chicken during mating season.’ Cf. es-tkʷtk’ʷ-m’ı´ ‘a wild chicken making noise.’ i t’áɫt’áɫt’áɫ ‘the sound of anything flopping around on the ground, like a fish out of water; the sound of slapping, as at mosquitoes’; also t’áɫt’áɫt’áɫ ‘a clapping sound, anything that’s making a noise like that.’ Cf. kʷ t’ɫt’ɫt’álš ‘you’re slapping at mosquitoes.’ Spokane t’áɫɫt’áɫɫ ‘sound of a galloping horse.’ es-t’t’qʷál’qʷ(o)m’m’ ‘the sound of trees bursting from extreme cold (when the moisture in the trees freezes and the trees pop—it sounds like a rifle shot).’ Compare i t’áqʷ and i t’áqʷqʷqʷqʷ above. uhéwhéw ‘it’s howling.’ (Noise word?) Compare uhewı´lš above, and cf. Spokane wéhwéhwéh ‘sound of barking’ and Colv.-Ok. wah-wáh-m ‘bark, holler.’ uláqlq ‘the noise of little frogs singing’. Cf. Spokane ʔuráqʔuráq ‘sound of a frog croaking in the early spring’; cf. also Colv.-Ok. s-w’ar’ák’=xn’ ‘frog,’ which clearly is not a noise word, though it is apparently sound-symbolic. xʷaxʷancó, es-ʕʷoʕʷon’có ‘a deer snorted more than once.’ Compare es-xʷancó (also transcribed as es-x̣ʷoncó). xʷı´wxʷu ‘a kind of bird that lives in the mountains; the name imitates the sound the bird makes’ (the elders didn’t know what kind of bird it is). Spokane xʷı´wxʷu ‘oriole; American redstart.’ Cf. Colv.-Ok. xʷw, as in xʷı´w-m ‘whistle.’ s-xʷúpxʷxʷ ‘the sound a flying squirrel makes when it’s flying.’ Cf. s-xʷúpxʷp, s-xʷúxʷpxʷp ‘flying squirrel,’ and cf. Spokane s-xʷúpxʷup ‘flying squirrel’ and Shuswap s-xʷupxʷəp ‘screech owl.’ x̣áwx̣áw ‘crunching snow or ice; the sound made when you eat snow or ice’ (example from Mengarini et al. 1977–1979). Spokane x̣áwx̣áwx̣áw ‘sound of chewing,’ and cf. also Spokane x̣aw ‘sound of biting into something.’ x̣ʷc’x̣ʷó ‘city pigeon (rock dove).’ This may not be a sound-symbolic word; I include it here because an elder commented that the name is ‘probably

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from the sound they make.’ The form is truncated from an original full form x̣ʷc’x̣ʷóc’. • x̣ʷq’ʷx̣ʷóʔoq’ʷlš ‘a pig’s grunting.’ Compare s-x̣ʷóqʷ’lqs above. Spokane x̣ʷóqʷ’ ‘sound a pig makes, sound of snoring.’ Cf. Colv.-Ok. xʷaqʷ’=lqs-m ‘snore’ (apparently the action, not the noise). • iyác’yác’yác’yác’ ‘the sound of walking on fresh snow (not powdery snow); a creaky sound.’

13 Tone and morphological structure in a documentation-based grammar of Choguita Rarámuri Gabriela Caballero

13.1 Introduction Documentation of tonal systems cross-linguistically, which traditionally has focused on the phonological and phonetic properties of lexical tone, is increasingly addressing the role that tone may play in morphological systems: What are possible morphosyntactic triggers of tone? What are ways in which tone can be autonomously morphological? And what are possible interactions between grammatical tone, lexical tone, and intonation? (McPherson 2014; Hyman 2016; Palancar & Léonard 2016; Rolle 2018). The empirical base available to answer these questions is, however, narrow given the fact that the state of tonal and overall prosodic documentation is still poor in many areas of the world (Rolle 2018: 3). This chapter addresses the challenges of characterizing the tonal system and its role in the morphological structure of Choguita Rarámuri, a Uto-Aztecan language from Northern Mexico, within the context of a documentation-based reference grammar of the language (Caballero 2022). Rarámuri belongs to the Taracahitan branch of the Uto-Aztecan language family and is spoken by between 85,000 to 100,000 people in the Sierra Tarahumara in the Mexican state of Chihuahua and diaspora communities across Northern Mexico (INALI 2008; Embriz Osorio & Zamora Alarcón 2012). Language decline has been documented in varying degrees in the Sierra Tarahumara (Paciotto 1996), but there is no data available about the current state of intergenerational transmission of the language. The Rarámuri variety spoken in Choguita was spoken by approximately 1,000 speakers over a decade ago (Casaus 2008), but heightened political violence and economic instability have displaced an increasing number of speakers in recent years. The location of Choguita within the municipality (Sp. municipio) of Guachochi is shown in Figure 13.1. The Choguita Rarámuri (henceforth CR) tonal system is typologically relevant for several reasons: (i) it is the only language within the Uto-Aztecan language family documented to date with a three-way lexical tone system in addition to stress Gabriela Caballero, Tone and morphological structure in a documentation-based grammar of Choguita Rarámuri. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Gabriela Caballero (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0013

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Choguita

Guachochi

Figure 13.1 Location of Choguita (Guachochi municipality, Chihuahua, Mexico).

(in contrast to the binary tone systems found in other tonal Uto-Aztecan languages, such as Northern Tepehuan (Woo 1970), Hopi (Manaster-Ramer 1986), and Mayo (Hagberg 1989), among others) (Caballero & Carroll 2015; Caballero & Gordon 2021); (ii) lexical tonal contrasts involve narrow f0 differences¹ and a high degree of speaker variation (Caballero & Carroll 2015; Caballero et al. 2022); (iii) tone may also encode morphological information and its distribution may be sensitive to several morphological factors, resulting in complex grammatical tone patterns in verbal paradigms (Caballero & German 2021); and (iv) fundamental frequency (f0) is employed in postlexical intonation patterns, resulting in different accommodation strategies between lexical/grammatical tone and intonation (Garellek et al. 2015; Caballero et al. 2022). Thus, tone serves an important role in the morphological organization of the language and also exhibits complex interactions involving tonal patterns arising from different modules of the grammar. The analysis of these patterns and phenomena is based on the examination of instrumental data obtained through controlled elicitation, as well as data stemming from a heterogeneous corpus of transcribed and annotated data from a wide range of genres of speech, including different kinds of elicitation, conversations, narratives, interviews, ritual/ceremonial speech, among others. The CR corpus stands in contrast to what may be characterized as a ‘minimal’ corpus for the purpose of phonological analysis of data obtained through field research, consisting ¹ Pitch differences in CR are small compared to some pitch differences reported for other low-density tonal systems (see discussion in Caballero & Carroll (2015)).

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of a list of phonologically transcribed words, and possible additional information about frequency of use and part of speech. The use of materials from documentary digital corpora as the basis of grammatical analysis has been the subject of recent attention in the literature and advocated as a novel way of description of grammatical constructions that allows identifying linguistic variation and patterns of distribution of linguistic form based on contexts of use (Mosel 2014). The heterogeneous nature of the CR documentary collection provides an opportunity to develop phonological analyses that may allow identifying patterns of phonological (or other) variation. Admitting variation in the grammatical description of phonological patterns in CR in turn provides materials for analyzing change in progress in the speech community. The goals of this chapter are as follows: (i) to discuss the role that tone serves in the morphological organization of CR and interactions between lexical tone, grammatical tone, and intonation; (ii) to addresses challenges of characterizing this system within the context of a reference grammar of the language; and (iii) to discuss how synchronic variation in tonal realization attested in the documentary corpus is incorporated in the grammatical description of CR and its implications for assessing change in progress in the language. The structure of the chapter is as follows. Section 13.2 addresses the development and goals of the CR language project and how the reference grammar and documentary corpus of CR are linked. Section 13.3 addresses the role of tone in the CR morphological system and interactions between lexical, grammatical, and post-lexical tone. Section 13.4 discusses the challenges of representing these complex interactions and patterns of variation in a reference grammar of the language, and lays out implications these pose for the assessment of diachronic change. Section 13.5 concludes.

13.2 The Choguita Rarámuri language description and documentation project The CR language description and documentation project (2003–ongoing) has the following goals: (i) to develop a language documentation corpus; (ii) to support community-based documentation; (iii) to analyze typologically and theoretically relevant patterns and phenomena in the phonology and morphology of CR; and (iv) to produce a reference grammar based on and linked to the CR documentary collection. More broadly, this project seeks to integrate the multiple products of description and documentation of CR (corpus, description, and analyses) into resources (i) that represent patterns of variation attested in the speech community and (ii) that allow users (academics and community members) to access the data upon which analyses are based. To date, 34 CR language experts have contributed to the CR language documentation corpus. Contributing language experts are a heterogeneous group of

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speakers in terms of age, gender, social role, and level of bilingualism. The corpus currently consists of over 200 hours of audio and/or video recordings made between 2003 and 2018. Recordings and associated annotation materials are available in two archival collections: one housed at the Endangered Languages Archive (Caballero 2015) (available online at http://elar.soas.ac.uk/deposit/0056) (for an overview, see Caballero (2017)), and a second one housed at the Survey of California and Other Indian Languages at UC Berkeley (Chaparro Gardea et al. n.d.) (retrievable online at http://dx.doi.org/doi:10.7297/X2HH6H70). The CR documentary corpus is not only diverse in terms of demographics of contributing language experts but it is also highly diverse in terms of the types of speech genres represented, comprising conversations, historical narratives, myths, ceremonial speeches, interviews of elders by native speakers, and ritual prayers and music. In addition to these more naturalistic types of speech, the corpus also includes different types of elicitation, including contextualized- and text-based elicitation, translation, metalinguistic judgments, among others, designed to uncover language experts’ judgments on complex constructions. In order to link the grammatical description of CR with the documentary corpus on which it is based, the grammar provides a detailed description of the content and structure of the CR corpus in an introductory chapter. Furthermore, each individual data example is provided with source information, including contributing speaker, type of document (narrative, elicitation, conversation, etc.) and a unique identifier linking the data examples to the source document in the corpus. A subset of examples also have accompanying audio recordings. This is intended to increase the transparency and ‘reproducibility’ of the analyses presented in the grammar by providing interested users with a deeper level of access to the data on which generalizations are based upon.² Inclusion of audio examples in the grammatical description is also intended to enable access to original language data by community members and heritage language learners who may be interested in language preservation, revitalization, and reclamation (see Rice (2014) for discussion). While the CR reference grammar does not provide a full account of how lectal variation and bilingualism operate in the community of Choguita and how it may have an impact on CR grammar, the reference grammar represents aspects of the complex range of varieties exhibited by participating CR language experts as part of an integrated system. This stands in contrast with essentialist (or autonomous) approaches in grammar writing which focus on representing the speech of an idealized homogeneous language variety (see Evans & Dench (2006) for discussion). Intra- and inter-speaker variation in the CR documentary corpus is abundant, especially in terms of phonological patterns and reduction processes.

² ‘Reproducible’ research “aims to provide scientific accountability by facilitating access for other researchers to the data upon which research conclusions are based” (Berez-Kroeker et al. 2018: 4).

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While some amount of variation is attested in data obtained through elicitation, the full range of variation attested to date in the CR corpus is only evident in dialogic speech and other genres that involve unplanned speech. Variation is not normalized in the transcription of examples in the reference grammar, and processes attested in the speech of only some language experts are described and integrated into the phonological analysis of the language. A common pattern of inter-speaker variation in vowel reduction processes is exemplified in (1) (part of a recorded conversation). (1) a. [SFH]: siˈné roˈkò biti-ˈbá-sa? /siˈné roˈkò bete-ˈbá-sa/ one night stay.overnight-inch-cond ‘He would stay up all night?’ ‘¿Quedándose una noche?’ < SFH 07 in243/in > b. [FLP]: siˈné roˈkò bete-ˈbá-sa ra ba /siˈné roˈkò bete-ˈbá-sa ra ba/ one night stay.overnight-inch-cond rep cl ‘One whole night he would stay up.’ ‘Toda la noche hasta que cumpliera (se quedó sin dormir)’ < FLP 07 in243/in > In this interaction, SFH, a 35-year-old speaker, uses the verbal stem /bete-/ ‘stay overnight’ with pretonic vowel raising (biti-) in (1a); FLP, an 80-year-old speaker, responds using the same verbal form with no pretonic mid vowel raising (bete-) in (1b); this exemplifies patterns robustly attested in the speech of younger and older speakers, respectively. Both of these patterns are described in the reference grammar (Caballero 2022). As discussed in Section 13.4 below, variation in phonological patterns extends to tonal realization in CR.

13.3 Choguita Rarámuri tone and morphological structure There is a long tradition of documentation of the stress patterns and prosodic morphological systems of Uto-Aztecan (UA) languages given their complexity (Munro 1977; Haugen 2008; Caballero 2011b; Fitzgerald 2012). Many UA languages feature dominant/recessive accentual class systems, reconstructed for Proto-UA and realized synchronically as morphologically conditioned stress patterns and associated vocalic alternations in Northern and Southern UA (Heath 1977, 1978). In addition, several UA languages have developed lexical tone contrasts which are realized in stressed syllables (Caballero & Gordon 2021), but UA tonal systems are relatively understudied. Beyond word-prosody, research on intonation of UA languages is scarce and relatively recent (but see Guion et al. (2010), Patiño (2014),

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and Aguilar (2020) on Nahuatl varieties (Aztecan), and Gil & Carrillo (2019) on Northern Tepehuan (Tepiman)). Finally, work on grammatical tone in UA tonal languages is virtually non-existent (cf. Whorf et al. (1993) on Milpa Alta Nahuatl). The prosodic documentation of CR contributes to filling these gaps, by providing analyses of word-level stress, lexical tone, grammatical tone, intonation, and their interaction. Like all other tonal UA languages, CR has a ‘hybrid’ word-prosodic system, featuring both lexical tone and stress as independent phonological systems.³ In contrast to all other tonal UA languages, which feature a binary tone contrast, the CR lexical tone system involves a three-way contrast: falling (/HL/, ),⁴ low (/L/, ), and high (/H/, ). Lexical tonal contrasts are associated exclusively with surface stressed syllables: there is only one lexical tone per prosodic word⁵ and stressless syllables lack lexical tone. Tone is also obligatory (i.e., there are no toneless words). The data in (2) exemplify the three-way tonal contrast of CR (Caballero & Carroll 2015: 465). (2)

a. ˈtô ‘bury’ b. ˈpá ‘throw’ c. koˈlî ‘chile pepper’

ˈtò ‘take’ ˈpà ‘bring’ koˈlì ‘spatial root’

The f0 distinctions are often small (of about three semitones (Caballero et al. 2022; cf. Caballero & Carroll 2015)). Examination of instrumental data reveals that some speakers show little distinctions between certain tones (especially H vs. HL) over tonic syllables. Lexical tones can nevertheless be further distinguished by post-tonic f0 patterns,⁶ and voice quality differences may also strengthen the paradigmatic tonal contrast in tonic syllables for some speakers (Caballero et al. 2022). Despite speaker variation and narrow f0 differences, CR tones remain contrastive in different phrase positions, which may be attributed to the high functional load tone has in the language (Caballero & Carroll 2015; Caballero & German 2021).

³ Stress and tone in CR are phonologically distinct systems that are also encoded through independent acoustic means: tone is primarily encoded through f0, while stress is encoded primarily through segmental duration, with both stressed vowels and onsets of stressed syllables exhibiting greater duration than their unstressed counterparts. Additionally, intensity is a reliable acoustic cue of stress for some speakers (Caballero & Carroll 2015). ⁴ I analyze this falling tone as a phonological unit, a contour tone that is not decomposable into two tonal primitives. ⁵ In addition to having a single stress, the prosodic word in CR may be characterized as follows: (i) verbal prosodic words are minimally bimoraic (monomoraic verbs undergo vowel lengthening when unaffixed); (ii) prosodic words are vowel-final (stress-dependent vowel deletion targets nonfinal vowels); (iii) body part incorporation combines two morphological roots into a single prosodic word, where the new lexical item is assigned a single, main stress; and (iv) glottal stop is only licensed within the first two syllables of the prosodic word (Caballero 2008, 2022). ⁶ HL tones involve a pitch drop within the tonic syllable or in a post-tonic syllable (if any), while H tones may spread their high f0 to the post-tonic syllable.

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Given that tone contrasts are exclusively realized in stressed syllables, it is necessary to provide details of the word level stress system in CR: stress is lexically contrastive and is restricted to appear within an initial-three- syllable window on the first, second, or third syllable of the word (Caballero 2011a). In addition to this phonological restriction, stress distribution is conditioned by morphological factors: there is a contrast between underlyingly stressed and unstressed roots; morphological constructions (affixes or non-concatenative processes), on the other hand, are classified as either stress-shifting or stress neutral, meaning that they can perturb the root’s stress or be neutral regarding stress assignment, respectively. In words containing no underlyingly stressed roots or stress-shifting constructions, stress falls by default in the second syllable of the word; in words containing an underlyingly unstressed root and a stress-shifting construction, stress falls in the third syllable of the word. Table 13.1 exemplifies the stress patterns in CR verbal paradigms. In verbal paradigms, the fixed stress of stressed roots results in consistent realization of the lexical tone of roots, while stress shifts in words containing unstressed roots lead to tonal alternations: a stress shift to a suffix syllable allows the underlying tone of the suffix to be realized on the surface (e.g. HL of conditional -sˆa in tʃapi-ˈsˆa ‘if s/he were to grab,’ L of imperative plural -sì in tʃapi-ˈsì ‘you all grab it!’); on the other hand, a stress shift to a stem syllable involves a default HL tone (e.g. HL in naʔsoˈwˆa-ma ‘s/he will stir it’ after stress shift vs. L in naʔˈsòwa-li ‘s/he stirred it’) (Caballero & Carroll 2015; Caballero & German 2021). The tonal alternations that result from morphologically governed stress shifts are analyzed here as instances of lexical tone, as they are predictable given general phonological processes and constraints. In addition to these stress-dependent lexical tone patterns, CR exhibits instances of grammatical tone, defined here as tonal patterns or processes that are not general across the phonological grammar of a language, but are instead associated to a specific morpheme or construction, or a natural class of morphemes or constructions (Rolle 2018). There are three types of grammatical tone patterns in

Table 13.1 Morphologically conditioned stress patterns of inflected verbs Stem

Stress-neutral Past -li Stress-shifting Conditional -sˆa

ˈpútʃ͡i ‘blow’ baˈhí ‘drink’ aˈsísi ‘get up’ tʃ͡aˈpí ‘grab’ saˈkí ‘roast corn’ naˈsòwa ‘stir’

ˈpútʃ͡i-li baˈhí-li aˈsísi-li tʃ͡aˈpí-li saˈkí-li naˈsòwa-li

ˈpútʃ͡i-sa baˈhí-sa aˈsísi-sa tʃ͡api-ˈsˆa saki-ˈsˆa naʔsoˈwˆa-ma

Stressed roots (no change) Unstressed roots (stress shift)

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CR: (i) tone that encodes morphological information without any concomitant segmental affixation (tone as realizational morphology); (ii) tone that co-occurs with particular affixes, replacing root/stem tone (tone as morphologically conditioned phonology); and (iii) tone in a particular lexical class of verbs that is determined by the type of morphological construction attaching to verbal roots. In the first pattern of grammatical tone, tone functions as an exponent of a morphological category with no associated concatenation of segmental morphemes: this is exemplified in the imperative singular construction in CR, which may be encoded through a L tone (a tonal morpheme) that replaces stem HL tones,⁷ as shown in (3a-c): (3)

Stem a. HL maˈtô ‘to carry’ b. HL suʔuˈnî ‘to finish’ c. HL tiˈsô ‘to walk with cane’ d. L e. H

seˈmè saˈkú

Imperative sg. L maˈtò ‘Carry it (shoulders)!’ L suʔuˈnì ‘Finish doing it!’ L tiˈsò ‘Walk with a cane!’

‘to play violin’ L seˈmè ‘to dry X in the sun’ H saˈkú

‘Play the violin!’ ‘Dry it in the sun!’

As seen in the contrast between (3a-c) and (3d-e), only lexical HL tones are overwritten by the imperative singular L tone, a pattern of exponence that results in the neutralization of lexical HL (3a-c) and L (3d) tones. In the second pattern of grammatical tone in CR, tone is a morphologically conditioned phonological effect: two inflectional suffixes, the imperfective -i suffix and the present progressive -a suffix, impose a L tone on a phonologically defined class of stems, namely unstressed, H-toned stems. This pattern involves a tone overlay with no stress change, since the imperfective and present progressive suffixes are stress-neutral. Other stress-neutral suffixes (such as the past -li suffix) do not involve this tonal overlay. This is exemplified in (4). (4)

Past Imperfective Prs. progressive a. H aˈwı´-li L aˈwì-i L aˈwì-a ‘to dance’ b. H riˈwá-li L riˈwà-i L riˈwà-a ‘to find’ c. H raˈrá-li L raˈrà-i L raˈrà-i ‘to buy’

As stated above, only unstressed H-toned verbs undergo this tonal effect. Verbs with other stress and tonal properties (HL-toned (5a), H-toned and stressed (5b)⁸ or L-toned (5c)) do not exhibit any tonal changes when attaching the imperfective ⁷ Exponence of the imperative singular also involves segmental allomorphs (the suffixes -kˆa and –sˆa) and a process of stress shift, in addition to L tones. These allomorphs are lexically conditioned (Caballero & German 2021). ⁸ The unstressed, H-toned verbs in (4) shift stress when attaching stress-shifting suffixes (e.g. awiˈmêa ‘s/he will dance’), while the stressed, H-toned verb in (5b) does not (e.g. muˈrú-ma ‘s/he will carry in arms’).

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and present progressive suffixes, i.e., their tone pattern remains constant across morphological contexts. (5)

Past a. HL hiˈrˆa-li b. H muˈrú-li c. L iʔˈtʃà-li

Imperfective HL hiˈrˆa-i H muˈrú-i L iʔˈtʃà-i

Prs. progressive HL hiˈrˆa-a ‘to bet’ H muˈrú-a ‘to carry in arms’ L iʔˈtʃà-a ‘to plant’

A third type of grammatical tone pattern in CR involves a class of verbs (labeled ‘alternating’) that are lexically stressed and whose surface tonal patterns are determined by the type of inflectional morphological construction that verb roots combine with. Specifically, in this verb class the stem bears a HL tone when combining with a stress-shifting construction (e.g. future singular -ma) and a L tone when combining with a stress-neutral construction (e.g. past -li) without undergoing any stress shifts.⁹ This is exemplified in (6). (6)

a. b. c. d. e.

Stress-shifting ( future sg.) HL ˈpˆa-ma HL naˈwˆa-ma HL biʔˈwˆa-ma HL aʔˈwˆa-ma HL niˈwˆa-ma

Stress-neutral (past) L ˈpà-li ‘to bring’ L naˈwà-li ‘to arrive’ L biʔˈwà-li ‘to clean (tr.)’ L aʔ-wà-li ‘to swallow’ L niˈwà-li ‘to make, do’

There is no positive evidence of the underlying stem tone in this alternating verb class, and cells in the paradigms of these stems are associated with tonal values that are not predictable from lexical tone properties of individual morphemes. Surface tone patterns are instead predictable based on whether morphological constructions attaching to verbal roots are stress-shifting or stress-neutral.¹⁰ This tonal pattern is morphomic (or autonomously morphological), as the stress-shifting vs. stress-neutral distinction is associated with morphosyntactically heterogeneous classes of morphological constructions in CR.¹¹ Thus, the tone patterns in verbal paradigms result from an interplay between, on the one hand, lexical tone and phonological processes governing its distribution with respect to stress placement, and, on the other hand, grammatical tone, which is sensitive to the morphological structure of complex words. The surface tonal patterns of two-level constructions (roots plus one layer of inflection) is ⁹ This class of verbs is characterized as ‘stressed’ as these verbs do not undergo any stress shifts in any morphological context. ¹⁰ Morpheme class-based tone alternations are attested across paradigmatically related sets of forms of alternating verbs, e.g. niˈwà-ki ‘I did it,’ niˈwà-i ‘s/he use to do it,’ niˈwà-a ‘s/he is doing it’ (L tone with stress-neutral constructions) vs. niˈwˆa-sa ‘if they do it,’ niˈwˆa-si ‘you all do it!,’ niˈwˆa-ru ‘it was done’ (HL tone with stress-shifting constructions). ¹¹ In contrast, the shifting vs. neutral distinction is argued to be morphosyntactically motivated across UA (Langacker 1977).

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schematized in Table 13.2, based on a classification in terms of: (i) the stress properties of roots (stressed or unstressed); (ii) the tone properties of roots; (iii) the tone properties of morphological constructions; and (iv) the status of morphological constructions as shifting or neutral. Shading represents cells in the paradigm that exhibit a grammatical tone pattern. Finally, in addition to encoding lexical and grammatical contrasts, f0 is deployed in the intonational phonology of CR: there is evidence for an optional H% boundary tone at the right edge of the Intonational Phrase (IP) in declarative sentences (Garellek et al. 2015; Caballero et al. 2022).¹² Crucially, this H% boundary tone exhibits an interaction with the final lexical tone of the IP: it accommodates lexical H and L tones, but it is overridden by lexical HL tones. Thus, lexical tones are preserved in interactions between lexical tone and post-lexical intonation (Caballero et al. 2014; Garellek et al. 2015; Caballero et al. 2022).

Table 13.2 Lexical and grammatical tone interaction in CR inflected verbs Lexically stressed Lexically unstressed roots roots Alternating Neutral Present Bare Stem Constructions Past Ego. -ki Past -li Present Progr. -a Imperfective -e

Constructions

HL L H L

L

HL HL HL HL

L L L L

Future sg. -ma, -ˈmêa

HL L H HL

L H L H L L L L Stem Stem stress stress stress stress HL HL HL HL

Future pl. -ˈbô Conditional -ˈsˆa Imperative pl. -ˈsì Imperative sg. -ˈkˆa, -ˈsˆa Imperative sg.

HL HL HL HL L

HL HL HL HL HL

L L L L L

H H H H

H H H H H

L L L L

H

HL HL HL HL HL

H HL L HL -

HL HL HL HL HL

H HL L HL -

¹² CR also possesses postlexical tonal targets associated with lexical tones in declarative intonation: all three lexical tones in CR may be preceded by an optional pitch target, a low target before high and falling tones, and a high target before low tones. These tonal targets (“rhythmic lead tones” in Garellek et al. (2015)) are not associated with word boundaries or other prosodic domains, as they appear to be variable in their realization, generally appearing in the pre-tonic syllable. While dependent on lexical tones for their realization, rhythmic lead tones do not compete with lexical tones in their realization in TBUs and are therefore not discussed further here.

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In sum, the CR prosodic system exhibits the following characteristics: (7)

a. The CR word-prosodic system is ‘hybrid,’ featuring both stress and lexical tone. b. The lexical tone system involves a three-way contrast between HL, H, and L tones. c. Lexical tonal contrasts are associated exclusively with surface stressed syllables. d. Stress is lexical and also governed by morphological factors. e. Morphologically conditioned stress shifts lead to tonal neutralization and tonal alternations in paradigms. These alternations are phonologically predictable and involve lexical tone processes. f. Tone also has a morphological distribution, and may encode morphological information, may be associated with segmental morphemes or may be determined by the type of morphological construction in a verbal class. These patterns instantiate grammatical tone. g. Lexical/grammatical tones interact with phrase-level tones; in these interactions, the former are preserved.

The next section addresses how this system is represented in a reference grammar of the language.

13.4 Tone in a reference grammar of Choguita Rarámuri: interactions, variation, and change Given the properties of the CR tone system, one challenge involves appropriately characterizing the complex interactions of tonal phenomena arising from different modules of the grammar in the grammatical description of the language. Traditionally, reference grammars are organized with an ascending macro-structure, starting with the description of the sound system and moving to increasingly complex units of analysis (phonology > morphology > syntax, etc.), where each level of analysis is treated as a discrete dimension. As noted in Mosel (2006), this kind of configuration raises questions regarding the adequate representation in grammatical descriptions of interdependent relationships between the lexicon and the grammar, as well as prosodic (or other) phonological phenomena which may pertain to all levels of grammar, but are typically confined to a single chapter (phonology). One may thus ask whether cross-references are enough to capture these inter-dependencies and complex interactions in grammars and, if not, what viable alternatives there may be. The CR reference grammar (Caballero 2022) is intended primarily for an academic audience (typologists, areal specialists, and those interested in CR, UA

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languages, and languages of Northern Mexico and the Americas), and provides a large number of data examples from texts with associated recordings for the benefit of both members of the speech community and academic audiences. It has a semasiological structure (form-to-function), which takes as its starting point the forms and constructions in the language (and in contrast to onomasiological (meaningto-form) grammars, which depart from particular meaning categories). The CR grammar has features of the predominant ascending macrostructure organization of grammars, starting with the sound system of the language; given the typological relevance of the language’s phonology and morphology, the grammar has a strong focus on these components and addresses them in individual chapters addressing segmental phonology, syllabification patterns, word-level stress, tone, intonation, other word-level suprasegmental processes, as well as chapters dedicated to the morphological properties of different word classes. The principles governing tone and prosody are thus described across individual chapters of the grammar that address specific modules in order to understand basic aspects of tonal distributions that may be specific to different lexical categories, morphological constructions, or prosodic domains (lexical and post-lexical), e.g. the verbal and nominal morphology chapters address the different functions tone fulfills in each of these domains (defined as grammatical tone in Section 13.3), while the chapter devoted to tone provides a description of the lexical tone patterns attested in roots and affixes of different prosodic classes. In addition, the reference grammar addresses interactions between tonal and other prosodic patterns across grammatical domains in a chapter dedicated to prosody. This chapter supplements the description that pertains to each individual domain of description (tone, intonation, morphology, etc.) and addresses interactions between (i) stress and tone, (ii) lexical and grammatical tone, and (ii) lexical tone and intonation. While this involves redundancy in the grammatical description, this design aims to illustrate how the competition between tonal melodies arising from different grammatical sources are resolved to yield surface tonal forms of morphologically complex words in different phonological, morphological, and syntactic configurations in the language. The structure of this chapter is shown in Table 13.3. The CR reference grammar thus aims to provide users with several alternatives of decoding the multiple factors that affect the surface tonal properties of morphologically complex words. A second challenge in representing the tone system of CR in a reference grammar concerns tonal and other prosodic variation attested in the documentary corpus, which is typically excluded from grammatical descriptions that adopt autonomist, essentialist approaches that focus on an idealized homogeneous variety. As discussed above, analysis of acoustic data reveals that there is interspeaker variation in the f0 patterns of CR lexical tones (Caballero & Carroll 2015; Caballero et al. 2022) and that lexical tone contrasts are implemented in a

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Table 13.3 The structure of the Prosody chapter in the CR reference grammar Prosody: domains and interactions 1. Defining the Prosodic Word and other prosodic domains in Choguita Rarámuri 2. Vowel length, stress and minimality effects 3. Prosodic properties of morphologically complex verbs 3.1 Stress patterns and metrical feet 3.2 Lexical tone patterns 3.3 Canonical prosodic shapes of roots and suffixes 3.4 Prosodic properties of roots and morphological constructions 3.5 Stress and lexical tone 3.6 Stress and tone properties of compounds 3.7 Grammatical tone 3.8 Stress and tonal properties of inflected verbs 4. The interaction between lexical tone and intonation 4.1 Tone-intonation interactions in declaratives 4.2 Tone-intonation interactions in interrogatives 5. Prosodic constraints on morphological shapes 5.1 Truncation in body-part incorporation 5.2 Truncation in denominal verb constructions 5.3 Truncation in aspect/mood marking constructions 5.4 Prosodic templates in Choguita Rarámuri

multidimensional fashion, with voice quality increasing the differentiation of lexical tones for some, but not all, speakers (Caballero et al. 2022).¹³ While a quantitative analysis of the phonetic implementation of tonal contrasts belongs elsewhere than in a grammatical description, other instances involving lexical tonal processes and grammatical tone are addressed in the grammar. An example of this is found in patterns of morphologically conditioned tone (exemplified in (4) above), where stress-neutral suffixes (imperfective -i and present progressive -a) impose a L tone in the stressed syllable of the stem to which they attach if the stem is H-toned and unstressed. For speakers of CR with command of the closely related Norogachi Rarámuri (NR) variety (spoken 35km southwest of Choguita and described in Brambila (1953) and Villalpando Quiñones (2019)), the CR forms with morphologically conditioned tone coexist with the cognate NR forms where the imperfective and progressive suffixes are stress-shifting and have a H tone and a palatal glide onset. The CR and cognate NR forms recorded in the ¹³ Patterns of variation and the multidimensionality of the phonetic implementation of CR tones is speculated in Caballero et al. (2022) to be related to the diachronic development of a hybrid prosodic system through the innovation of tone: Proto-UA is posited to have had a stress system (Munro 1977) and tone is proposed to have developed diachronically through loss of laryngeal features in several UA languages (e.g. Hopi (Manaster-Ramer 1986), Northern Tepehuan (Tepiman; Shaul 2000), and varieties of Balsas Nahuatl (Aztecan; Guion et al. 2010). Guion et al. (2010) propose that the development of tone in languages with word-level stress involves a reconfiguration of acoustic cues to encode both stress and tone, and that hybrid prosodic systems may be unstable overall, which may lead to multidimensional encoding of lexical tone and inter-speaker variation.

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speech of some CR speakers in the documentary corpus are shown in (8). As in the grammatical description, source codes of data examples here include identifiers of contributing language experts that exhibit this variation and the type of document where the pattern was found (e.g. elicitation (‘el’), conversation (‘co’), text (‘tx’), etc.). CR (8) a. aˈwì-i

NR Gloss awi-ˈjé danceimpf b. iˈkà-a ika-ˈjá be.windyprog c. iˈkà-i ika-ˈjé be.windyimpf d. ˈtò-a to-ˈjá take-prog

Translation ‘s/he was dancing’ ‘it is windy’ ‘it was windy’ ‘s/he is taking it’

CR appears to have innovated from the conservative NR pattern.¹⁴ Data from closely related River Guarijı´o (Taracahitan) further suggests that the CR progressive and imperfective suffixes have recently developed from stress-shifting suffixes: in River Guarijı´o, a language that also exhibits a stress-shifting vs. stress-neutral distinction in its word-prosody, the progressive -a suffix (cognate of CR present progressive -a) is a stress-shifting suffix, e.g. yuʔku-ˈa=ga ‘it is windy’ (Miller 1996: 140).¹⁵ This inter-dialect pattern attested in the CR corpus thus suggests that the morphologically conditioned tonal effects attested in CR are the result of a recent innovation. Another example of tonal variation represented in the CR grammar is found in the imperative singular construction, which, as exemplified in (3) above, may be encoded through a L tonal exponent that replaces stem HL tone. In addition, the imperative singular may be marked by a non-concatenative process of stress shift. As exemplified in (9), imperative singular forms of trisyllabic unstressed verb stems marked through a stress shift display inter-speaker variation in terms of surface tone patterns.

¹⁴ When produced in phrase-final position, the forms with the -i and -a suffixes are often produced with a rising pitch, which can be attributed to the optional H% boundary tone. As discussed in Caballero & German (2021), the morphologically conditioned L tone of stems inflected for progressive and imperfective may have developed as a reanalysis of a post-lexical low pitch target preceding the lexical H tone of the suffixes as a grammatical tone. As shown in Garellek et al. (2015), CR lexical tones are optionally preceded by intonational tonal targets (“lead tones”) which are either high or low, depending on the following lexical tone, e.g. a stressed syllable bearing a H or HL tone is often preceded by a L pitch target. A tonal sequence [L H∗ ] may have led to a reanalysis of the L intonational tone as a grammatical tone in the case of the imperfective and present progressive forms. ¹⁵ The representation of stress here has been modified from the original, as Miller (1996) represents stress with an acute accent. To the best of my knowledge, no Guarijío variety has been described as possessing lexical tone.

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(9)

Stem a. L raʔˈsà-na b. L

raˈʔìtʃ͡a

Imperative sg. ‘to smash’ HL raʔsa-ˈnˆa

‘to speak’ HL raʔiˈtʃ͡â

~L

raʔsa-ˈnà

~ L raʔiˈtʃ͡ à

As shown in these examples, all speakers produce a form with a rightward stress shift in the imperative singular from the second syllable stem stress to the third syllable. The newly stressed syllable surfaces with either a HL tone or a L tone. This tonal variation suggests that speakers may have more than one generalization available with imperative singular inflected verbs containing unstressed trisyllabic stems. As described in Section 13.3, morphologically conditioned stress shifts may result in lexical tone neutralization, where a root lexical tone is deleted after a stress shift and the newly stressed stem syllable surfaces with a HL tone. The HL tone of the imperative singular forms in (9) may be analyzed as resulting from this process: the lexical L tone of the verb stem is associated with the stressed syllable in neutral contexts (raˈʔìtʃ͡a ‘s/he speaks’), but deleted after the stress shift; after stress deletion, a default HL tone is assigned to the stressed syllable, (raʔiˈtʃ͡â ‘speak!’). For some speakers, however, the imperative singular form is marked both by a stress shift and a L tone. This pattern may be analyzed as resulting from the L imperative tonal morpheme blocking default HL tone assignment. This kind of tonal variation, not documented in other morphological contexts in the language, is not arbitrary and its occurrence is in part predictable. Specifically, speakers know that inflected forms have tone melodies determined by their prosodic and morphological make-up; however, in imperative singular marked verbs of certain prosodic classes (trisyllabic, unstressed), the language does not provide enough data to be certain of what the surface pattern should be. It is an open question whether these patterns will remain stable from a diachronic point of view, or whether increased language attrition may result in greater variability between speakers (for discussion, see Paster (2019)). The CR reference grammar describes these and other patterns of tonal and more general prosodic variation, inter-dialectal patterns, as well as speaker-dependent strategies in the implementation of tonal contrasts and the realization of lexical or grammatical tone patterns. The CR grammar thus adopts an inclusive approach that incorporates variation in the description as part of an integrated system, proposing analyses for all patterns, including those where proposed underlying forms and tone processes are consistent for some, but not all speakers. As argued in Ameka, Dench, & Evans (2006), this approach is motivated by the desire to use data on variable phenomena to better understand the underlying logic of the linguistic systems under analysis and enable eventual analysis of change in progress. A documentary-based approach to grammatical distribution, which carefully tracks genres and contributing speakers for each data point analyzed, lends itself as a viable option to accomplish this goal.

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13.5 Conclusion The present chapter has described the main properties of the CR tonal system, the role tone serves in the morphological system of the language and the complex interactions between tonal patterns arising from different grammatical sources, a type of system not previously documented in any other UA language. The CR tone system involves the interaction between tone and stress in word prosody, between lexical and different patterns of grammatical tone in its lexical phonology and between lexical/grammatical tone and intonation. While the CR tone system likely involves a recent innovation of a three-way tonal contrast from a binary system as attested elsewhere in UA, its grammatical tone system is nevertheless robust and both lexical and grammatical tone serve important roles in the language. Tone patterns in verbal paradigms result from an interplay between, on the one hand, lexical tone and phonological processes governing its distribution with respect to stress placement, and, on the other hand, grammatical tone, which is sensitive to the morphological structure of complex words. Lexical/grammatical tones are preserved in different intonational contexts given their important role in the language. Furthermore, the CR tone system exhibits systematic patterns of inter-speaker variation, from the implementation of lexical tonal contrasts, to the realization and distribution of lexical and grammatical tones. This chapter lays out some possibilities of how this complex picture may be represented in a reference grammar. Reference grammars continue to provide the empirical backbone of developing linguistic theories, research in linguistic typology, and the creation of pedagogical materials for language maintenance, revitalization and reclamation. However, as suggested by Evans & Dench’s (2006) metaphor of grammar writing as “catching” language, reference grammars are generally designed to capture a static picture, a small fraction of a complex linguistic system. Though still limited, documentary corpora provide a more representative window into language as a dynamic system with significant variation and change in progress. The links between the grammatical description and documentary corpus of CR seek to represent some of these dynamic aspects of the system in a way that it is useful for those seeking to gain a deep understanding of the language.

14 The structure of dialect diversity in Mono Evidence from the Sydney M. Lamb Papers Hannah J. Haynie and Maziar Toosarvandani

For many California languages, existing documentation is too often restricted to just a single dialect, despite the variation that is known to exist within them. Mono, one of two languages in the Western Numic branch of Uto-Aztecan, is an exception to this rule. While most published work focuses on just a couple individual varieties—North Fork on the western slopes of the Sierra Nevada (Lamb 1957, n.d.; Bethel et al. 1993) and Big Pine in Owens Valley (Norris 1986)—significant documentation of the wider dialectal picture does exist. As a graduate student at the University of California, Berkeley, Sydney Lamb worked with speakers across numerous communities, though his dissertation ultimately focused on just the North Fork variety. While Lamb made a handful of recordings, the primary product of his fieldwork were 24 notebooks, held as the Sydney M. Lamb Papers on California Indian Languages at the Survey of California and Other Indian Languages (Kinsman & Lamb 1953b). In this chapter, we report the first comprehensive cataloguing of the Mono materials in the Sydney M. Lamb Papers, as well as the first analysis of dialect variation within the language based on these materials. In his dissertation, Lamb (1957: 14–15) mentions, though he does not demonstrate, a complex dialect situation within the language. He identifies ‘three superdialects, comprising seven dialects, five of which can be further divided into subdialects,’ as shown in Figure 14.1. Beyond these groupings, he identifies ‘great similarity’ between the San Joaquin River and Northern Owens Valley dialects, as well as between the Southern Owens Valley and Deep Springs/Fish Lake Valleys dialects. Lamb’s classification has never been verified, and subsequent research on the language has assumed a much simpler dialectological picture. Norris (1986) identifies only two dialects (eastern and western), and Nichols (1974) further distinguishes a single other dialect grouping. Here we systematically examine the data in Lamb’s fieldnotes from 37 geographically dispersed speakers to develop a more comprehensive understanding of variation that has been documented within Mono. Using phonological, morphological, and lexical data from these materials we are able to examine the extent

Hannah J. Haynie and Maziar Toosarvandani, The structure of dialect diversity in Mono. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Hannah J. Haynie and Maziar Toosarvandani (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0014

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Northwestern Mono San Joaquin River North shore (Northfork) South shore (Auberry) Kings River North shore South shore (Dunlap) Northeastern Mono Northern Owens Valley I (Benton and Long Valley) Northern Owens Valley II (Round Valley and Bishop) Deep Springs/Fish Lake Valleys Southern Mono Southern Owens Valley (from Big Pine to Owens Lake) Kaweah River

Figure 14.1 Mono dialects according to Lamb (1957: 14–15).

to which each of Lamb’s subdialects, intermediate groupings, and ‘super-dialects’ are supported by empirical evidence. We further investigate the contributions of sound changes, lexical innovation and borrowing, and dialect diffusion to these patterns. Ultimately, we find additional patterns of variation that crosscut both the traditional two-way distinction and Lamb’s more detailed grouping. This suggests that dialect diversity within this language may be even more complex than previously thought.

14.1 The Mono language Mono is spoken across the entire length of the Owens Valley in eastern California (where it is sometimes called Owens Valley Paiute), from Owens Lake in the south to Benton in the north; in the adjacent Long and Round Valleys to the northwest; to the east across the White Mountains in Deep Springs and Fish Lake Valleys; and to the west across the Sierra Nevada in the headwaters of the San Joaquin, Kings, and Kaweah Rivers (see Figure 14.2). Northern Paiute, the other Western Numic language, is spoken to the north, from Mono Lake into western Nevada, southeastern Oregon, and southwestern Idaho. To the east and south, Central Numic languages are spoken, with Shoshoni speakers historically living in Fish Lake Valley and Timbisha speakers around Owens Lake (Steward 1933: 236). Kroeber (1925: 585) was perhaps the first to divide Mono into dialect areas, proposing two groups divided by the Sierra crest. As he mused, contact between these two geographic regions might well be impeded, ‘with one of earth’s greatest walls between.’ While he mentions, in passing, the existence of linguistic differences to either side of the Sierra Nevada, he emphasizes the cultural differences

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HANNAH J. HAYNIE AND MA ZIAR TOOSARVANDANI

NO

RTHERN PAIUTE

Mono L.

ey Vall ake

Benton

Long Valley

SHOSHONI

L Fish

MIWOK

White Mountains Oasis

Round Valley Bishop

San Joaq uin R .

North Fork

Deep Springs Valley Big Pine

MONO

Auberry

Fish Springs

Kings R

R. ens Ow

Sycamore Valley

.

Dunlap

TIMBISHA

Independence

Lone Pine

aw

e ah R

.

Eshom Valley

K

YOKUTS

Olancha

Owens L.

Figure 14.2 Mono-speaking areas (modified from Babel et al. 2013: 452).

associated with this geographic barrier. Subsequent ethnographic work took a classification of Mono into ‘Western’ and ‘Eastern’ dialects more or less for granted (Gifford 1932, Steward 1933, 1938; Gayton 1945, 1948), as has later work by linguists. Norris (1986) and Bethel et al. (1993) characterize Mono dialect variation in binary terms, as Nichols (1974) does, though he adds a ‘northeastern dialect.’ The physical environment plays a central role in this classification, but a binary characterization of Mono dialect geography may oversimplify both the linguistic diversity of Mono and the ecological factors that encourage or inhibit diversification and convergence.

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14.1.1 The Sydney M. Lamb Papers Sydney Lamb, a student of Mary Haas at UC Berkeley in the 1950s, took on Mono for his dissertation project. As his field notebooks record, he spent the summers of 1953 and 1954 traveling between communities on both sides of the Sierra Nevada, working with speakers as he met them. For some, he met with them only a single time, while he worked more intensely with others. Lamb developed a lasting relationship with the North Fork community, in particular with Lucy Kinsman; at least a dozen notebooks are dedicated to meetings with her and include many texts and extensive elicitation sessions. Lamb’s fieldwork culminated in his dissertation, a structuralist grammar of the North Fork dialect (Lamb 1957), which was accompanied by an unpublished dictionary (Lamb, n.d.). The field notebooks were archived at the Survey of California and Other Indian Languages and today are all available online (see Figure 14.3). There are a total of

Figure 14.3 Page 1 from Notebook A, recording a meeting with Annie Wenz, in the Sydney M. Lamb Papers (Kinsman and Lamb 1953).

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HANNAH J. HAYNIE AND MA ZIAR TOOSARVANDANI

24 notebooks, labeled with a letter starting at A and ending with X, containing data not just from Mono, but also from other Numic languages (Kawaiisu, Northern Paiute, Shoshoni, and Timbisha), Tubatalabal, Miwok, Yokuts, and Salinan. The notebooks containing Mono data are listed in Table 14.1, along with the individuals whose speech was recorded in each notebook. For many speakers, all Lamb recorded was word lists (most often, numbers, body parts, and animals) or simple paradigms (e.g. possessive pronouns, verbal aspects). For the speakers he worked

Table 14.1 Mono language data in the Sydney M. Lamb Papers. The ‘ID’ refers to an Item Number in the Survey of California and Other Indian Languages at the University of California, Berkeley. Notebook

Speaker(s)

ID

A B

Annie Wenz Susan Johnson, Kitt Joe, Lucy Kinsman, Hausen Lowell, Manda Marvin, Molly Pimono Lucy Kinsman∗ Lucy Kinsman Lucy Kinsman Lucy Kinsman Lucy Kinsman, Molly Pimono Lucy Kinsman Lucy Kinsman Lucy Kinsman, Frank Tex, Minnie Williams Lucy Kinsman Lucy Kinsman Lucy Kinsman Lucy Kinsman Bill Sherman, Lucy Kinsman, Gene Tulley Lucy Kinsman Lucy Kinsman Lucy Kinsman Louie Carmen, George Dick, Kate Espinoza, Andrew Glen, Annie Jefferson, Kitt Joe, Lola Joe, Maggie Marvin, Crawford Osborne, Jim Osborne, Lucy Pete Harry Austin, Mimie Chiatovich, Emma Duckey, Rob Harry, Mrs. Rob Harry, Lucy Kinsman, May Meredith, Harry Miller, Ira Miller, Pike Piper, Rosie Piper, Maggie Spencer, Tom Stone, Minnie Williams, Jim Wright Elizabeth Bethel

Lamb.003.001 Lamb 003.002

C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S U

V ∗

Lamb.003.003 Lamb.003.004 Lamb.003.005 Lamb.003.006 Lamb.003.007 Lamb.003.008 Lamb.003.009 Lamb.003.010.001 Lamb.003.011 Lamb.003.012 Lamb.003.013 Lamb.003.014.001 Lamb.003.015 Lamb.003.016 Lamb.003.017 Lamb.003.018 Lamb.003.019 Lamb.003.021

Lamb.003.022

In many of the notebooks containing data from just a single speaker, that individual is not identified by name. We are assuming that these notebooks record meetings with Lucy Kinsman. None of the data they contain was used in the analysis for this chapter, as it primarily comprised texts and sentence elicitation.

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219

most intensively with, he also elicited in a number of grammatical domains, along with recording numerous texts and songs. Lamb made audio recordings with a small number of speakers, which are also archived at the Survey (Kinsman and Lamb 1953a). These contain mostly songs, with a small amount of linguistic material, including some words and phrases, monologues, and traditional stories, by Elizabeth Bethel and Lucy Kinsman (from North Fork) and Tom Stone (from Fish Springs). The field notebooks, by contrast, contain linguistic material from a total of 37 speakers, distributed throughout all of his dialect areas (Figure 14.4).¹ For the vast majority of speakers, then, the sole record of their speech is in Lamb’s notebooks. All the speakers he worked with are listed in Table 14.2, along with the pages where their speech is represented.²

MYM MAW

Ri ve rN or th

Northern Owens Valley I NORTHEASTERN MONO

s ing ey Spr e Vall ep De h Lak Fis IM

Jo aq ui n

MC RH

JW

Sa n

AY

and

MIW

RP

MS ED

ANF EB MP HL LK DC LC AW SJ

HA

Northern Owens Valley II

San Joaquin South

FT

MJW

NORTHWESTERN MONO

MNM MGM LJ

PP TS

KJ

gs Kin

er Riv

rth No

MRH

Kings River South HM

GD

SO UT

CO LP

20

AJ

30

ley Val

10

ens

5

Ow

Kaweah River

E S

0

rn the S ou

SOUTHERN MONO

NO

N W

AG

MO

KE

RN HE

JO

Miles 40

Figure 14.4 Approximate geographic extents of Lamb’s dialect areas and distribution of speakers in Lamb’s Mono field notes.

¹ Two unnamed individuals in the field notes, one from Northfork and one from Yosemite, may actually represent additional sessions with speakers identified elsewhere. ² Throughout, we refer to notebooks using the letter assigned by Lamb, using his original page numbering.

Table 14.2 The 37 Mono speakers represented in the Sydney M. Lamb Papers. ‘Location’ is a geographic location corresponding to where the speaker was raised through age 18, as described in Lamb’s notebooks or determined by census or other public records. ‘Data’ is a count of the total data points that served as the input to our analysis; for many speakers, there is likely more data available though it is less readily analyzed (e.g. it is included in a text). Speaker Harry Austin Elizabeth Bethel Louie Carmen Mimmie Chiatovich Daisy Coleman George Dick Emma Duckey Kate Espinoza Andrew Glen Rob Harry Mrs. Rob Harry Annie Jefferson Kitt Joe Lola Joe Susan Johnson Lucy Kinsman Hausen Lavell Maggie Marvin Manda Marvin

HA EB LC MC DC GD ED KE AG RH MRH AJ KJ LJ SJ LK HL MGM MNM

Location

Source

Data Speaker

Deep Springs Valley North Fork North Fork Oasis North Fork Dunlap Bishop Eshom Valley Lone Pine Oasis Fish Springs Olancha Sycamore Valley Auberry North Fork North Fork North Fork Auberry Auberry

U 58–60 V 94–103 S 1–15 U 94–103 V 103–105 S 78–94 U 83–88 S 97–100 S 143–155 U 39–56 U 39–56 S 143–144 B 59–83, S 64–76 S 44 B 1–18 B 84–93, C 1–159 B 19–37 S 45–63 B 48–58

37 120 115 139 7 165 70 56 203 228 41 14 144 10 107 78 56 189 45

May Meredith Harry Miller Ira Miller Crawford Osborne Jim Osborne Lucy Pete Molly Pimono Pike Piper Rosie Piper Bill Sherman Maggie Spencer Tom Stone Frank Tex Gene Tulley Annie Wenz Minnie Williams Jim Wright Mrs. Jim Wright

MYM HM IM CO JO LP MP PP RP BS MS TS FT GT AW MIW JW MJW

Location

Source

Data

Benton Independence Oasis Eshom Valley Eshom Valley Eshom Valley North Fork Big Pine Benton unknown Bishop Fish Springs North Fork Auberry North Fork Long Valley Round Valley Big Pine

U 61–82 U 1–13 U 30–32 S 95–96 S 77 S 91–93 B 38–47 U 33–38 U 90–92 O 7–11 U 89 U 14–29 J 86–94 O1 A 1–159 J 14–35, U 57 U 104–116 U 104–116

329 207 49 26 16 24 12 105 10 0 5 267 63 0 340 286 194 10

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14.1.2. Methods For this study, we transcribed all words and phrases in the 24 notebooks that were recorded in isolation (not in a sentence or text). Lamb’s transcriptions, which vary greatly from very narrow to broad, were normalized to a quasi-phonemic transcription, based on a transcription guide that he provided (B 94–98). Generally, we use the IPA in our transcriptions, with some Numic-specific conventions. Lenis plosives are represented as single consonants (b, d, g), with fortis and voiced fortis plosives as doubled characters (pp, tt, kk and bb, dd, gg, respectively). When the distinction is neutralized (word-initial position), just a single character is used (p, t, k). The lenis-fortis contrast is represented for fricatives with just single characters (z vs. s) and for nasals by doubling (m vs. mm, n vs. nn, ŋ vs. ŋŋ). The Proto-Numic prenasalized series is represented by a homorganic nasal–consonant sequence, e.g, mp or ɲj. These raw transcriptions were then compiled by speaker and organized into cognate sets. In our analysis below, we rely on Babel et al.’s (2013) reconstructions for Proto-Numic. If another authority was used, we cite it explicitly. We focused on sets in which three or more speakers were represented, so the residue may contain additional information that we have not examined. The analysis presented focuses first on the evidence for Lamb’s dialect divisions, before considering other patterns of variation attested in the dataset. In general, we discuss all features that characterize a putative dialect grouping, without imposing any specific criteria about what ‘counts.’ We discuss what mechanisms might be at play for each feature (e.g. innovation, diffusion, retention, borrowing), in order to better understand the processes by which the diversity within Mono developed.

14.2 Smaller groupings Lamb divides the Mono varieties spoken on the western slopes of the Sierra Nevada into three dialects, each with two subdialects. This grouping, which mirrors Kroeber’s (1925: 585), is based geographically on the major drainages of the region. There is not sufficient data to thoroughly characterize each subdialect, though some features do cluster around each of the three major river basins. The San Joaquin River area is characterized by three properties. First, all speakers exhibit obstruentization, depalatalization, and fortition of the Proto-Numic prenasalized palatal glide ∗ ɲj to t in ∗ tɨhɨɲja ‘deer’ and ∗ pohniɲja ‘skunk’ (AW, LK, MGM), as shown in Figure 14.5A. Second, with the exception of HL, speakers have tuna’a for ‘pine nut’ (AW, LK, MGM), instead of ∗ tɨba (Nichols 1974: 341). Finally, three speakers (AW, EB, LK) have Spanish borrowings for ‘bull’ and ‘sheep,’ in which r has been adapted as n: e.g. too’no’o (from toro) and ponnika’a (from borrego) (C 22). MGM shares the form for ‘bull,’ suggesting that this feature

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HANNAH J. HAYNIE AND MA ZIAR TOOSARVANDANI

A.

B. DEEP SPRINGS FISH LAKE VALLEY

DEEP SPRINGS FISH LAKE VALLEY

NORTHERN OWENS

NORTHERN OWENS

SAN JOAQUIN

SAN JOAQUIN

KINGS

KINGS

*ɲj dd tt ts tʃ n ɲ/n ɲ

*ŋw KAWEAH

SOUTHERN OWENS

C.

KAWEAH

ggw gg/ggw kkw w ŋw

D. DEEP SPRINGS FISH LAKE VALLEY

DEEP SPRINGS FISH LAKE VALLEY

NORTHERN OWENS

NORTHERN OWENS

SAN JOAQUIN

SAN JOAQUIN

KINGS

KINGS

KAWEAH

*mp bb pp

SOUTHERN OWENS

SOUTHERN OWENS

′horse′ stem

KAWEAH

SOUTHERN OWENS

kawaju puggu puggu/kawaju

Figure 14.5 Distribution of selected features: A shows reflexes of ∗ ɲj in pohniɲya ‘skunk’ and ∗ tɨhɨɲya ‘deer’; B shows reflexes of ∗ ŋw in ∗ paŋwi ‘fish’; C shows reflexes of ∗ mp in ∗ tɨmpi ‘rock’; D shows stem for the meaning ‘horse.’

∗

characterizes the San Joaquin River valley in general (though MGM has the Kings River form for ‘sheep’: see below). In the Kings River basin, the two speakers (GD and KJ) for whom data is available exhibit a number of distinctive features. They, too, exhibit obstruentization and fortition of Proto-Numic ∗ ɲj, as in San Joaquin River, though there is no neutralization with t, as both have affricates, ts for KJ and tʃ for GD (Figure 14.5A). Both speakers also have a unique form for ‘coyote,’ which adds a formative to Proto-Numic ∗ isa (Nichols 1974: 320): e.g. isa’abɨʒi for GD (S 90) and iʃa’abɨʒi for KJ (S 72). They also both have a distinctive stem for ‘green’: puhiʒina- (S 71, 90). Finally, KJ has borrowed forms for ‘bull’ and ‘sheep’ in which r adapted as l: i.e., toolo’ and puliikka’a (S 72); there is no data available for GD. At the same time, there are several features shared by KJ in Sycamore Valley with San Joaquin River, which differentiates his speech from GD’s speech. He has a stem for ‘black’ tummu- (B 66), parallel to forms for AW, LK, and MGM, while GD has a different stem, toga- (S 90). Similarly, KJ has toonaa- for ‘cloud’ (S 68), like AW and LK, while GD has pagɨna- (S 84). These crosscutting features may have less to

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do with dialect structure than KJ’s personal history. Though Lamb identifies him with Sycamore Valley, he adds that KJ is ‘from Cold Springs,’ near Auberry (S 64). We have found only one feature that uniquely distinguishes any speaker from the Kaweah River watershed. KE exhibits back vowel raising in ∗ pojo ‘road’ (Nichols 1974: 333): puju (S 98), though this should be taken with a grain of salt due to the scarcity of data from this area. On the eastern side of the Sierra Nevada, Steward (1933: 236) observes distinct varieties at Owens Lake and Lone Pine, Independence, Fish Springs, Big Pine, Deep Springs Valley, and Bishop and Round Valley. Lamb divides Owens Valley into two groups, drawing the boundary just south of Bishop. Within Northern Owens Valley, Lamb recognizes two further divisions—Bishop and Round Valley vs. Benton and Long Valley—which makes a total of three northern groupings with Deep Springs/Fish Lake Valleys. While there is, as Steward observes, significant variation from community to community across Owens and adjacent valleys, we found little evidence for these particular groupings. In particular, there are no features to support the smallest northern subdivisions beyond the loss of ∗ w in ∗ awa ‘horn’ in Deep Springs/Fish Lake Valleys (RH, MC). There is, however, one feature that groups all of Northern Owens Valley together: obstruentization and depalatalization of Proto-Numic ∗ ɲj to voiced fortis dd in ∗ tɨhɨɲja ‘deer’ and ∗ pohniɲja ‘skunk’ (ED, JW, MIW, MYM) (Figure 14.5A). For Southern Owens Valley, there are some suggestive clusters of features, but the scarcity of data for Kaweah River makes distinguishing it from a hypothetical larger Southern dialect difficult. In sum, on the western side of the Sierra Nevada, some evidence supports three dialect areas, while on the eastern side, there is little support for Lamb’s smallest groupings. It may simply be that there is not a sufficient quantity of data to uncover them, though our analysis incorporated roughly 2,200 forms from ‘eastern’ speakers and 1,700 forms from ‘western’ speakers. The nature of the data may also matter; we have focused primarily on words and phrases, while Lamb was also potentially able to consider a broader range of linguistic material including larger morphosyntactic constructions. Another possibility is that, while there is significant variation across Owens Valley and adjacent areas, this has the structure of a dialect continuum, without the more discrete divisions that emerge to the west.

14.3 Larger groupings Lamb posits three larger groupings: Northwestern Mono (San Joaquin and Kings Rivers), Northeastern Mono (Northern Owens Valley and Deep Springs/Fish Lake Valley), and Southern Mono (Southern Owens Valley and Kaweah River). We find isoglosses that support the geographic boundaries that divide these three regions,

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though only a small minority of these features demonstrate actual innovations. Below we discuss the evidence for each area in greater detail. We should note at the outset that there is a series of changes with partially overlapping spatial patterns that do not align with Lamb’s areas. While the prenasalized stops (∗ mp, ∗ nt, and ∗ ŋk) show obstruentization that has diffused throughout the entirety of the region (Babel et al. 2013: 459), the prenasalized glides ∗ ɲj and ∗ ŋw show a parallel change only in specific geographic subareas. ∗ ŋw (e.g. in ∗ paŋwi ‘fish’) undergoes obstruentization in Lamb’s Northeastern and Northwestern divisions, but retains its nasality elsewhere (Figure 14.5B). By contrast, the spatial extent of obstruentization of ∗ ɲj (e.g. in ∗ tɨhɨɲja ‘deer’ and ∗ pohniɲja ‘skunk’) includes all of Northwestern Mono and Northern Owens Valley as well; this change stops at the borders of Southern Mono, leaving a nasal n or ɲ there as well as in the Deep Springs/Fish Lake Valley area (Figure 14.5A). Furthermore, the ancestral prenasalized consonants ∗ mp, ∗ nt, and ∗ ŋk have been collapsed with fortis stops across Northwestern and Southern Mono, a pattern that crosscuts the boundaries of the prenasalized glide obstruentization. These changes are not diagnostic of Lamb’s largest grouping, though their intersecting isoglosses may have partially inspired them.

14.3.1 Northwestern Mono Northwestern Mono, comprising the San Joaquin and Kings River basins, is set apart from other varieties by a small number of phonological features, buttressed by suggestive patterns in a handful of lexical variants. There are a number of phonological innovations that might distinguish Northwestern Mono as a subgroup. All speakers within the San Joaquin and Kings River basins exhibit fortition (following obstruentization) of Proto-Numic ∗ ɲj to tt in the north and tsts or tʃtʃ in the south (see Section 14.3 and Figure 14.5A). In addition, ∗ ŋw exhibits fortition to kkʷ across San Joaquin and Kings Rivers (San Joaquin: AW, LC, LJ, LK, MGM, MNM, SJ; Kings: GD, KJ), though only LP in Kaweah River also exhibits this change. Relatedly, though its historical source is not clear, a stem for ‘rattlesnake’ surfaces with medial kkw , e.g. togokkʷa (B 91) throughout the San Joaquin River Valley (AW, LK, MGM, SJ) and in at least Sycamore Valley for Kings River (KJ). While the absence of data from southern portions of the Kings River Valley and the Kaweah River Basin limits the inferences that can be drawn about the boundary between Northwestern Mono and a putative Southern Mono area, this corresponds to w in Southern Owens Valley and Deep Springs/Fish Lake Valley and voiced fortis ggw in Northern Owens Valley. Finally, ancestral ∗ hŋ in ∗ ahŋa ‘shoulder’ (Nichols 1974: 318) undergoes denasalization to h in Northwestern Mono (MGM, KJ, GD). However, a lack of evidence from Northern Owens River Valley speakers for this sound change makes it impossible

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to determine whether the change is indeed restricted to Northwestern Mono or whether, as with ∗ ɲj, obstruentization has occurred on both sides of the Sierra Nevada in the north. A number of other features provide supporting evidence for the Northwestern Mono division proposed by Lamb. Proto-Numic ∗ w in ∗ awa ‘horn’ is retained as w (San Joaquin: AW, MGM; Kings River: KJ, GD), while it undergoes nasalization throughout the Owens River Valley (w ˜ ) and is lost entirely farther east. Several lexical items also show differences between Northwestern Mono and Northeastern Mono. Forms for ‘sun’ (San Joaquin: AW, LK, MGM, SJ; Kings: GD), ‘lion’ (San Joaquin: AW, HL, LK, MGM; Kings: GD), and ‘year’ (San Joaquin: AW, LK, MGM, SJ; Kings: KJ) exhibit clear patterns separating Northwestern Mono from Northeastern Mono and the Southern Owens River Valley. However, no data for these lexical items are found in the Kaweah River region, which is crucial for distinguishing whether the San Joaqin and Kings River Valleys fit better in a classification with three major dialect divisions (Northwestern, Northeastern, and Southern) or a more general two-way dialect split (Western and Eastern). Other lexical items that exhibit distinctive variants in Northwestern Mono may shed more light on language contact involving San Joaquin and Kings River Valley communities than on dialect boundaries per se. One of these is the stem for ‘woodpecker’: Haynie et al. (2014) suggest that the pannaattada form found in the San Joaquin (LK, MGM, MP) and Kings River (KJ, GD) Valleys is related to the etymon palaka that has spread through Central California as a wanderwo¨rt, rather than representing an independent onomatapoetic coinage. The azabana form found in the Owens River Valley (MJW, MYM, TS) and other Numic languages may also have ultimately originated in this same network of lexical diffusion. The direction of individual borrowing events for ‘woodpecker’ terms is difficult to establish, but the phonetic details of each form can be used to identify general chains of borrowing or convergence through contact (Haynie et al. 2014). The ‘woodpecker’ forms found in Northwestern Mono varieties suggest a possible alternative route for n-medial variants of the ‘woodpecker’ etymon into the Great Basin through Mono. In contrast, the hummunnuwa’a form for ‘quail’ in Northwestern Mono (LK, MGM, KJ, GD) is phonologically distinct from the tahnaakkaa’ form found in Northeastern Mono, but clearly shows a resemblance to Yokuts humnul ‘quail’ (Vera & Clark 2002: 298) that is suggestive of direct borrowing.

14.3.2 Northeastern Mono The Northeastern dialect division is characterized by a number of phonological retentions, as well as additional phonological and lexical patterns that tend to support either its border with the Southern Owens River Valley or with Northwestern Mono.

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The Proto-Numic prenasalized stops (∗ mp, ∗ nt, and ∗ ŋk) are retained as voiced fortis stops, e.g. bb (MIW, MYM, JW, ED, HA, IM, MC, RH) and gg (MIW, MYM, ED, JW, HA, IM, MC, RH), while they have been collapsed into the fortis series everywhere else (Figure 14.5C). Northeastern Mono is also set apart from other dialect areas in its retention of ∗ hm in ∗ pahmu ‘smoke’ (Nichols 1974: 331) (MYM, JW, HA, MC). Where evidence exists, we find ∗ hm > m in Northwestern Mono and Southern Owens Valley. While this is not diagnostic of Northeastern Mono as a subgroup, it lends support to the cohesion of this region as a dialect area. Correspondences involving the Numic ‘sixth vowel’ also provide support for some of the boundaries that separate this purported dialect area from neighboring varieties. In addition to the five vowels shared by all Numic varieties, some have a sixth vowel whose phonetic value varies across individual words and speech communities: ai ~ ei ~ e; in some, it is merged with a or i. For instance, Northeastern Mono has a stem pedaw ˜ i ‘below’ (MYM, JW, MC), whose first vowel corresponds to a or ai in the Southern Owens Valley (no evidence exists for this word on the western side of the Sierra Nevada). The postposition ‘in’ also shows a distinction along the geographic divide where Lamb places the Northern vs. Southern Owens Valley boundary. In Northeastern Mono, it is -wee (MYM, MIW, JW, RH) whereas in Southern Owens Valley, it is -wii. The -wee variant also surfaces in the northern San Joaquin River Valley, making it more useful for supporting an ostensible boundary with Southern Owens Valley than a divide between Northeastern and Northwestern Mono. Lexical data paint a similar general picture. The presence of puggu ‘horse’ (< Proto-Numic ∗ puŋku ‘pet’) is the only lexical feature that reliably distinguishes Northeastern Mono from all other varieties (MIW, MYM, JW, IM) (Figure 14.5D). Other lexical features support either Lamb’s boundary between Northeastern Mono and Southern Owens Valley or a divide between Northeastern and Northwestern Mono, but not both. An s-initial stem for ‘cottonwood’ (< Proto-Numic sɨŋa- ‘aspen’; Nichols 1974: 337) in the Northern Owens Valley (MYM, JW) and Fish Lake Valley (MC, RH) contrasts with tɨŋw a- in Southern Owens Valley (TS, AG), thus supporting the geographic boundary between these eastern groups; missing data in Northwestern Mono and the Kaweah River basin prevent comparisons with western groups. For the meaning ‘quail,’ data is only available from Northeastern and Northwestern locations, as discussed in Section 14.3.1. The tahnaakkaa’ stem is found in each geographic subregion of Northeastern Mono (MYM, JW, RH), contrasting with the possibly Yokuts-influenced stem humnul found in Northwestern Mono areas.

14.3.3 Southern Mono There is the least evidence for Lamb’s Southern Mono grouping. This may be due to the sparsity of data from Kaweah River, as there were only four speakers

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documented, all with relatively few data points (see Table 14.2). No innovative features were identified that are shared exclusively by Southern Owens Valley and Kaweah River, though this area is characterized by a few phonological retentions and lexical changes. All speakers preserve a nasal for the Proto-Numic prenasalized palatal glide ∗ ɲj in ∗ pohniɲya ‘skunk’ or ∗ tɨhɨɲya ‘deer’ (Southern Owens Valley: PP, TS HM, AG; Kaweah River: KE, LP) (Figure 14.5A). A similar retention is found for the prenasalized labiovelar glide ∗ ŋw, which is maintained in ∗ paŋwi ‘fish’ (Southern Owens Valley: TS, HM, PP, AG; Kaweah River: KE),³ ∗ hɨŋwa (Southern Owens Valley: AG, TS, HM, PP, MRH), and in watsɨŋʷi ‘four’ (Southern Owens Valley: AG, AJ, TS, HM, PP; Kaweah River: CO, KE, JO) (Figure 14.5B).⁴ For lexical features, speakers across the putative Southern Mono group have a Spanish borrowing instead of Proto-Numic ∗ puŋku ‘pet’: e.g. kawaju or kabaaju’ < Spanish caballo (Southern Owens Valley: PP, TS, HM; Kaweah River: KE, LP) (Figure 14.5D). This is shared, however, with all of Northwestern Mono. Similarly, three speakers share a stem for ‘blood’—paŋŋʷa (CO), pɨɨŋʷa (TS), paiŋʷa (HM)— though this is shared with speakers across the Northeastern Mono group as well (MW, JW, ED, MC). While lexical changes do not characterize Southern Mono as a subgroup, they do suggest the effects of contact across the Sierra Nevada, at least between Kaweah River and Southern Owens Valley. In the next section, we discuss additional evidence that some of the dialect structure within Mono arose through trans-Sierra diffusion.

14.4 Other patterns that crosscut Lamb’s dialect areas The division between Northeastern and Southern Mono splits the Owens Valley into two parts. But the variation across Owens Valley and the adjacent valleys, may be better characterized as a looser, more gradient array of isoglosses, given the relatively uniform ecological conditions and connectivity of this area. Variation in the voicing of alveolar sibilants is illustrative of these layered isoglosses. In Southern Owens Valley and the northern community of Bishop, there are voiced variants of kuttuzi- ‘dust’ and pazugu ‘water snake’ (ED, HM, TS), which contrasts with a voiceless variant found in Benton at the northernmost end of Owens Valley (MYM). In kw azi ‘tail,’ however, the entirety of what has been called Northeastern Mono (MIW, MYM, IM, RH, JW, ED) exhibits a voiced variant, along with Fish Springs (TS), while a voiceless variant is represented in ³ Though, LP in Kaweah River has pakkʷi-, as in Kings and San Joaquin Rivers. The primary source of information about LP’s dialect is a note by Lamb that according to GD, ‘Lucy Pete talks Waksacˇi’ (S 88). ⁴ Babel et al. (2013: 460 footnote 21) distinguish watsɨŋʷi ‘four’ from other words with ŋʷ in Southern Owens Valley and Kaweah River. We see no reason to do so, as Lamb transcribes these forms equivalently.

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Independence (HM) and Lone Pine (AG) farther south in Owens Valley. Some lexical isoglosses also only characterize subparts of Owens Valley, dividing it south of Big Pine or Fish Springs. Stems associated with Northern Owens Valley areas for ‘white’ (tosa-) and ‘yellow’ (oha-) are also found in Big Pine (PP) and Fish Springs (TS); the northern Owens Valley stem tsɨɨa’a ‘girl’ is found in Fish Springs (TS, MRH); and Proto-Numic ∗ pahmabi- ‘bear’ is found throughout Northeastern Mono (ED, JW, MC, MIW, RH) as well as in both Fish Springs (TS) and Independence (HM).⁵ Below, we discuss three larger-scale patterns operating in parts of Owens Valley: (i) between parts of northern Owens Valley and the San Joaquin and Kings River basins; (ii) between the Kaweah River watershed and parts of southern Owens Valley; and (iii) Deep Springs and Fish Lake Valleys and parts of southern Owens Valley. None conform to Lamb’s boundary bisecting Owens Valley south of Bishop, and all three point to broader patterns of diffusion, both within Owens Valley and nearby Deep Springs and Fish Lake Valley, as well as across the Sierra crest.

14.4.1 Contact between San Joaquin and Kings River basins and northern Owens Valley Several features are shared across the Sierras between San Joaquin and Kings Rivers and certain speakers in Northern Owens Valley. First, these regions share obstruentization of the prenasalized glides ∗ ɲj and ∗ ŋw (Figure 14.5A). Second, there are several reflexes of what Nichols (1974: 312) reconstructs as Proto-Numic ∗ ŋ: (i) ∗ ŋ > m in ∗ oŋa ‘salt’ for San Joaquin River (AW, MGM), as well as in MIW and MYM in Long Valley and Benton, respectively; (ii) ∗ ŋ > n in ∗ soŋo ‘lung’ for San Joaquin River (AW, LC, LK, SJ) and both MIW and MYM again; and, (iii) ∗ ’ŋ > n in ∗ ta’ŋa ‘knee’ and ∗ nɨ’ŋa ‘chest’ for all of Northwestern Mono (AW, GD, KJ, HL, KL, MGM, MNM, SJ) and just MIW in the Northeast. These velar nasals are preserved throughout the rest of Owens Valley without exception. Third, nobi ‘house’ has a lenis final feature in San Joaquin River: e.g. nobiwee ‘in house’ (AW and LK), which is shared by MYM in Benton. The rest of Owens Valley triggers either k as the first consonant of the postposition (RH), ggʷ (MIW, JW), or ŋʷ (PP, TS, HM). Fourth, alongside puggu ‘horse’ (< Proto-Numic ∗ puŋku ‘pet’), MYM has kawaaju’u (U 68), a Spanish borrowing found across Northwestern and Southern Mono, but nowhere else in Northern Owens Valley (see Section 14.3.3, Figure 14.5D). Fifth, MYM shares paapi ‘blood’ with San Joaquin (LK) and Kings River (GD), even though all other speakers have a different stem (see Section 14.3.3). ⁵ Though biographic information is limited for several of the Southern Owens Valley speakers, TS of Fish Lake describes living in Bishop for some time before moving back south to Big Pine, making it possible that some of his forms are influenced by a Bishop variety, and more importantly demonstrating some mobility of individuals across the central region of Owens Valley.

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One possible explanation for these patterns is trans-Sierra contact, and possibly acorn trade from western to eastern slopes more specifically. While Steward (1933: 246) describes acorns as being ‘of minor importance’ in the central Owens River Valley, Gifford (1932: 19) documents travel from North Fork across the summit in summer at Mammoth Peak to gather pinenuts, with groups taking acorns with them and sometimes staying in Owens Valley a year or two. Subsistence-related meanings are potentially revealing of contact patterns across the Sierra Nevada, given the biogeographic differences and cultural complexes that exist on either side of the Sierra crest (Gifford 1971; Haney 1992). An e-initial variant of Proto-Numic ∗ akki- ‘mush’ is found generally in Northwestern Mono (ANF, LK, KJ), while an i-initial variant is found generally in Northeastern Mono (MYM, JW, RH). However, MIY has both variants, while AW in San Joaquin River has the i-initial variant. These patterns across the northern Mono-speaking areas contrast with the different form found in Southern Owens Valley: aikkiba (U 24) for TS in Fish Springs. Alternatively, it is striking that these features are all shared with either MIW or MYM, but not other speakers in Northern Owens Valley, like JW (Round Valley) or RP (Benton). MYM told Lamb that her father may be Western Mono (U 82), though RP reports that her parents were from Benton and that her grandmother was from Western Mono (U 56). For MIW, Lamb records that Mrs. Harry Miller thought her grandmother was from North Fork (U 56). Lamb reports that MIW has two sisters, one of whom is MYM (J 14), although MIW was born and raised near Crowley Lake in Long Valley (J 22) and MYM was born and raised in Benton (U 61). The kinship explanation may find some support in some unexpected features of one San Joaquin River speaker. LK shares two features with speakers on the eastern sides of the Sierra Nevada (i) tabu’u ‘cottontail,’ found throughout Owens Valley, while all others in Northwestern Mono have a different stem, and (ii) ∗ ai > a in waha ‘two,’ while all other speakers on the western side of the Sierras either maintain a diphthong or raise (∗ ai > e); the same monophthongization is found sporadically in Owens Valley (MIW and TS) and in Deep Springs/Fish Lake Valley. These two possible accounts may not, in the end, be so distinct if the prolonged stays on the eastern Sierra described by Gifford led to the familial relations recorded by Lamb.

14.4.2 Contact between the Kaweah River basin and southern Owens Valley Lamb hypothesizes that Kaweah River and Southern Owens Valley form a dialect group, though as we saw in Section 14.3.3 relatively little evidence supports Southern Mono as a grouping. There were no phonological innovations that characterize these dialects (only two phonological retentions), while the

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lexical innovations found across Southern Mono are also found in Northwestern Mono. There are also several features that extend across Kaweah River (and possibly parts of Northwestern Mono) and just the southernmost section of Owens Valley including Lone Pine and Olancha. First, Proto-Numic ∗ m has lenited and denasalized to w in ∗ tama ‘teeth’ and ∗ nɨmɨ ‘liver’ (Nichols 1974: 330, 337) throughout Northwestern Mono (San Joaquin: HL, LK, MGM, MNM; Kings River: GD, KJ) and Kaweah River (CO), as well as for AG in Lone Pine: tawa ‘teeth’ (S 146) and nɨwɨ ‘liver’ (S 147). However, HM, MRH, PP, and TS farther north all preserve a nasalized variant. Second, a similar denasalization has taken place in the less easy to reconstruct ‘seven,’ which is taatstsɨwi for AG in Lone Pine and AJ in Olancha (S142–143), with similar forms in Kaweah River (CO, JO, KE), Kings River (GD, KJ), and San Joaquin (AW, EB, LJ, LC, LK, MGM, MNM). But the rest of Owens Valley has a nasalized form, either ŋʷ (HM in Independence) or w ˜ (Southern Owens Valley: PP, TS; Northern Owens Valley: ED, JW, MIW, MYM, RP; Deep Springs/Fish Lake Valley: RH, MC).⁶ Fourth, KE in Kaweah River has inɨɨ (S 100) and AG in Lone Pine has ɨnɨɨ’ɨ (S 149) for ‘bear,’ while all other speakers have a stem beginning with p, e.g. pahabitstsi for LK (C 20), including HM and TS in Southern Owens Valley: pahabiʧʧi (U 21, 45). These partially overlapping features suggest a role for contact spanning the two sides of the Sierra Nevada. Indeed, Steward (1933: 325) documents trails between the Kaweah River watershed and southern Owens Valley at Cottonwood Pass, just south of Lone Pine, as well as at Olancha Pass. There were other trans-Sierra trails farther north, but these connect to the Kings River basin at Independence and to the San Joaquin River basin at Bishop.

14.4.3 Features shared between Deep Springs and Fish Lake Valleys and Southern Owens Valley While Lamb proposes Deep Springs/Fish Lake Valley form a dialect group with Northern Owens Valley, he suggests that there are features this variety shares with Southern Owens Valley. His notebooks provide evidence for several such features. Two retentions are shared with Southern Owens Valley. First, Proto-Numic ∗ ɲj is preserved as a nasal, either ɲ (HA) or n (IM, MC, RH) in ∗ tɨhɨɲya ‘deer,’ as in Southern Owens Valley (see Section 14.3.3), whereas ∗ ɲj > dd in in Northern Owens Valley and ∗ ɲj > tt in San Joaquin River (Figure 14.5A). Second, RH and MC have togowa ‘rattlesnake,’ as in Southern Owens Valley ⁶ The one exception is HA, whom we identify with Deep Springs Valley. Lamb notes that he was born in Deep Springs and lived in Fish Lake Valley from age 1, but lived part time later in his life in Big Pine, attending school there as well (U 58). The only representative data point from Big Pine that we have is PP, who has a nasalized variant.

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(AG, HM, MJW, PP, TS); in Northern Owens Valley, the labiovelar glide has become voiced fortis: e.g. togoggʷa (MIW and MYM). There are a number of other features which are shared between Southern Owens Valley and only one or two individuals in Deep Springs/Fish Lake Valleys. In particular, RH has monophthongized and lowered what was most likely Proto-Numic ∗ ai in mappata ‘palm (of hand)’ (U 41), as Southern Owens Valley does (PP, TS); for the others in Deep Springs/Fish Lake Valley, ∗ ai > e: mappeda (HA, MC). Also, RH also has pagɨnapp(a) ‘cloud’ (U 43), as in Southern Owens Valley (AG, HM, TS), while MC in Deep Springs/Fish Lake Valley has a different stem, toŋŋobbe (U 99), shared with Northern Owens Valley (ED, JW, MYM). Finally, both RH and HA have a voiceless bilabial in naaɸai ‘six’ (U 39, U 59), which parallels the form found throughout Southern Owens Valley (AG, AJ, HM, PP, TS); by contrast, MC has a voiced bilabial in the same stem: naabahi (U 96). There were historically many routes connecting Big Pine and Bishop in Owens Valley with Deep Springs Valley and nearby Oasis at the southernmost end of Fish Lake Valley (Steward 1993: 325). But at the same time, both HA (see footnote 4) and RH spent significant time in Big Pine. While Lamb records that he was ‘born and raised’ at Oasis, he ‘went back and forth much between Oasis and Big Pine’ (U 39). It is perhaps unclear, in the end, whether these are stable dialect features or whether they should be attributed to ideolects of these two individuals.

14.5 Conclusion Differences in terrain, ecology, and culture on either side of the Sierra Nevada may not have created a clear two-way dialect split, but they may nevertheless have shaped the character of smaller-scale dialect diversity. On the western slopes, we find some support for small dialect areas in Lamb’s notebooks, as he proposed, especially at the geographic scale of river basins. On the eastern slopes of the Sierra, divisions are somewhat less clear. From Lamb’s work with speakers along the Owens River and adjacent valleys, there was little evidence for the smallest grouping that he proposed, though there is certainly significant variation across the communities of Owens Valley. Where Lamb’s larger dialect groupings are concerned, we found the strongest evidence for Northwestern Mono, which was characterized by a few innovations and a handful of other features. Less evidence was available for Northeastern Mono and Southern Mono, whose shared boundary bisects Owens Valley between Bishop and Big Pine. The presence of features, representing overlapping subparts of Owens Valley as well as the adjacent Deep Springs and Fish Lake Valleys, suggests that, on the eastern side of the Sierra, the dialect structure of Mono is more continuum-like. This pattern of overlapping and crosscutting innovations also characterizes the adjacent Timbisha and Shoshoni languages, where it is frequently

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attributed to patterns of migration and the ecological conditions in the Great Basin (Miller 1970). It is not clear whether the language diversification in Owens Valley can be attributed to similar factors. This does not lead us, however, to adopt the oft-invoked Western Mono and Eastern Mono designations. While the scarcity of evidence for the Sierrastraddling Southern Mono division hypothesized by Lamb might make a simple dialectical division along the Sierra crest an appealing prospect, the evidence for this binary categorization is limited. There is, for instance, the ∗ w in ∗ awa ‘horn,’ which is retained in the San Joaquin (AW, MGM) and Kings (KJ, GD) River basins, but nasalized (w ˜ ) throughout the Owens Valley (MIW, MYM, ED, TS, MRH, HM), and lost entirely in Fish Lake Valley (MC, RH). Or, Proto-Numic ∗ mɨha ‘moon’ (Nichols 1974: 328), which has been replaced by a new stem, e.g, tawɨwa ‘moon,’ throughout all varieties to the west of the Sierra (MGM, KJ, GD, LP), but preserved in all varieties to their east (MIW, MYM, ED, JW, MC, RH, AG, HM, PP, TS). Additional variation in words for ‘sun,’ ‘lion,’ and ‘year’ suggest a set of lexical isoglosses along the Sierra crest, though the absence of data for these three meanings from the Kaweah River Basin makes it difficult to determine whether these forms truly support an Eastern versus Western division. At any rate, this modest set of isoglosses that would characterize the putative Eastern and Western dialects is dwarfed by the number and complexity of isoglosses that crosscut them. Further, contrary to Kroeber’s view of the Sierra Nevada as a nearly impenetrable barrier to contact, Section 14.4 lays out significant evidence of contact between Mono-speaking communities across high mountain peaks, which has shaped variation within the language. We found evidence there of possible language contact across the Sierra Nevada in both the southerly and northerly areas of the Monospeaking area, as well as between Southern Owens Valley and the areas across the White Mountains to the east. While some of this evidence might be shaped, in part, by individual life histories, it seems likely that at least some of it is indeed reflective of more stable, community-level contact. It seems clear from this initial examination that the best description of the dialect structure within Mono will require more nuance than a two-dialect or even a three-dialect solution. Future analysis of available texts will add detail to this picture, potentially bringing the number and location of primary divisions into better focus. While our conclusions about what shape the map of Mono dialect diversity should ultimately take are thus tentative at this point, we hope the indexing and mapping of Lamb’s field notebooks undertaken here will facilitate future use of these materials to investigate the linguistic diversity within Mono and other Numic languages.

15 Recovering prosody from Karuk texts Deciphering J. P. Harrington’s diacritics Clare S. Sandy

15.1 Introduction The Karuk language is an indigenous language of northern California (classified as Hokan), spoken in the Klamath River basin since time immemorial. It has been passed down and kept alive by the Karuk people despite oppression and forced assimilation since European settlement in the middle of the nineteenth century. There are currently active efforts to reclaim and maintain the language. A great deal of linguistic and cultural knowledge was preserved by master speakers, who sometimes worked to document the language with outside linguists. One of these linguists, J. P. Harrington, is known for having an excellent ‘ear’ for phonetics, for being incredibly prolific, and also for squirreling away almost everything he ever documented. Working primarily in the western U.S. in the early part of the twentieth century, Harrington was aware of ongoing language shift and the danger so many indigenous languages faced of not being passed on to future generations. He was driven to spend all his time working with speakers, transcribing hundreds of thousands of pages of over a hundred Native American languages, but published relatively little of it during his lifetime. He kept much of his work completely hidden, and it was not until after his death in 1961 that his notes began to be archived and catalogued (Stirling 1963; Golla 2011). Several Karuk elders shared their language with Harrington; Phoebe Maddux the most of all. Maddux shared vocabulary and stories, and is the speaker of the majority of the Karuk texts published by Harrington. Not only that, she also traveled with Harrington for the better part of a year in 1928–1929, including to Washington, D.C., and New York City, where she made the earliest surviving audio recording of Karuk (Mills 1985). During this time, Maddux spent what must have been countless hours of painstaking “rehearing” of previously spoken texts with Harrington to perfect the transcriptions and glosses. A great deal of language was documented through these collaborations. Some of it was published (Harrington 1930, 1932a,b), and more remains unpublished: thousands of pages of notes and texts, archived at the National Anthropological Archives (Harrington (ca. 1925–1933)). Even with so much published material, and with Harrington’s

Clare S. Sandy, Recovering prosody from Karuk texts. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Clare S. Sandy (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0015

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archived materials more readily accessible thanks to digitization, a question remains as to how useful these transcriptions might be for present-day speakers and scholars. Harrington used his own somewhat arcane systems of transcription for the languages he documented, including extensive but cryptic marking of accent in Karuk. An aspect of Karuk both important to its pronunciation and of particular linguistic interest is its system of word-level prosody, which has been described as an accent or pitch-accent system. As recording was a cumbersome process and the storage media fragile, relatively few audio recordings survive from the time. In light of this, could the wealth of Harrington transcriptions be usable for questions of prosody? More specifically, is it possible to decipher his notations and evaluate how good his ear really was? Using the recording of Phoebe Maddux, it was possible to do both these things for Karuk: create a ‘key’ to Harrington’s diacritic notations, and confirm their accuracy against more recent recordings and transcriptions and known patterns of Karuk prosody. The key was then expanded to cover the range of diacritics found in the published text corpus, making these detailed texts usable for synchronic and diachronic study of accentuation and intonation.

15.2 Harrington’s transcription methods Harrington’s transcriptions are well known for being highly phonetically accurate but overdifferentiated, thus obscuring phonemic information. He is reported to have entertained the idea of learning to write phonemically, but to have never managed to do so (Stirling 1963; Kinkade and Seaburg 1991). Harrington’s segmental transcriptions of Karuk are consistent and easily translated into IPA equivalents. For reference, segmental transcriptions used by Harrington, corresponding modern Karuk orthography, and IPA equivalents are given in Table 15.1.¹ Despite indicating some distinctions other transcribers would ignore in a broad transcription (e.g. secondary articulations on consonants, fine length distinctions), this is fairly phonemic and segments are essentially in a one-to-one correspondence with conventional Karuk orthography. For instance, pronunciations of /i/ vary contextually between [i]~ [ɪ], but Harrington writes these the same. He notably does not write devoiced vowels, which are frequent but non-contrastive. One exception is that Harrington typically writes /h/ as word-finally. This is likely because it is often pronounced not as a full [h] but in fact as a light glottal stop in this position. The variability in Harrington’s notations ¹ Long and short vowels are listed separately. Consonant length, indicated in Harrington’s transcriptions by doubled consonants but not indicated in modern orthography, is not included in the table. Harrington’s orthography, including geminate, glottalized, palatalized, and labialized consonants, is reproduced faithfully in examples, but these features are not further discussed in the present study.

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Table 15.1 Comparison of segmental transcriptions Consonants Modern JPH IPA

Vowels Modern JPH

IPA

p t ch k ’ f th s

p t tc k ’ʔ f θ s

p t ʧ k ʔ f θ ʂ~s

i ii ee a aa oo u uu

i iˑ ī eˑ ē aɑ aˑ ɑˑ ɑ¯ oˑ ō u uˑ ū

i iː eː ɑ ɑː oː u uː

sh x h v r y m n

c xq h v r y m n

ʃ x h ʋ~β ɾ j m n

Rare vowels² ii įˑ ã ą ɑ̨ ãã ą ˑ ɑ̨ˑ e ae æ ee ae æˑ

ĩː ɑ̃ ɑ̃ː ε εː

Secondary articulations Cʸ Cʲ Cʷ Cʷ C̓ Cʔ

for a given phoneme in Table 15.1 are simply handwritten vs. typed variations or positional conventions, and do not represent different sounds. Harrington notes that glottal stop symbols vary positionally, and do not mean anything different (Harrington 1932b: xxxiv, first of two fn. 3s, missing from 1932a). It is unclear whether this represents an intentional foray into “phonemic writing”³ or is the result of careful work with his consultants and many rehearings in which something more regular and closer to the underlying form may have surfaced than what he might have transcribed had he only had brief contact with the consultants. Kinkade and Seaburg (1991) criticise his using overpronounced repetition as introducing distortions into the transcription, and observe that his transcriptions for Salishan languages in the early 1940s were far superior to those made three decades prior (countering the notion that his ear was innately ‘perfect’). It is perhaps reassuring that his ear for particular languages improved over ² Nasalized vowels and the open front vowel /ε/ are only found in a handful of interjections and exclamations. ³ For what it’s worth, Harrington uses the label “the Karuk phonems” for the figure following the phonetic key in Harrington (1932a) and (1932b).

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time spent with them. In any case, at the point at which he was preparing texts for publication in 1932, he obviously had a very refined idea of what Karuk sounded like and had developed a consistent system of notation for it. When we turn to the question of prosody, there are a few things of note. First, it is clear from his comparison of Tiwa and Tewa that Harrington has a surprisingly sophisticated understanding of tonal phonology (Harrington 1910). Next, the key to “Diacriticals” that Harrington provides in the published Karuk texts is apparently Karuk-specific, and not a general set that he used for all languages. The significance of this is that it seems he was not attempting to fit the Karuk system into a preconceived notion of accent or tone, but that the categories he marks, while unfamiliar, have in his mind some importance for the Karuk prosodic system. On the one hand, Harrington does have a rather overdifferentiated system of marking pitch on unaccented syllables in a long word (which is predictable based on the word’s accent), and he transcribes prosodic features which can be attributed to intonational phenomena (also often predictable). On the other hand, he seems to distinguish between different types of prosodic features, and he includes information about how the accents behave in the way he writes them, approaching something of a phonemic notation of tone.

15.3 Methodology Data that form the basis for analysis in this chapter were obtained in two phases. First, of the numerous texts transcribed by Harrington, there is only one for which there is an extant recording: a brief text (‘Bluejay Myth’) spoken by Phoebe Maddux in 1929 (Harrington 1929; Maddux 1929). A phonetic analysis of this recording was made and compared with Harrington’s handwritten and typed transcriptions of the same recording (Harrington ca. 1925–1933). This analysis was then compared to a version of the same myth spoken by Nettie Ruben in 1949, which was recorded and transcribed by William Bright (1949), and translated by Karuk elder Vina Smith in 2013 (Davis et al. 2010–2017). Because the texts were similar, in many cases, pronunciations and transcriptions of the same word were able to be compared directly. Comparisons were supplemented with knowledge of expected word accent from present day speakers and contained in Ararahih’urı´pih (Bright and Gehr 2005). Pronunciations and transcriptions were found to be consistent enough to utilize this text as a ‘key’ to Harrington’s transcriptions of Karuk accent. Preliminary results from this research was presented at SSILA (Sandy 2014b). Next, because the Phoebe Maddux text is limited in length and is unlikely to contain all possible prosodic contours, the study was expanded to include transcriptions for which no recordings exist, using the findings from the first part of the study as a key. A sample text from each of Harrington (1930), (1932a), and (1932b)

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were analyzed in detail and compared with the corresponding handwritten notes. These texts were supplemented by less rigorous observations from the balance of these published works. The survey of the additional texts both confirmed the findings from the Maddux text, and displayed a number of additional, less common diacritic combinations. Based on knowledge of expected word prosody in Karuk from descriptions from Bright (1957), Ararahih’urı´pih (Bright and Gehr 2005), and my own fieldwork with Karuk speakers, I was able to make sense of Harrington’s system of diacritics as a whole.

15.4 Accent in Harrington’s orthography 15.4.1 Word prosody in Karuk Karuk word-level prosody can be described as pitch accent, in the sense of a prosodic system with both tone and stress, in which tone has an impoverished distribution. The basic pattern of prosodic prominence is one accent per word, which is a high tone (H) that coincides with stress, and is followed by a low tone (L).⁴ H tone is linked to a single vocalic mora, so the drop from high to low can be a HL contour on a single long vowel, or it can occur across syllable boundaries. A HL contour is not possible on a short vowel. Possible accents are thus HL and H on long vowels, and only H on short vowels. In modern orthography, HL and H are marked with single circumflex and acute diacritics, respectively, as shown in Table 15.2. The entire word is typically characterized by a span of high followed by a span of low, the drop coinciding with the pitch accent, although this entire pattern may not realized on very short words. The pattern can also be affected by phrasal boundary tones (see Section 15.5.2). Stress coincides with the syllable containing the H-tonebearing mora (at the right edge of the H span), when present, thus marking the surface contrastive tone in the word. Table 15.2 Karuk word prosody examples HL on long vowel

H on long vowel

H on short vowel

ûum ‘barely’ pûuvish ‘bag’ uvˆaaram ‘s/he left’

káan ‘there’ púufich ‘deer’ umáahtih ‘s/he saw him’

xúrish ‘shelled acorn’ kúkuum ‘again’ kunímnish ‘they cook’

⁴ A note on terminology: To reduce confusion, I use here the terms acute, grave, circumflex, and so forth to refer to the corresponding diacritic symbols only. I use H and HL to refer to level high and high-low falling tones, or accents, also known in the Karuk literature as ‘acute accent,’ and ‘circumflex accent,’ respectively. High, mid, and low, will refer to pitch, or tone, which may or may not correspond to accented syllables. Unmarked should be taken literally to mean ‘without any diacritic mark.’

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Words may be lexically accented or unaccented.⁵ Unaccented words surface with a final H tone, unless they fall at the right edge of an utterance, in which case they are toneless. In the absence of a surface H tone, stress falls on a long vowel when present, otherwise, stress is final.

15.4.2 Diacritics used by Harrington Harrington uses numerous diacritic marks to represent prosodic features in Karuk. The symbols in Table 15.3 are used most commonly in Harrington’s transcriptions of Karuk, shown with a long /aˑ/ as an example. Additional diacritics not included in Table 15.3 are described in subsequent sections. A phonetic key including ‘diacriticals’ is included in Harrington (1930, 1932a, and 1932b), but the categories and labels provided do not always elucidate how the symbols relate to what is known about Karuk accent. In his key, Harrington separates pitch from tone marking, although what he terms tone appears to primarily indicate a pitch contour (as opposed to level pitch) on a single long vowel, rather any phonemic notion of tone. To further complicate matters, the number of syllables marked can vary widely: in some instances, each syllable has prosodic information marked, in other cases, only a single syllable may be marked. Nonetheless, Harrington is undoubtedly identifying what we would term the accented syllable. For one thing, he always marks the accented syllable in predictable ways which almost always correspond

Table 15.3 Most common diacritics used by Harrington Diacritic

Example

JPH label

Acute Downtack Grave Acute-tilde Inverted breve Acute-inverted breve below length Circumflex below length Apostrophe with echo vowel

áˑ a˕ˑ àˑ á͂ ˑ ȃˑ áˑ̯ aˑ̭ a’ ͣ

high pitch middle pitch low pitch high pitch, falling tone low falling tone high pitch, inlaut form of low falling tone inlaut form of low falling atonic [indicates glottal interruption of vowel; not listed as tone]

⁵ Sandy (2017) and Bright (1957) agree on this point, although details differ; other analyses (e.g. Sandy (2014a), Crowhurst and Macaulay (2007)) propose an underlying L tone. The present study assumes the analysis detailed in Sandy (2017), but the findings here could be equally consistent with another analysis.

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to the expected accent for the word.⁶ For another, his marking of unaccented syllables varies by context. In careful handwritten notes, pitch is written on many, if not most, syllables; in other notes, further elaborating on a word which has already been transcribed, only the accented syllable is marked. In one typed version of notes, all accented and almost no unaccented syllables are marked.

15.4.2.1 Double grave Harrington lists a double grave diacritic under pitch, which he describes as ‘final atonic, lower than ˋ’. I have only found one instance of double grave: ‘evening, in the evening’ (Harrington 1932b: 244). The expected pitch contour on this word is ìkxúràr. This transcription, and any others displaying this diacritic, must certainly represent an unusual pronunciation or special intonational context. Double grave should not be considered to indicate any sort of contrast with a normal low, and will not be discussed further. 15.4.2.2 Circumflex Harrington lists a plain circumflex as ‘low falling atonic’ in his key. Similarly, only one instance has been found of plain circumflex: in (Harrington 1932a: 23), an exclamation which displays unusual phonology in any case. This word is written in a story in Harrington (1930: 149) and in his phonetic keys in Harrington (1932a) and (1932b). In context, we find both ͡ h> in a story in Harrington (1932b: 265). In modern orthography, and 3)-go (e) Xó͂ ˑxhı˕ràk ‘Martins Ferry’ (Phoebe Maddux, KIM-08:6) xôoxhirak ‘Martin’s Ferry’ (placename)

15.4.3.2 Tilde without acute Harrington lists plain tilde as “high or middle falling tone,” although in practice it is almost always combined with the acute diacritic. Tilde does occasionally occur plain, and rarely with a downtack. When this is the only accent in the word (i.e., no other acute or tilde diacritic), it represents HL tone and the accented syllable of the word, at a lower pitch than typical (see 15.5.1.1 for multiple accents).

15.4.4 H accent 15.4.4.1 Acute A syllable bearing H accent receives level high pitch and stress. This accent can fall on a long or a short vowel. H accent is consistently marked with the acute diacritic by Harrington. Examples are given in (2). (2) (a) xúric ‘acorns’ (Phoebe Maddux, PHM:24) xúrish ‘shelled acorn, acorn meat’ (b) ’uθáˑn’iv ‘she was lying there’ (Phoebe Maddux, PHM:12) utháaniv ‘she was lying there’ (Violet Super, VSu-01:4) 3s(>3)-lie (c) kunpı´kkʸa’ ͣ r ‘they went to get her’ (Phoebe Maddux, PHM:5,29) kunpı´kaar ‘they summoned her’ (Nettie Ruben, WB_KL-29:9) 3pl(>3s)-go.get (d) kunʔára˕ˑrahitihanik ‘they were living’ (Phoebe Maddux, PHM:1) kun’áraarahitihanik ‘they lived’ (Mamie Offield, WB_KL-27:31) 3pl(>3s)-live.(pl.)-DUR-ANC ⁷ First line is Harrington’s orthography and gloss, second line is modern Karuk spelling and gloss (from dictionary entry for single lexical items). For morphologically complex words, a text citation is given for the modern Karuk form, and a morphological breakdown is provided below the Karuk forms.

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Syllables preceding the H accent receive high pitch, which can be attributed to H tone spreading leftward. Harrington sometimes marks these high pitch syllables preceding the accent with an acute diacritic as well. The accented syllable is easily recovered in Harrington’s notation, as it always corresponds to the rightmost acute, as shown in (3). (3) (a) yı´ˑmmúsitc ‘not close’ (Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 72) yiimúsich ‘a little ways off ’ (b) ’axpahéˑknı´kin̓atc ‘white lilies’ (Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 72) axpaheeknı´kinach [plant.sp.] (c) tupı´kyáˑnáya˕ˑtcha˕ n̓ìk ‘she finished it out good’ (Phoebe Maddux, KIM-01:12) tupikyaanáyaachha ‘he finished it good’ (Nettie Ruben, WB_KL-34:26) PERF=3s(>3)-finish-DEVERB-Ints-DENOM(-ANC)

15.4.5 Alternating L Unaccented words surface with a final H, unless they fall at the right edge of an intonational phrase, in which case they are toneless. In the absence of a surface H tone, the word is pronounced with low pitch, and stress is final (or falls on a long vowel, if present non-finally). Harrington marks this alternation on final long vowels with the inverted breve.

15.4.5.1 Inverted breve When an unaccented word occurs at the end of an utterance, Harrington writes a long vowel in its final syllable with the inverted breve, as shown in (4).⁸ This notation is also found at the right edge of an intermediate intonational phrase (normally written with a comma or a colon in both Harrington’s and Bright’s notation; context shows these phrases function as syntactically independent clauses). ’uhrȃˑm puxxára yávhitihar̓ a. (4) (a) Puxxára ’ihrú͂ ˑvtı˕hàp ’uhrȃˑm ’uhrȃˑm, puxára ihrûuvtihap uhraam puxára not.for.a.long.time they.don’t.use.it pipe not.for.a.long.time yávhitihara it.is.not.good ‘They do not use a pipe long, it does not last long.’ (Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 163) ⁸ First line is Harrington’s orthography, second line is modern Karuk spelling. Interlinear glosses are Harrington’s when available, otherwise mine. Free translations are Harrington’s.

242

CL ARE S. SANDY (b) Páva káˑ̯ n tu’íˑnváha’ ͣ k, pámitva ’ihẽˑraha’uhθamhiramhan̓ik, vaˑ̭ karu vura kumaté͂ ˑcitc kitc upíˑtfi kʸȃˑn kʸȃˑn, kʸȃˑn xáˑ̭ t vaˑ̭ káˑ̯ n ’ú’ı˕ˑnvà. pávaa káan tu’iinváhaak pámitva NOMZ.so there when.it.burns.over the.former iheeraha’uhthamhı´ramhanik vaa káru vúra kumatêechich kı´ch tobacco.plot.place.ANC so also Ints later.DIM just upı´iftih kaan xáat vaa káan u’ı´inva it.grows.back there even.if that there it.burns.over ‘And when it burns over at the former planting plots, it just grows up all the more again too, even though it burns over.’ (Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 80)

Phonetically, these syllables have low pitch, are stressed, and are not glottalized. There may be some fall in pitch across the syllable, but the fall is not salient, and some sound level in pitch. These are the expected characteristics for utterancefinal low pitch and stress in unaccented words. The plain inverted breve is only found in this intonational-phrase-final context, so we can be sure Harrington is specifically marking L tone plus stress (or L accent) with this diacritic. Unaccented words are relatively uncommon, and even more so at the end of an intonational phrase, so examples of this marking are likewise uncommon. No examples of prepausal unaccented words containing non-final long vowels have been found.

15.4.5.2 Acute with inverted breve Unaccented words, when not followed by a pause, receive a final H postlexically. Phonetically, these final syllables receive level high pitch with stress, and are indistinguishable from any other H accent. Nevertheless, Harrington writes these accents differently on long vowels. While a normal underlying or derived H is written with a plain acute accent, those that alternate with L prepausally are written with acute over the vowel and an inverted breve below the length dot, as shown in (5).⁹ (5) (a) Yı´θθa ’uhráˑ̯ ’uhráˑ̯m m vúra taˑy pamutáˑvé͂ ’ ͤ p. yı´tha uhráam vúra taay pamutaavêep one pipe Ints many the.its.whittlings ‘One pipe makes lots of whittlings.’ (Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 139)

⁹ Use of the inverted breve below length only in combination with an acute on the vowel is very consistent in Harrington (1932a) and (1932b). However, there are several exceptions in Harrington (1930) where an inverted breve below length in the final syllable is combined with accent elsewhere in the word. These can be seen in the notes corresponding to this publication, so it is not due to a typesetting error. Harrington is apparently marking something which he heard as more stressed than “final atonic” (circumflex mark). This is not found in the later published texts, so while these could be exceptional phonetically, they also could represent a distinction he later decided was not one he wanted to make.

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(b) ’uˑm karu káˑ̯ káˑ̯nn ’úkriˑ̭ katcaká͂ ˑtcit̓c. kachakˆaachich uum káru káan úkrii 3.SG also there she.was.living bluejay.DIM ‘Bluejay was also living there.’ (Phoebe Maddux, PHM:3)

15.4.5.3 Inflected verbs In the vast majority of inflected forms, accent is non-final. However, in a few words, comprised of an underlyingly unaccented monosyllabic root and a prefix which cannot bear accent, default accent must fall on the root, resulting in surface word-final accent. These words follow the same pattern described above: the final syllable receives H when non-prepausal, but receives a stressed, non-glottalized L when at the right edge of an intonational phrase. As shown in (6–7), Harrington uses the same inverted breve notation to mark the same alternation in these words. (6) Utterance-final (a) xas ’u’ȗˑm ’u’ȗˑm. ’u’ȗˑm xás u-’uum then 3s(>3)-arrive ‘Then she reached there.’

(Phoebe Maddux, PHM:11)

̑̑ (b) Pihnı͂́ ˑtc mú’arama xákkaˑ̭ n kunʔ iˑn. kunʔiˑn iˑn pihnîich mú-’arama xákaan kun-’iin old.man 3s.POSS-child together 3pl(>3s)-(two).be.living ‘The Old Man [Turtle] lived with his child [boy].’ (Imkʸ ánva’ ͣ n, KT-4:3) ̑̑ ’uppiˑp iˑp (c) ‘Tcæ˕m̓,” ’upp iˑp. chaem u-piip all.right 3s(>3)-say ‘“All right,” she said.’

(Imkʸ ánva’ ͣ n, KT 160)

(7) Non-prepausal (a) Vı´ri póˑ’úˑ̯ póˑ’úˑ̯m m Pakahyúr̓ as. vı´ri pa=u-’úum pa=kahyúras then.it.was NOMZ=3s(>3)-arrive.at DET=Klamath.Lakes ‘Then he got to Klamath Lakes.’ (Imkʸ ánva’ ͣ n, KT 138) (b) Yuptcúkkı˕na˕nàtc múttcaˑ̭ s xákkaˑ̭ n kunʔı kunʔı´´ˑ̯ˑ̯nn ’A kvı´ˑccit̓c. yupchúkinanach mú-chaas xákaan panther.DIM 3sPOSS-younger.brother together kun-’ı´in akvı´ishich 3pl(>3)-(two).be.living wildcat.DIM ‘His [little Panther’s] brother, Wildcat, was staying with him.’ (Imkʸánva’ ͣ n, KT 128)

244

CL ARE S. SANDY p “Tcǽm̓,” pamú’arama pa’ifáppı˕ttit̓c. (c) ’Uppı ’Uppı´´ˑ̯ˑ̯pp: u-pı´ip cháem pa=mú-’arama pa=’ifápiitich 3s(>3)-say all.right DET=3s.POSS-child NOMZ=young.woman.DIM ‘She said: “All right,” his girl daughter did.’ (Imkʸánva’ ͣ n, KT 160)

There are even instances where Harrington uses the acute-breve notation in further suffixed forms, as shown in (8), apparently signaling the underlying status of the root which displays alternation only when final. mmánik ’astı̑ ˑp. (8) Xas ’u’úˑ̯ ’u’úˑ̯mmánik xás u-’uum-ánik astiip then 3s(>3)-arrive-ANC riverbank ‘Then he got to the river’s edge.’

(Phoebe Maddux, KIM 7)

15.4.5.4 Short vowels Word-final short vowels in unaccented words receive either L or H just as long vowels in the same position do, but the tone is likely to be less salient due to the lack of length on the short vowels. Harrington does not normally mark what he terms ‘tone’ on short vowels, so an unaccented word containing no long vowels might simply be unmarked if neither tone nor stress are salient. Utterance-final examples with unmarked and marked final low are given in (9) and (10), respectively. (9) Patakunikyá͂ ˑvicahaˑ̭ k paxavicʔúhra’ ͣ m, takuníkpa˕ˑksùr paxxavicʔásxaˑ̭ y ’icvit ’icvit. ’icvit patakunikyˆaavishahaak paxavish’úhraam takunı´kpaaksur when.they.are.going.to.make the.arrowwood.pipe they.cut.it.off.(straight) paxavish’ásxaay ishvit. NOMZ.green.arrowwood piece ‘When they are going to make an arrowwood pipe, they cut off a piece of the green arrowwood.’ (Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 138) ìcvìt (10) Vá͂ ˑram poˑhráˑ̯ m pakaʔtimʔ ı̃ ˑnʔúhra’ ͣ m, yiθa’àˑksìp kár ìcvìt ìcvìt. vˆaaram poohráam paka’tim’iin’úhraam, yithá’aaksip kár ishvit. long the.pipe the.Katimin.pipe one.span and half ‘The Katimin pipe is a long pipe, a span and a half long’ (Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 164) Harrington does not mark the H~L alternation on short vowels, but simply uses an acute accent to indicate a final H on a short vowel in an underlyingly unaccented word, as shown in (10). However, these words are commonly unmarked even when non-prepausal, indicating a lack of prosodic prominence in context. icvı´´tt vaˑ̭ vura kı´tc kunpikyáyı˕mmu˕tì’. (11) …’iθa’àˑksìp kar icvı ithá’aaksip kár ishvı´t vaa vúra kı´ch kunpikyáyimutih one.span and half thus Ints just they.make.them.long ‘…1½ spans is as big as they make them.’ (Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 158)

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In one notable case, Harrington does use the inverted breve on a short vowel (11). The word is repeated in two sentences in sequence, with the same marking, so it does not appear to constitute a typographical error. Interestingly, this is one of the few forms in which a word-final short vowel ever receives accent (due to the stem and prefix combination). Harrington does not always note this (cf. uxxus, a similar morphological combination), but the unusual final prominence in this word must have been particularly salient to bear noting in this manner. tanimmȃ (12) ’iθriha’urúkkuˑ̭ tanimmȃ tanimmȃ. ithriha-’urúkuu ta=ni-mah flower-bud PERF=1s(>3)-see ‘I see a flower bud.’

(Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 56)

15.5 Additional prosodic information in Harrington’s transcriptions 15.5.1 Polysyllabic accented words The pattern of a span of H followed by a drop to L described in 15.4.1 is a bit of a simplification. Once the placement and type of word accent is identified, the phonetic details of pitch on the remaining syllables are predictable and therefore unnecessary to write in a phonemically based orthography. For purposes of pronunciation, however, the more nuanced phonetic details are quite useful. In this section, I describe the pitch patterns in polysyllabic accented words and demonstrate how Harrington transcribes them.¹⁰ As previously mentioned, each word will have one H tone, followed by L. The somewhat complicated pattern of other pitches described in detail by Bright (1957), as summarized here, is clearly audible in recordings. Syllables preceding the accent receive high pitch (which can be attributed to H tone spreading leftward). The exception is that an initial syllable containing a short vowel is always low (due to a boundary tone). Harrington marks long vowels preceding the accent as high, but normally leaves short vowels unmarked, as shown in (13). The initial low is also almost always unmarked by Harrington. (13) (a) yı´ˑmmúsitc ‘not close’ yı´´ımúúsìch (b) ’uxʷéˑttcı´tchiti’ ‘it is made softer’ ùxéétch´ı´ıchhitih

(Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 72) (Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 73)

¹⁰ In this section only, pitch is marked on each vowel of the modern Karuk orthographic line. Here, acute indicates high pitch, no marking indicates mid pitch, and grave indicates low pitch. Underlining indicates stress (accented syllable).

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CL ARE S. SANDY (c)

aθiθxuntáppan ‘hazel nuts’ àthı´thxúntáápàn

(Phoebe Maddux, PHM:34)

Final syllables in a word with accent elsewhere always receive low pitch. In long enough words, the following additional patterns are observed (see (14) for corresponding examples): (a) (b) (c) (d) (e) (14)

A syllable with a short vowel following a H has low pitch. A syllable with a long vowel following a H has mid pitch. A syllable directly following HL has mid pitch. A syllable two syllables after H has mid pitch. Any subsequent syllables after the accent have low pitch. (a) poˑkyı´vìcrı˕hà’ ͣ k ‘if it drops’ (Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 65) póóky´ı´ıvìshrihààk (b) tupuxʷı´tckʸa˕ˑn’va ‘she was [dancing] so hard’ tùpúx´ı´ıchkaanvà (Phoebe Maddux, PHM:18) (c) Pa’araramá͂ ˑkka˕mninay ‘at places up back of the people’s rancherias’ áà pà’árárámáà áàkamnìnày (Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 64) ˕ ˕ (d) tu’arárıˑhkʸaˑnha’ ‘she got well’ (Phoebe Maddux, PHM:36) tù’árááriihkanhà (e) tcántca˕ˑfku˕nìcàs ‘white (pl.)’ (Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 55) cháánchaafkunìshàs

Harrington consistently marks mid pitch¹¹ in exactly the contexts described here, although it is occasionally omitted. He occasionally marks low pitch on a short vowel between accented high and mid, but more often leaves this syllable unmarked. He often marks low pitch in syllables following a mid pitch, while a uniform series of lows following the accented syllable is generally left unmarked. The vast majority of long words follow this complex yet consistent pattern in Harrington’s notation, and clearly display the expected word prosody. Where diacritics on unaccented syllables are omitted, it seems safe to assume that the syllables are simply unstressed and unremarkable in pitch excursion. In a normal speaking pace, these vowels can be extremely short, even elided, and/or devoiced. The fact that unaccented long vowels are more often given some diacritic than not could mean that long vowels attract some degree of stress even when not bearing primary word stress, or that being longer, they are easier to detect a particular pitch on, or both. According to Harrington’s key, “short or level” tones are unmarked. ¹¹ Harrington (1930) uses a vertical line to represent mid pitch, which is in practice rather difficult to distinguish from the acute and grave accents when typeset. In later publications, this difficulty is remedied by replacing the vertical line with a downtack (resembling a “lowering” T symbol), which is what he uses throughout his handwritten notes to indicate mid pitch. I reproduce both these marks with the downtack.

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15.5.1.1 Unexpected tilde notation Some words show an additional tilde diacritic on a long vowel to the left of a HL or H accent (15). I presume that the rightmost H (indicated by either acute or acutetilde) is the accented syllable. Pre-accentual tildes often, though not always, lack the acute diacritic. This pattern usually occurs in words that are understood to be compounds, with the leftmost tilde indicating what would be HL on the prepound when uncompounded. It is unclear whether this is primarily indicating the underlying status of this word as independently bearing HL accent, or whether the HL is still audible in the first part of the compound even though the postpound bears primary word accent. My suspicion is that it is the latter. While Bright’s convention of words being defined by a maximum of one accent still holds in today’s Karuk orthography, there are cases where native speaker intuitions and morphosyntax both point to the existence of words that include two accented syllables. It may also be that older pronunciations of compounds reflect less phonological integration between the parts. (15) (a) ’ihẽˑrahası´pnu’ ͧ k iheerahası´pnuuk ihêeraha tobacco ‘tobacco basket’ (b) ’ihẽˑrahapú͂ ˑv̓ic iheerahapûuvish ihêeraha tobacco ‘tobacco bag’

sı´pnuuk basket (Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 45)

pûuvish bag (Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 271)

15.5.2 Utterance-final effects Intonational phrase-final effects in Karuk involve, generally, L tone and glottalization, although the phonetic realization depends on syllable structure and accentuation.

15.5.2.1 Unaccented words As mentioned in 15.4.5, words that are otherwise unaccented receive L tone and stress on a final vowel when utterance-final, but receive a default final H tone nonprepausally. 15.5.2.2 Unaccented syllables Unaccented final syllables in words that bear accent elsewhere receive low pitch (but are unstressed). When utterance-final, short vowels may additionally be devoiced or whispered, and long vowels are glottalized.

248

CL ARE S. SANDY

As noted in 15.5.1, Harrington sometimes marks word-final unaccented short vowels with a grave accent, otherwise they are unmarked. The distinction is inconsistent and does not seem to correlate with finality in an utterance. Harrington writes unaccented, utterance-final long vowels with glottal interruption, that is, as a vowel with an echo vowel after a glottal mark, as shown in (16). These same vowels in non-prepausal position are written with a circumflex below the length mark, as shown in (17). (16) (a) Vaˑ̭ ’uˑ̭ m pavura yá͂ ˑkícci’ ͥ ppakáˑ̯ n ’ikʸukáttay, vaˑ̭ ’uˑ̭ m taˑ̭ y ’ámta’ ’ámta’ ͣpͣp, ́ peˑkʸukáttaˑ̭ y tu’ínkʸáha’ ͣ k vaˑ̭ ’uˑ̭ m taˑ̭ y pa’ámtaˑ̭ p ’a͂pun. vaa uum pavúra yaakı´shiip pakáan ikukátaay, vaa so 3.SG NOMZ.Ints best.place NOMZ.there many.logs so uum taay ámtaap, peekukátaay tu’iinkáhaak vaa 3.SG much ashes NOMZ.many.logs when.it.has.burned so uum taay pa’ámtaap aˆ apun. 3.SG much the.ashes on.the.ground ‘It is the best place if there are lots of logs there, for there are lots of ashes; where lots of logs burned there are lots of ashes.’ (Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 64) (b) ’Uxxús: “Tcı´mikʸánʔaˑssic ’ó͂ ˑ̭ k peˑkmahátcra’ peˑkmahátcra’ ͣ m ͣ m. uxús chı´mi kán’aasish ôok peekmaháchraam he.thought soon let.me.lie.down here the.sweathouse ‘He thought: “Let me lie down here, in the sweathouse.” ’ (Phoebe Maddux, KIM-8:9) (17) (a) ámtaˑ̭ ámtaˑ̭pp tu’ı´ˑvtap̓. ámtaap tu’ı´ivtap ashes were.on.her ‘she had put ashes on her blanket’

(Phoebe Maddux, PHM:8)

’ikmahátcraˑ̭m m ’u’ı´ˑkra’. (b) Yánava kaˑ̯ n ’ikmahátcraˑ̭ yánava káan ikmaháchraam u’ı´ikra visible there sweathouse it.is.standing ‘Behold he saw a sweathouse standing there.’

(Phoebe Maddux, KIM-8:7)

Harrington uses the circumflex to indicate what he terms “low falling atonic,” the version under the length dot being the “inlaut form.” These syllables are low in pitch, although a fall is not particularly notable on these syllables; perhaps a typical pitch lowering at the end of a word and/or anticipating a following low. Crucially, these syllables are unstressed, which Harrington indicates with his “atonic” designation, in contrast with those word-final syllables marked with either the inverted

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breve or the acute-tilde. Further, by using the “inlaut” designation, Harrington explicitly ties this subpattern to the non-prepausal context.

15.5.2.3 Accented syllables Words that bear accent on their final syllable also display effects of the intonational phrase-final L boundary tone. Non-prepausally, HL accent is characterized by falling pitch and stress, without any glottalization. Before pause, HL retains its pitch features, but gains a glottal interruption of the vowel. Harrington combines the acute-tilde diacritic with the glottal interruption in the vowel to show this, as in (18). (18) (a) Viri uˑ̭ m vur ’u’ı´hivrik yúhihmu mú͂ ͂́ ’’ ͧ ͧ kk, k ’ı´ˑ̭ v ’umáhavrı˕kti’. vı´ri uum vúra u’ı´hivrik yuhih mûuk so 3.SG Ints he.answered Yurok.language with iiv umahavriktih he.is.unable.to.endure.it ‘He answered as if he was sick, groaningly.’ (Phoebe Maddux, KIM-08:19) ’axvá͂ ́͂ ’’ ͣ ͣ (b) ’axva axvˆaah

‘head’ [citation form]

(Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 56)

Non-prepausally, H in the final syllable of a polysyllabic word is expected to bear level high pitch, without glottalization. Bright (1957) describes final H becoming HL falling pitch with glottal interruption of the vowel before pause, thus merging with HL accent in this context. However, words with this expected accentuation are vanishingly rare, and no examples of this pattern have yet been found transcribed by Harrington.

15.5.3 Monosyllabic words Monosyllabic words with long vowels display at least three distinct accentual patterns. First, they can bear HL accent, and follow the same pattern for HL accent and notation as described in 15.4.3 and 15.5.2 (see 1(a), for example). Next, one set of monosyllables clearly follows the pattern for underlyingly unaccented words described in 15.4.5, that is, H unless utterance final (including in isolation), in which case they surface as stressed L. These are written with the inverted breve diacritic by Harrington (see 4(b) and (5)(b), for example). In a third set of monosyllables, the words have HL falling pitch, stress, and glottal interruption of the vowel when pronounced in isolation, but in all other contexts, the words are unaccented (i.e., low pitch, unstressed, glottalized) on the surface. The former are written as long vowels with a glottal interruption by

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Harrington, as shown in (19). The latter are written with the circumflex below length diacritic, as shown in (20). sa’ ͣ n ͣn (19) (a) sa’ sáan ‘leaf; maple tree’ [citation form] (Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 52) (b) ’u’ ’u’ ͧ ͧ hh úuh ‘old name for tobacco’ [citation form] (Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 51) saˑ̭nn múpsi’ ͥ (20) (a) saˑ̭ saan múpsiih maple.leaf its.foot ‘maple leaf stem’ pá’uˑ̭ (b) pá’uˑ̭hh pá’uuh the.tobacco ‘tobacco’

(Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 53, fn. 32)

(Phoebe Maddux, TKIC 244)

Bright (1957) labels this group ‘acute accent’ (reflected in the modern Karuk glosses), despite their never actually surfacing with H accent. Indeed, the alternation seen in these monosyllabic words parallels that seen in word-final syllables in otherwise ‘acute-accented’ words (as in 15.5.2.2). Whatever the best analysis of the underlying tonal structure of these words may be, in principle, they are phonetically identical to HL monosyllables when pronounced in isolation. Yet they are written distinctly by Harrington, maintaining the three-way contrast in monosyllables in his notation.

15.6 Anomalies and intonation 15.6.1 Discourse markers and function words Discourse markers and function words with no long vowels are marked variably in context by Harrington. According to Bright (1957), these surface with H in context (either due to underlying penultimate accent, or to underlyingly unaccented monosyllabic words gaining H when non-prepausal). While this accentuation is possible, the rigid description of accentuation stems more from requirements of Bright’s morphophonemic analysis of accent than phonetic reality. In actuality, these discourse markers and function words are often unstressed, as might be expected. (Content words, by contrast, always have a stressed syllable.) In Harrington’s notation, these words may be marked acute, grave, or unmarked. When unmarked, they may have high or low pitch in context, but are without intensity, as in (21–22).

RECOVERING PROSODY FROM KARUK TE XTS (21) karixas karixas ’uppı̑ ˑp: kári xas upiip then then she.said ‘Then she said:’

251

(Phoebe Maddux, PHM:21)

tcavura pá͂ ˑnpay tcimaxmay yı´θθ ukúha. (22) tcavura chavúra pˆaanpay chı´m axmay yı´th ukúha then after.a.while all.at.once one he.got.sick ‘Then all at once one of the people got sick’ (Phoebe Maddux, PHM:2) Harrington’s and Bright’s transcriptions of discourse markers and function words with a single long vowel, such as the highly frequent words in (23), agree. Following the pattern described for the last set of words in 15.5.3, Bright labels these underlying ‘acute-accented,’ thus losing accent in context, and surfacing unstressed; Harrington marks these with the circumflex-below-length diacritic indicating unstressed low pitch. (23) ’uˑ̭ ’uˑ̭m m vúra vaˑ̭ vaˑ̭ pày takunʔáppur̓ . uum vúra vaa páy takunápur her indeed thus there they.are.bewitching.her ‘Someone is bewitching her.’ (Phoebe Maddux, PHM:23)

15.6.2 Discrepancies and anomalous pronunciations Based on the preceding interpretations of Harrington’s notation, the vast majority of his transcriptions match expected accentuation and intonation for Karuk words and sentences. Taking the different strategy for transcribing function words into account, there are only a handful of words with discrepancies between Harrington’s transcription and expected accentuation in the 42-line text with audio. Some unexpected accentual notation is clearly an attempt at accurate transcription of an unusual or variable pronunciation. The traditional opening of a story, uknîi, has unique accentuation (rise-fall-rise) and unusual length. Words with unusual segmental qualities and/or pitch contours pose challenges for transcription. Harrington uses the inverted breve for this word (and in one instance, adds three length dots in a little cascade). This should not be considered a discrepancy, then, but rather a decision to describe a unique word using a relatively limited set of diacritics. One of the unexpected transcriptions in the Phoebe Maddux recording uses the inverted breve on káan ‘there’ non-prepausally (17b). In this position, the word is expected to bear H tone, and Harrington would normally transcribe it with the acute-breve combination. This instance is an unusual pronunciation of this word, however, with a drawn out vowel and with a bit of a pitch fall and rise, which

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might be attibuted to the storyteller’s dramatic intonation. Harrington appears to be indicating the unusual pronunciation with this diacritic. It seems reasonable to assume that in other rare instances where the inverted breve is found intonationphrase-medially, it indicates an unusual pitch contour. In another instance, expected pakúhar ‘the sick one’ is written , and the marked syllable is indeed high pitch. Harrington notes that it is “raised from ˋˋˋ ”. Here Harrington is accurately representing an unusual accentuation (again, likely due to intonation used for emphasis). The final instance is an actual discrepancy, in which the function word pay ‘that’, expected páy in context, is written (23). It sounds high or perhaps mid, so Harrington’s transcription may be intending to call out some contrast I am unaware of, or represents an error. These cases are so few that it is possible to confidently translate Harrington’s notation into contemporary marking of accent, and also to glean interesting and useful intonational details in instances where there are divergences.

15.7 Conclusion Harrington’s system of diacritic notation for Karuk, while seemingly impenetrable at first glance, corresponds quite well to the known patterns of word and phrasal prosody in Karuk. A summary of correspondences is given in Table 15.4. The diacritics listed in Table 15.4 make up the vast majority of those seen in Harrington’s transcriptions. When other combinations occur (for instance, an added or missing pitch notation), their meaning is usually clear. Harrington sometimes overspecifies pitch on syllables for which it could be predicted by context, and is also sensitive to situations in which pitch on a given syllable may be higher or lower than normal due to effects of surrounding tones or unusual intonation. Nonetheless, both pitch and stress are reliably marked, and accent is readily retrievable in almost all cases.

Table 15.4 Summary of correspondences Accentuation

JPH diacritic

accented H; pre-accent H accented HL stressed final L~H post-accent mid unaccented low unaccented final low

áˑ á á͂ ˑ áˑ̯ a˕ˑ a˕ à aˑ̭

Prepausal form á͂ ’ ͣ ȃˑ

a’ ͣ

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Of particular note for linguistic analysis, despite the meticulous phonetic detail—or rather, in addition to it—Harrington incorporates an abstract level of representation in his prosodic transcription of Karuk that is not strictly necessary in a purely phonetic representation. To wit, he indicates a tonal alternation with the inverted breve notation, preserves a three-way accentual contrast on monosyllabic words, and recognizes and approaches a unification of utterance-final effects with his “inlaut” distinction. Thus for a linguist who professes little interest or aptitude in phonemics, he certainly appears to have some strong phonological insights. The phonetic detail of these prosodic transcriptions is not to be dismissed, however. While overdifferentiated distinctions can be distracting, even confusing, this level of precision for pitch contours, intonation, and segment quality in speech we will never be able to hear a recording of is an extraordinary resource. When one is familiar with the rhythm and melody of spoken Karuk, Harrington provides enough detail to actually hear it in one’s mind, which is truly remarkable, especially considering the volumes of language Phoebe Maddux and others preserved through his notes.

16 Stylistic differentiation in California Dene texts Justin Spence

16.1 Introduction For the first three decades of the twentieth century, the main body of scholarship pertaining to the Dene (Athabaskan) languages of northwestern California was based on the painstaking work of master speakers in consultation with Pliny Earle Goddard.¹ These collaborations led to a number of important contributions to early Americanist linguistics (Golla 2003), among which is a collection of Wailaki texts dictated by Captain Jim during Goddard’s visits to the Round Valley Indian Reservation in 1901 and 1906. In a brief introduction to the published collection, Goddard (1923a) remarks on “the peculiar dramatic form in which they are recorded” and the fact that a similar style was also found in some of the neighboring Dene languages. Elsewhere, in an unpublished set of free translations of the same texts, Goddard elaborates on Captain Jim’s stylistic repertoire (extrapolating to Wailaki storytellers as a whole): The Wailaki employ two forms for their narratives: one with the usual quotatives, the other wholly dramatic. Some of the tales were taken in the first form in 1901, and in the second, in 1906. Even the first type is strongly dramatic since the story is conveyed by dialogue and monologue, but the phrase ‘they say’ is used after practically every sentence…. This dramatic style is common to the Athapascan tribes of Northwestern California except for those speaking Hupa and the allied dialects of Redwood Creek and lower Mad River [Chilula and Whilkut]. (Goddard 1922: 21) ¹ This research was funded in part by a grant from the National Science Foundation’s Documenting Endangered Languages program (BCS#1500851) and a Hellman Foundation fellowship. Thanks are due to the audience at the 2018 Dene Languages Conference for helpful questions and comments. Dene (vs. “Athabaskan”) is becoming the preferred term for the language family based on cognates meaning ‘person’ found in many of the languages. “Cahto” (vs. “Kato”) is the preferred spelling in the contemporary community and will be used here, except in direct quotations from other sources. For Wailaki and Cahto, original transcriptions are retained. Hupa words are generally rendered in the practical orthography of Golla (1996) regardless of source, except where details of original transcriptions are important. Some renderings of transcriptions drawn from field notebooks are uncertain and should be treated as provisional. Some interlinear glosses have been lightly edited for clarity. Page numbers for archival materials refer to digital copies of documents, usually via a microfilm intermediary such that page numbers also index frame numbers on corresponding reels. Justin Spence, Stylistic differentiation in California Dene texts. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Justin Spence (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0016

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Three points in the published and unpublished descriptions of Captain Jim’s distinct narrative styles (“forms”) are noteworthy: first, that they can be distinguished from one another in part by formal criteria such as the presence vs. absence of a quotative marker; second, that one of the styles conforms to expectations insofar as the quotative is “usual,” whereas the other style is “peculiar;” and third, that narrative conventions in different speech communities in northern California can be more or less similar to one another with regard to such features—that is, narrative styles can be considered a site of cross-linguistic comparison. Assumptions similar to Goddard’s, and responses thereto, guided the next century of comparative research on Native American oral literature and performance, summarized in Kinkade and Mattina (1996). Re-casting Goddard’s early insights in terms of more recent approaches to understanding the relationship between text genres and linguistic form, the present chapter is a preliminary exploration of stylistic features found in texts in Hupa, Wailaki, and Cahto, the three California Dene languages for which substantial text documentation is available.² The chapter is primarily descriptive, seeking to identify specific stylistic parameters that differentiate text genres in these languages, especially ones that can facilitate comparison of broadly similar genres both among the California Dene languages and with respect to other language families in the region.³ This last point is especially important: Goddard is explicit in suggesting that Cahto people’s “friendly contact with their Pomo neighbors and their necessary, if unwilling, contact with the Yuki peoples to the east and west resulted in considerable assimilation, undoubtably mutual, in matters of folklore and culture” (1909: 67). Goddard primarily had the content of narratives and the cosmologies they reflect in mind rather than matters of linguistic form per se, but his discussion implies that some aspects of Cahto storytelling traditions in the early twentieth century transcended the boundaries of tribal organization defined in part by descent-based linguistic relationships. This is akin to what today would be identified as language contact ² A number of published and unpublished sources have been consulted for this study, although only a subset will be discussed explicitly here. For Hupa, this includes Goddard (1904) and associated field notes (Goddard 1901–1906); Sapir and Golla (2001), based on Sapir’s fieldwork in 1927; and Goddard (1914), which contains texts for Chilula, one of the “allied dialects” of Hupa mentioned by Goddard (1922) in the paragraph cited above. Wailaki material includes Goddard (1923a) and associated field notes (Goddard 1901–1908); an unpublished collection dictated by John Tip to Fang-Kuei Li in 1927, two of which were published as Seaburg (1977a, b); and typescripts for the Lassik (Goddard 1905b) and Nongatl (Goddard n.d.) dialects. Cahto, the southernmost of the California Dene languages, is represented in a collection of texts told by Bill Ray, published as Goddard (1909). All of the foregoing collections were transcribed prior to 1930. Occasional reference will also be made to more recent Hupa texts by Mrs. Verdena Parker, many of which are still unpublished but with some transcriptions available through a searchable web-based interface (Hupa Online Dictionary and Texts 2008–2023). Readers are referred to Golla (2011: 76–82) for an overview of each language, the geographic distribution of their dialects, and the status of their documentation. ³ There is also the possibility of comparing features in the California Dene languages with Dene languages in other regions of North America, although naturally the time depth would be much greater and diachronic implications therefore more tenuous.

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effects and can therefore be understood in terms of Conathan’s (2004) theory of functional convergence: contact-induced similarities of linguistic subsystems at the level of semantics and discourse. The discussion draws on the theory of discourse genres developed in Hanks (2010, ch. 4). Especially important are what he calls stylistic differentiation (constellations of formal exponents that are typically encountered in particular genres), indexical centering (whereby anchors for deictic references are established), and metalinguistic labeling (words denoting discourse genres). Following Lovick’s (2012) study of narrative genres in Upper Tanana, a Dene language of eastern Alaska, I am adopting a fairly informal definition of terms such as “genre” and “style.” I focus primarily on genres that are sometimes called traditional (prayers, medicine formulas, and myths) because they are especially well-represented in California Dene text collections, but other genres (personal anecdotes, ethnographic descriptions of cultural practices) are invoked at appropriate moments as well. I do not assume that genres previously identified with English metalinguistic labels are valid a priori, but I will use them heuristically as the starting point for analysis. In keeping with many contemporary theoretical approaches that consider genres to be “porous categories” (Harris 1995) or tendential “good habits” (Pavel 2003), I do not consider individual stylistic exponents to be strict requirements for membership in a genre, nor do I consider stylistic exponents of different genres to be mutually exclusive. One advantage of Hanks’ framework is that it allows for flexibility in this regard: a given text might resemble exemplars of a particular genre more with regard to some parameters and less with regard to others, with deviations from the norm being as informative as more prototypical cases. For the most part I am avoiding obvious issues related to the nature of the source materials themselves, especially how representative they are of discursive practices in their respective speech communities when they were created. Of the languages under consideration here, Hupa is by far the most extensively documented, with 15 speakers represented in Goddard (1904) and Sapir and Golla (2001), and three others for the Chilula dialect (Goddard 1914). By contrast, Goddard obtained texts from exactly one speaker of Wailaki (Captain Jim), Cahto (Bill Ray), Lassik (Mary Wellburn), and Nongatl (Van Duzen Pete); only for Wailaki is an additional source of text material available that can corroborate details of Goddard’s work. Thus, although Goddard might have been comfortable generalizing from individual speakers to communities as a whole, as he did in his creative leap from Captain Jim to “the Wailaki” in the passage cited above, it is unclear whether this assumption is wholly justified (Kroeber 1967). Nonetheless, positive attestations of stylistic features from even a single speaker of a language or dialect can render generalizations of this sort at least plausible. On a related note, important issues surrounding the ecological validity of texts dictated to professional academics from outside a community will largely be sidestepped here. At a bare minimum, this could affect aspects of linguistic

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form, such as distortions due to the slow rate of speech required for handwritten dictation by a non-speaker (Kinkade and Mattina 1996: 153), selective omissions on the part of speakers reflecting ideological stances that can be magnified in linguistic fieldwork settings (Hill 1994), or points of variation introduced or erased due to editorial interventions on the part of interpreters or the researchers themselves.⁴ But the more fundamental issues discussed in the literature are the extent to which researchers such as Goddard imposed their own biases in making decisions about how to transcribe, translate, publish, and analyze the texts that were provided to them (see Hegeman 1989, Briggs and Bauman 1999). These considerations are not irrelevant and are discussed in passing as needed. However, California Native scholars such as Miranda (2013), Bauer (2016), Risling-Baldy (2018), and Sarmento (2021), while grappling honestly with the problematic nature of the salvage mode of linguistic and ethnographic research typical of the twentieth century, tend to emphasize the agency of the speakers whose stories are represented in text collections like the ones considered here. Accordingly, simply dismissing such collections as inauthentic does a disservice to the language experts who had the patience to undertake this kind of work, and in some cases the foresight to recognize that doing so would help ensure that their stories would continue to be heard by future generations. That is, despite these texts collections’ many imperfections and the complex histories of academic engagement with Native American communities they reflect, the discussion here proceeds from the perspective that “valuable contextual information is retrievable from these materials, and inferences about discourse can be made from this information” (Kinkade and Mattina 1996: 246).

16.2 Hupa ch’ixolchwe:, mich’ing’-ch’ixine:wh, and k’ima:w The starting point for the discussion will be Hupa, the California Dene language with the most extensive documentation and secondary descriptive literature. Published collections of Hupa texts are organized into sections that partially correspond to genres identified with English metalinguistic labels. The Hupa Texts (1904), based on Goddard’s extensive fieldwork with several Hupa speakers, is divided into three sections: “Myths and Tales,” “Texts Related to the Dances and Feasts,” and “Formulas of Private Medicines.” Goddard offers justifications for these divisions based in part on aspects of the content of the texts (1904: 92– 93): The first section includes one “creation myth” and several stories featuring “important personages in Hupa mythology,” whereas stories in the second section concern “the origins and purposes of [Hupa] great religious ceremonies.” He also ⁴ See Spence (2013, ch. 3) for discussion of the role of the interpreter in the transcription of the Chilula Texts (Goddard 1914).

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offers criteria based on aspects of how the stories are intended to be received by an audience (reflecting the reception format of genres discussed by Hanks 2010: 102). Some stories in the first section are “deemed … to be worthy of serious consideration,” and others are “evidently intended to teach a moral.” Texts in the third section, the medicine formulas, have in common the fact that they “exert their power” in various ways to the benefit of those who recite them—that is, they all have the ability to produce particular effects in the world.⁵ Other labels reflecting genre classifications such as “prayer” are applied directly to the titles of individual texts (Prayer of the Priest at the Jumping Dance told by Senaxon, Goddard 1904: 228), or in English headings embedded within certain texts (a section labeled “The Prayer” in Emma Lewis’ Formula of the Rain Rock Medicine, Goddard 1904: 270– 274). The collection published as Sapir and Golla (2001) has a similar, if slightly more nuanced, organization. Problems associated with the blind application of English metalinguistic labels to Native American texts have been discussed in the literature at least since Boas (1914), especially the extent to which such labels reflect Indigenous peoples’ understandings of their own discourse practices, a point emphasized by Lovick (2012) for Upper Tanana. However, some of the labels that have been applied to Hupa texts do appear to be justified in part by the existence of roughly analogous terms in the Hupa language itself. One of the most prominent of these is ch’ixolchwe:, which refers to a time when the world was still being prepared for people, or a story set in that period: here, the metalinguistic label for the genre is simultaneously an indexical centering device. This label subsumes many of the stories found in the sections labeled “Myths and Tales” in Goddard (1904) and Sapir and Golla (2001). Likewise, the section labeled “Prayers” in Sapir and Golla (2001: 377) includes a Hupa metalinguistic label for the genre, mich’ing’-ch’ixine:wh, literally ‘to it—one talks’.⁶ A number of specific features distinguish ch’ixolchwe: stories from prayers— stylistic differentiation in the sense of Hanks (2010). One conspicuous difference is their respective lengths. Hupa prayers are all very short: the longest one in the Sapir and Golla collection, Sam Brown’s A Prayer to the Acorn Feast Ground at Hostler Ranch (2001: 382–383) contains only eight lines of text. The length of ch’ixolchwe: stories is variable but in nearly all cases much longer than prayers.⁷ Other differences between ch’ixolchwe: and prayers are doubtlessly functionally motivated, especially for prayers, which are appeals for assistance “directly

⁵ Goddard’s treatment of the Hupa texts thus reflects semantic and functional criteria that have animated different theoretical perspectives on genre and its relation to form over the past century (see Kinkade and Mattina 1996: 269–273; Harris 1995). ⁶ The traditional prayers included in that volume are distinguished from je:nahch’ing’-ch’ixine:wh ‘to up above—one talks,’ which refers to prayers occurring modern church contexts (Golla 1996: 74). ⁷ One exception is Sam Brown’s The Lake Whale, which has only three lines, but this is considered “a synopsis of a Yurok myth” in Sapir and Golla (2001: 437) rather than a telling of the myth per se.

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addressed to spirit powers” (Sapir and Golla 2001: 376). Accordingly, prayers are rendered as dialogue with the speaker occupying the first-person perspective and the entity endowed with the power to grant the request as addressee, and verbs are in the future tense or optative mode (Sapir and Golla 2001: 377). These are indexical centering devices that establish an explicit connection between the prayer and the context in which it is invoked (the speaker and the time of utterance). Ch’ixolchwe:, by contrast, are always told in the third person with the voice of a narrator present throughout, and most verbs are rendered in the perfective aspect. First and second person perspectives and other TAM categories do occur, but only within quoted speech, which is typically introduced with an explicit verb of speaking such as ch’ide:ne’ ‘he/she said’, or a verb of cognition like ch’ondehsne’ ‘he/she thought’ for internal dialogue.⁸ Discourse connectives for sequencing events like haya:ł ‘and then’ are extremely common in ch’ixolchwe: and most other Hupa text genres, but they are absent from prayers.⁹ Other differences between ch’ixolchwe: and prayers can be identified by comparing characteristic properties of their first and last lines. Stylistic conventions deployed at the beginning of a text prime audience expectations for what will follow, and ones deployed at the end of a text signal a transition to other forms of discourse. Prayers as a genre do not have a particular conventionalized ending, but ch’ixolchwe: stories almost always end with hayah no:nt’ik’ ‘there—it stretches to a point’.¹⁰ Some prayers start with an exclamation, written ɸe+ or he+, which “accompanies blowing of tobacco as an offering” (Sapir and Golla 2001: 378), i.e., it is associated with specific co-timed non-linguistic activities that reflect the status of prayers as embodied practice. Ch’ixolchwe: stories do not use this opening, but instead typically start with a sentence introducing the main characters of the story and the location where the events subsequently unfold: so-and-so lived or grew up in such-and-such place. This is illustrated in the first line from Oscar Brown’s story Xa:xowilwa:tł’: Dug-from-the-Ground (Goddard 1904: 135): (1)

ya’dehłts’e: they lived

ch’in k’inchiwh-q’it xokya:y hił they say [placename] her granddaughter both

⁸ Goddard (1905: 11) explains, somewhat apologetically, that the paucity of first and second person verbs in the texts had required him to resort to “questions suggested by forms occurring in the texts” (i.e., elicitation) to flesh out his grammatical description. ⁹ In a Hupa text corpus of approximately 55,000 words (Hupa Online Dictionary and Texts 2008– 2021), haya:ł is the second most frequent word, after the demonstrative element hay. ¹⁰ In four of the texts in Sapir and Golla (2001), this stylized phrase is followed by an exclamation ša:n and a variation on the phrase whe:ne’ tse:-łitsow nehwun-te: ‘my back—blue-stone—it will be like,’ considered “an old formula for ending stories” (Sapir and Golla 2001: 429). This is interesting in part because /š/ in Hupa is an extremely restricted phoneme: Proto-Dene ∗ š > ʍ in Hupa, with /š/ only retained in diminutive consonant symbolism. A similar stylized ending has been found in the Lassik texts dictated to Goddard by Mary Wellburn (Goddard ca. 1905): hw+ lltuk-ke-yas sī-ne a-le-ke ‘whew!—black oak young—my back—become.’ Goddard’s hw is /ʍ/, which otherwise does not occur in Lassik and other Eel River dialects, which retain Proto-Dene ∗ š as such. That is, in both Lassik and Hupa, the /ʍ/ ~ /š/ sound correspondence appears to be inverted in this conventionalized ending.

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The appearance of the quotative marker ch’in in this example is in fact highly atypical of Hupa ch’ixolchwe: in early documentation: this is one of the key differences between Hupa vis-à-vis Cahto and Wailaki noted by Goddard (1922). The quotative marker in Hupa is relatively rare overall, generally occurring as a second position element inside quoted speech that is also framed with a verb of speaking. Indexical centering in the first lines of ch’ixolchwe: usually includes reference to a specific placename, which anchors subsequent events text-internally to a named location that is independent of the context in which the story is told.¹¹ Temporal centering in the first line of ch’ixolchwe: stories is rare, although exceptions can be found. For example, the first line of Sam Brown’s A Story of the South Wind (Sapir and Golla 2001: 433–436) anchors the story to the time and location of its telling with the phrase digyung-yide’ ‘here—downstream’ (‘downstream from here’) and a temporal phrase ch’ixolchwe:-dung’ ‘in myth days’.¹² As noted, indexical centering in prayers is temporal and relative to the moment of speaking through the use of future-oriented TAM marking, although in some texts ethnographic commentary framing a prayer includes information about appropriate locations for invoking it. Medicine formulas, another genre identified in published collections of Hupa texts, are described in detail in Keeling (1992) and summarized in Sapir and Golla (2001: 305–306). The Hupa term k’ima:w is a general term for medicine, often understood as healing rituals involving a panoply of specific activities, among which a linguistic component is especially important. Sam Brown, one of Sapir’s main Hupa consultants, maintained that “formulas should be related as if a conversation were being carried on between the person making the medicine and the spirit power who originated it” (Sapir and Golla 2001: 306). However, Sapir and Golla note that this style of delivery is largely absent from texts identified as medicine formulas in published collections. Instead, these texts “are not transcriptions of the formulas as they would be spoken in a medicine ritual” but are instead “in the standard style of myth narrations” (2001: 305), typically recounting a story explaining the origin of the medicine.¹³ These stories have most of the properties of ch’ixolchwe: stories noted above: they are rendered from a narrator’s third-person perspective, typically begin with an indexical centering device

¹¹ This is reminiscent of the “place-making” function of placenames discussed by Basso (1996) in storytelling traditions in Western Apache, a Dene language of the southwestern United States. ¹² Geographic indexical centering in the first line of ch’ixolchwe: appears to be more common in Goddard (1904) than in Sapir and Golla (2001). Contemporary Hupa speaker Verdena Parker tends to favor temporal rather than geographic indexical centering, opening many stories with dahungwho’dung’ ch’ixolchwe:-dung’ ‘long ago—in the time of stories,’ often accompanied by the quotative marker ch’in ‘it is said.’ This may be a relatively recent development in her storytelling, or it may represent a storytelling tradition that was not previously documented among other Hupa speakers. ¹³ This leads Sapir and Golla (2001: 305–306) to suggest, following Keeling (1992), that these medicine formula narratives could be a genre that was invented for the benefit of non-Hupa researchers. However, the form of most texts identified as medicine formulas in published collections is so consistent across speakers and decades that it hardly seems likely that everyone decided to accommodate outside researchers in such strikingly similar ways.

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(usually a placename) and identification of central characters, have dialogue demarcated with verbs of speaking, and are structured with discourse connectives like haya:ł ‘and then’. A crucial difference between these medicine formula texts and ch’ixolchwe:, however, is in their endings: medicine formulas do not end with the formulaic hayah no:nt’ik’. Instead, they often end with quoted speech, with the creator of the medicine explaining how it will be used by people in the future, or with some variation of the phrase hayi-xw wha:ne: ‘that way—only’, another conventionalized ending that is often encountered in genres such as oral histories, personal anecdotes, and ethnographic accounts of traditional cultural practices. The clearest example of the dialogic style of medicine formulas described by Sam Brown, noted by Sapir and Golla (2001: 306), is in Mary Marshall’s Formula of Medicine for the Purification of the Dead (Goddard 1904: 351–359). This text, in contrast to most others identified as medicine formulas in published collections (including others told by Mary Marshall), resembles a prayer in that it is an appeal for assistance directed to another power—here, the creator of the medicine—and is presented from a first-person rather than third-person viewpoint. Unlike prayers, however, where the one invoking the prayer maintains the first-person perspective throughout, Marshall’s medicine formula is a conversation, with the first person shifting back and forth from the supplicant to the medicine’s creator. Also unlike prayers, it is a fairly long text, with repeated appeals made in connection with named locations in Hoopa Valley and the surrounding region, a kind of indexical centering that is not typically found in prayers. Aside from the placenames, the language used in each appeal from the supplicant is identical, such that large portions of the text are written with ellipses in Goddard’s field notebook (1901–1906, notebook #2, pp. 122–148) and indicated only with editorial comments like “(As before)” in the published version. The use of verbatim repetition is another feature distinguishing this text from others identified as medicine formulas. The dialogic style of medicine formulas is also characterized by the use of conventionalized exclamations to signal shifts in the first-person viewpoint: “A repetition of nasalized he-he-he-he indicates a question being asked by the medicine maker, and he-he-he…yaŋ an answer from the spirit power,” the latter “a drawnout version” of he:yung ‘yes’ (also used as a greeting) (Sapir and Golla 2001: 306). The supplicant’s phrase occurs throughout Goddard’s transcription of Marshall’s purification formula, rendered as ha ha ha ha. In the published version of the text, Goddard renders he:yung in the response as , but this is normalized from the original transcription in his fieldnotes, where he writes . The drawn-out delivery of the response reflects another feature of the dialogic style of medicine formulas, one attributed mainly to comments from Sam Brown rather than direct attestations: “This conversation is conducted in a shaking voice, each syllable staccato and breathy. If the reciter can’t manage a shaky, quavery voice, he intersperses the formula with little coughs” (Sapir and Golla 2001: 306).

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The quavery voice used in this context has its own metalinguistic label, ch’e:na:xohłdil ‘clearing the throat’. Two other Hupa medicine formulas for purifying someone who has handled a corpse were documented: one told by Lily Hostler (Goddard 1904: 360–368), and another by John Shoemaker (Sapir and Golla 2001: 327–341). Although the latter version is told partially from a narrator’s third-person perspective, Sapir and Golla (2001: 340) consider it “more formal in style” and resembling Mary Marshall’s version insofar as portions involve “a dialogue between the mourner and various beings whom he visits in search of a good medicine.” Sam Brown considered Shoemaker’s medicine to have originated with the Yurok, non-Dene neighbors of the Hupa on the lower Klamath River. Sapir and Golla (2001: 340) also point out that Mary Marshall, whose version offers the clearest example of the dialogic style for medicine formulas, came from a family with a Yurok background. Whether the dialogic style overall, or some of the specific stylistic elements contained therein— the ch’e:na:xohłdil clearing of the throat, the use of exclamations to delineate shifts in viewpoint, or the use of verbatim repetition—are attested in Yurok medicine formulas remains to be explored.

16.3 Wailaki: Quoted and quotative In a letter conveying free translations of the Wailaki Texts (Goddard 1923a) to Alfred Kroeber, Goddard (1922: 16) describes Captain Jim’s narrative style thus: “Practically all the stories are given in dialogue or monologue. The hearer is supposed to infer who is speaking by the terms of relationship used and by his knowledge of the division of labor” between men and women. This can be illustrated with the opening lines of a story entitled The Adventures of Mink (1923a: 82–85), reproduced here in interlinear format and with free translations from Goddard (1922): (2) yoi yιdɛ tα ca ɛ nɛ cιs tcαg gi bɛ tcαñ gañ no ni sαt dαñ “Way north I go, mother. My grandfather to him house I will visit.” ‘“Mother, I am going way north. I want to visit my grandfather.” ’ ɛ hɛ ci as tcɛ ‘“All right, my son.” ’ [free translation identical] Note Goddard’s use of quotation marks with the English glosses to indicate when a shift from one character to the other occurs (also found in Goddard’s treatment of conversational shifts in Mary Marshall’s purification formula discussed above). Within the text itself, the kinship terms ‘mother’ and ‘son’, the latter marked with first person possessive morphology, provide some orientation to the change, but these kinds of reference points occur only sporadically. As with Hupa prayers, formal exponents of first and second person viewpoints are extremely common

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due to the dialogic nature of the text. The third-person viewpoint of a narrator is absent, and the dialogue does not contain verbs of speaking or discourse connectives to structure the text or orient readers to conversational shifts. (These elements do occur, of course, but only when they happen to be used by one of the characters within the dialogue.) The Wailaki quotative marker ya’nin ‘they say’ (a plural form cognate with Hupa ch’in) does not occur. These properties are typical of most of the texts appearing in Goddard (1923a). The opening to The Adventures of Mink in (2) is based on the version that Captain Jim dictated during Goddard’s second visit to Round Valley in 1906. Captain Jim narrated alternative versions of this and some of the other stories published in Goddard (1923a) on Goddard’s earlier field trip in 1901. The earlier version of The Adventures of Mink appears in Goddard’s Wailaki field notes (Goddard 19011908, notebook #4, pp. 12–35). The opening to the text is as follows, with the free translation again supplied by Goddard (1922): (3) să tchī te˘s ya niñ tō be˘ʟ să yō ye˘ te˘ bu¨t tche˘ gī bu¨ tchûñ fisher went water alongside way down his grandfather him toward [= Mink] ‘They say Fisher went down to the shore of the water to visit his maternal grandfather.’ tchō ă lō yă niñ they were fishing ‘Someone was fishing.’ In this earlier version of The Adventures of Mink, the third-person viewpoint of a narrator, and its formal exponents, are prominent throughout. First- and secondperson morphology is restricted to quoted speech within the third-person frame, much as in Hupa ch’ixolchwe:. The quotative marker is pervasive in this version: yă niñ in the second line of (3) (possibly also reduced as niñ in the first line), and at numerous points subsequently throughout the text. In the unpublished version, where quoted speech occurs, it is often introduced with an explicit verb of speaking, which can also be accompanied by the quotative marker, as in (4), where the one fishing mentioned in (3) (a cannibal, as it turns out) is struggling to remove something from the water: (4)

ă hōñ ă hōñ ă hōñ yiñ yă niñ (grunting) he said ‘“Ahong, ahong, ahong” he said.’

Here, the verb of speaking is yiñ followed by the quotative yă niñ. The corresponding line in the published version contains only the grunting noise, rendered as n n n. Comparison of the openings in (2) and (3) reveals another important difference between the two styles deployed by Captain Jim. In the 1901 version of (3), să tchī

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‘Fisher/Mink’ is the first word of the text, identifying him immediately as the protagonist of the story. In the later version, despite the title added for publication, nowhere in the story is Mink actually named. As the 1901 version of the story makes clear, the protagonist was known to Captain Jim, and presumably would also have been known to many members of Wailaki audiences when told outside of the artificial confines of the linguistic interview conducted with Goddard. Nonetheless, Mink’s name is not part of the story per se. This is a striking feature of the dialogic style in the published texts: the protagonists named in the titles are rarely identified within the stories themselves. So neither Coyote nor Wildcat is explicitly named in Coyote and Wildcat, nor is Turtle ever identified in Turtle Kills his Neighbors, and so on. Key characters are sometimes revealed when they are referred to in dialogue spoken by another character, but this typically occurs once the story is well underway rather than in the first few lines. In both the unpublished 1901 and published 1906 versions of The Theft of the Fire, for example, Coyote is revealed as a protagonist when another character mentions his name. In the former version, this occurs in the second line of the text; in the latter, it occurs on the 34th (out of 42 total). Note that Captain Jim’s deployment of two distinct narrative styles differs from notions of text genres considered primarily in terms of their content. The 1901 and 1906 versions of The Adventures of Mink recount the same events, the kind typically categorized with the English label myth or the Hupa label ch’ixolchwe:. Moreover, the separation between the styles found in the two versions is not absolute. There are some stretches of dialogue in the 1901 version where shifts in the characters’ voices are not explicitly marked with verbs of speaking or the quotative marker—this may be what led to Goddard’s (1922) impression that even these earlier texts are “strongly dramatic” insofar as they are “conveyed by dialogue and monologue.” Sometimes this occurs at the beginning of a story, with the narrator’s third-person viewpoint deferred until the third or fourth line. And there may be a progression toward a more dialogic style even in the texts that were transcribed in 1901. In the three notebooks containing texts told by Captain Jim in 1901 (19011908, notebooks #4-6), The Adventures of Mink and other texts transcribed earlier in Goddard’s visit to Round Valley tend to have a much lower density of quoted speech than the ones transcribed later on the same trip. At least one of the 1901 texts, an alternative version of a story published under the title The Moon (1923a: 93–99), is virtually identical to the published version in having a fully dialogic narrative style. All of the foregoing might lead one to suppose that the 1901 versions of Captain Jim’s stories reflect a kind of improvised accommodation for Goddard: perhaps initially he did not consider Goddard ready to receive the actual stories in their ordinary dialogic format. This possibility cannot be discounted entirely, but if Captain Jim was improvising for Goddard’s benefit, he did so in a way that closely resembles the narrative style of John Tip, the Wailaki storyteller who dictated several texts to Fang-Kuei Li in 1927. Although further analysis may reveal important

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differences between the two, a coarse-grained comparison shows that many features of Tip’s stories are very much along the lines of what Goddard transcribed in the 1901 version of Captain Jim’s The Adventures of Mink. They are told from a third-person viewpoint, have characters identified prominently at the beginning of each story, feature pervasive use of the quotative marker, and have quoted speech introduced with an explicit verb of speaking yin (usually followed by the quotative as yin ya’nin ‘he said—they say’). These features are also prominent in most of the Cahto stories dictated to Goddard by Bill Ray (Goddard 1909).¹⁴ Rather than reflecting conventions invented ad hoc for the benefit of Goddard, Captain Jim’s 1901 texts therefore seem more likely to represent alternative narrative styles that Captain Jim had at his disposal, one of them with regional significance insofar as it is also encountered in Cahto.

16.4 Comparative notes and conclusion The overall aim of this study has been to identify a preliminary set of specific stylistic features that differentiate text genres in California Dene languages. Goddard (1922) discussed how quotative markers can be implicated in such distinctions, but several other distinguishing features have been highlighted here as well. These include the presence of a narrator’s third-person viewpoint versus entire texts presented as dialogue, with concomitant effects such as the relative prevalence of first-person and second-person morphology and the presence versus absence of verbs of speaking and discourse connectives as structuring devices. For texts rendered entirely as dialogue, the first-person viewpoint can remain with the speaker (as in Hupa prayers), or there might be conversational shifts of perspective; such shifts might be explicitly signaled with exclamations or other devices internal to the dialogue (as in Mary Marshall’s purification medicine formula), or left to be inferred by attentive listeners (as in texts told by Captain Jim in 1906). Indexical centering, especially in the first line of texts, is also potentially important: such centering can be text-internal (anchoring events within the story world) or text-external (anchoring events to the context of the story’s telling), and it can pertain to location or time. Conventionalized openings and closings also appear to differentiate text genres (hayah no:nt’ik’ in Hupa ch’ixolchwe:, versus hayi-xw wha:ne: in medicine formulas otherwise rendered in ch’ixolchwe: style). Identifying these features has been undertaken with an eye toward facilitating comparison of broadly similar text genres across the different California Dene ¹⁴ In both Bill Ray’s Cahto and John Tip’s Wailaki, the use of the quotative marker is clearly associated with third-person narrative genres analogous to Hupa ch’ixolchwe:. It does not occur in a short prayer or in a narrative told by Ray based on his personal experience of a supernatural event (Goddard 1909: 182), or in personal narratives and ethnographic descriptions of cultural practices appearing in the unpublished Wailaki texts told by Tip. Balodis (2016: 270–271) observes a similar phenomenon in Yuki.

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languages. As noted by Goddard (1922), the differences among these languages are starkest between Hupa on the one hand, and Wailaki and Cahto on the other. Hupa ch’ixolchwe: and medicine formulas offer numerous points of comparison with the dialogic style of Captain Jim encountered in Goddard (1923a). Those two Hupa genres include dialogue, but it is generally introduced with a third-person verb of speaking like ch’ide:ne’ ‘he/she said’, except within Mary Marshall’s dialogic medicine formula. Hupa ch’ixolchwe: and medicine formulas usually name the main protagonists of the story directly in the first line of the story, whereas characters in Captain Jim’s dialogic style often are not identified at all. Discourse connectives, among the most frequent lexical items in Hupa ch’ixolchwe:, are rare in Captain Jim’s dialogic narrative style, and apparently in his 1901 texts as well. Further analysis of John Tip’s Wailaki narratives is needed, but discourse connectives appear to be rare there as well—certainly they are absent from the two texts published as Seaburg (1977a, 1977b). Or rather, the quotative marker, which occurs at the end of nearly every sentence/line, might serve the same structuring function that a sequencing connective like haya:ł ‘and then’ does in Hupa. Conventionalized endings like hayah no:nt’ik’ and hayi-xw wha:ne: are absent from the texts told by Captain Jim and John Tip, but Bill Ray uses kwûn ʟąn ‘all’ at the end of many Cahto texts (Goddard 1909), and a similar element kun llun ‘that’s all’ is attested at the end of one of Van Duzen Pete’s Nongatl texts (Goddard n.d.). Indexical centering is another key area of difference between Hupa ch’ixolchwe: and analogous genres in other California Dene languages. Most Hupa ch’ixolchwe: and medicine formulas are centered text-internally with a specific placename occurring in the first line. This information is rare in Captain Jim’s dialogic style: placenames are mentioned in some stories, but never prominently in the first line. Like the names of protagonists, they often appear only late in a story, if they appear at all. The same absence of geographic centering also appears to be a feature of Captain Jim’s earlier narrative style documented by Goddard in 1901, and in the narratives dictated by John Tip to Li in 1927. Placenames are similarly rare in Bill Ray’s Cahto texts (Goddard 1909), especially in the first line of a text.¹⁵ However, although most of the texts in Goddard (1909) are not situated in any particular location within the text per se, there are numerous cases where this information is provided in a footnote: Grizzly Woman Kills Doe, for example, “is said to have taken place at TcûLsaitcdûñ” (Goddard 1909: 221). Much like Mink as the unstated protagonist of the published version of Captain Jim’s The Adventures of Mink, the locations where many of the texts occurred were known to Bill Ray—they simply weren’t part of the stories as he related them to Goddard. A similar explanation is likely available for Wailaki as well: despite the genocidal disruptions that Wailaki people endured in the nineteenth ¹⁵ An exception is The Great Horned Serpent (Goddard 1909: 160–162), where the location Lō‘ dai kī is identified as the first word of the text.

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century, which led to their dispossession and relocation to Round Valley, Captain Jim was intimately familiar with the geography of traditional Wailaki territory, and Goddard’s (1923b) ethnogeographic study contains information about stories associated with specific locations. The selection of stylistic features in California Dene texts discussed here has been undertaken to facilitate comparative work involving non-Dene languages of northern California as well. Some of the features identified are certainly attested in other northern California languages. The use of the quotative marker is common in California and other parts of North America (Kinkade and Mattina 1996: 262–263), and it is attested in Yuki (Balodis 2016), the language indigenous to the territory where the Round Valley Indian Reservation is located and one of the languages that Goddard (1909) suggested had influenced Cahto. The frontloading of myth texts with placenames as indexical centering devices is attested elsewhere in northern California, although it remains to be determined how significant this feature is to the differentiation of genres. It may turn out that some of the features identified here for the California Dene languages won’t be relevant as points of comparison elsewhere, and further research may reveal that other features will do a better job of differentiating text genres within a particular language or identifying points of comparison across languages. It would also be beneficial to compare directly specific texts, especially ones like Grizzly Woman Kills Doe and The Theft of Fire (the titles given in Goddard 1909) that are told in many speech communities throughout the region. Thus, while the long-term trajectory of the project—considering stylistic differentiation of genres as potential loci for contactinduced functional convergence (Conathan 2004)—is only just underway, there are many fruitful avenues of research to explore moving forward.

17 Winter story themes in Meskwaki Familiar creatures seen with new eyes Lucy Thomason

17.1 Introduction There is a great body of literature regarding the ways in which verbal art reflects the physical and spiritual landscapes of particular peoples. (For North America, see e.g. Tedlock 1996; Basso 1996; Clements 1996; Bohaker 2006.) This chapter is a contribution to that discussion. Traditional Meskwaki stories tend to focus on the relations between the characters in the stories, with only few and brief bursts of description (see Goddard 1990: 168–170). In Meskwaki winter stories (stories that should be told aloud only when snow is on the ground and the spirits are asleep), places as well as people and animals and plants are defined in relation to other places and people and animals and plants. The town and the wilderness, the forest and the prairie, ravines and hilltops and cliffs above water, springs and streams and lakes and seas, the island Earth and islands in the sea, and the sky and the underearth all have both their natural residents and their expected visitors. In one Meskwaki winter story theme, two children, an older sister and younger brother, live isolated in the wilderness. As the boy grows up, each new kind of animal he encounters terrifies him, and he has to learn from his sister how to tell game animals from monsters. A striking feature of these episodes is their vivid descriptions of favored Meskwaki game animals that typically, when they appear in winter stories, are merely identified by name. In the world of these stories, the name of an animal, plant, or type of terrain usually invokes everything to be known about it in terms of the web of relationships that compose the Meskwaki cosmos. Further description is superfluous: all key knowledge is linked to or stored inside the name. In the story of the boy orphaned by cannibal giants, however, he has to learn from his sister what creatures are in the world, where they are found, what they do, how they relate to one another, and how he and they relate to one another. When he has learned the cluster of meanings associated with each name, he is ready to find a wife and begin a family of his own. Six early-twentieth-century versions of the monsters-versus-game-animals trope, by five authors who were contemporaries from the same community, deploy unique descriptions and a variety of strategies in identifying the “monsters” that

Lucy Thomason, Winter story themes in Meskwaki. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Lucy Thomason (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0017

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the boy encounters. All six variants emphasize the positive effect that developing a successful relationship with game animals has on the children’s lives. But apart from that, one of the six tales merely names the different animals, as in a more typical winter story; one identifies them by wonted habitat and characteristic behavior; one identifies them by aspects of their appearance, with only three brief mentions of habitat; while the other three identify the animals by different combinations of habitat, behavior, and appearance. Section 17.2 briefly describes the six tales. Section 17.3 lays out how each tale introduces and explains the various game animals. Section 17.4 summarizes a seventh tale that reinforces the same themes as the monsters-versus-game-animals episodes, but in negative image. Section 17.5 points out several things we can learn from these stories.

17.2 Six versions of the tale of the orphaned novice hunter At least six versions of the monsters-versus-game-animals trope appear in Truman Michelson’s collection of early-twentieth-century Meskwaki literature. These manuscripts were written in Meskwaki papepipo (also known as Great Lakes Algonquian Syllabary) by native speakers of Meskwaki from the Meskwaki Settlement in Tama, Iowa. Two of the passages in question were written by Bill Leaf, and one apiece by Jack Bullard (in a tale co-authored with his wife, Lucy Lasley), Charley H. Chuck, Alfred Kiyana, and an anonymous author (“X7,” one of at least 20 unidentified authors of texts in the Michelson collection, in a tale co-authored with Ša.pocˇi.wa).¹ In all six stories, the hero and his sister find themselves living alone together in the wild after everyone else in their original village is eaten by cannibal giants. In all six stories, the hero grows up to be a famously skilled hunter and sets out into the unknown to find a new human village so that he can marry and bring home a wife. Once the hero leaves his sister’s house, his adventures vary considerably from one narrative to another. There are few threads common to all six tales besides the fact that in all of them a small boy grows up to be both a famous hunter and a fortunate suitor despite being initially terrified by every animal he sees, due to the trauma of cannibal giants having devoured everyone he knows save for his sister. A stock winter story helpmeet, the childless old lady Mano.ne.ha, plays a small but significant role in five of the six winter stories, and the sixth story, Chuck’s, features four nameless solitary-dwelling old ladies who offer the hero aid and advice. ¹ Three of these six winter stories have contemporary English translations which are housed together with the original Meskwaki manuscripts in the Smithsonian’s National Anthropological Archives. Bullard and Lasley’s tale has a close translation by Horace Poweshiek; Kiyana’s story and one of Leaf ’s two texts were loosely translated by Ida Poweshiek.

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In four of the tales (all but Leaf ’s) the hero has to contend with a stock winterstory villain, Snot-Nose, as a foe. In three of the tales (Leaf ’s and Bullard’s) he has to contend with the stock winter-story trickster, Snapping-Turtle, as both friend and foe. The hero is nameless in one of Leaf ’s two tales, but is named Otterskin-Owner in the other. He is identified as Turkey-Owner in both Kiyana’s and X7’s renditions, as Effigy-Owner in Bullard’s tale, and as Caribou, an exotic, un-Meskwaki animal, in Chuck’s story. Otterskin-Owner possesses an otterskin quiver that wriggles with joy and fluffs out its fur when it sees its rightful owner, but claws any enemy who touches it. Not coincidentally, X7’s hero, Turkey-Owner, carries an otterskin quiver that rakes Snot-Nose with its claws; Kiyana’s Turkey-Owner carries quivers that wriggle with joy when they see him; Bullard’s Effigy-Owner wears earrings in the form of human faces that smile with joy when they see him.² Only in three of the six stories—those featuring Turkey-Owner or Effigy-Owner—does the hero’s hard-earned hunting prowess play a role in his subsequent adventures. The terrifying “monsters” that are really game animals that the boy encounters vary considerably, too. The most consistent apparitions are ruffed grouse, turkey, and deer. Leaf ’s Otterskin-Owner meets a bobwhite quail, a grouse, and then “every different kind of game animal.” Kiyana’s Turkey-Owner meets three game animals: chickadee, turkey, and deer. X7’s Turkey-Owner meets five game animals: grouse, turkey, deer, bear, and buffalo. Leaf ’s nameless hero and Bullard’s Effigy-Owner encounter seven monsters each: chickadee, quail, grouse, turkey, raccoon, deer, and bear in Leaf ’s recounting, and grouse, turkey, raccoon, beaver, deer, buffalo, and bear in Bullard’s tale. Chuck’s Caribou meets no less than ten monsters: chickadee, robin, grouse, turkey, skunk, raccoon, deer, bear, buffalo, and elk. Robin, skunk, beaver, and elk appear in one story apiece, while bobwhite quails figure only in Leaf ’s two stories; chickadee, raccoon, and buffalo appear in three tales each; black bear in four tales; and ruffed grouse, turkey, and deer in five of the six tales. Each time the boy meets a new monster it is larger than the last, with two exceptions: Bullard puts the encounter with the black bear after the encounter with the buffalo (presumably because the bear is scarier), and Chuck puts the encounter with the elk after the encounter with the buffalo (perhaps because elk live further than buffalo from the center of the Meskwaki world). Each time the boy has a new fright, he runs home to his sister to tell her that he’s seen a monster, and that they should flee, as they did from the cannibal giants. Each time she persuades him to lead her to the bugbear. After seeing it, she tells him its proper name, and encourages him to hunt that kind of game animal.

² See e.g. Dye (2017) for images of human faces worn as ear regalia as rendered in Early Mississippian art, circa 1050–1200 CE, and for a discussion of the Siouan hero He-Who-Wears-Human-HeadsAs-Earrings.

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17.3 Six different approaches to novel descriptions of game animals Leaf ’s Otterskin-Owner tale gives short shrift to the monsters-versus-gameanimals trope. As in the more typical Meskwaki winter story, he merely names the creatures—first a quail, then a grouse, and then “every different kind of game animal.” He then observes that once Otterskin-Owner learns to hunt all different kinds of game, he and his sister are well-supplied with meat. (Bill Leaf ’s OtterskinOwner narrative can be found in manuscript #2655.6, National Anthropological Archives, Smithsonian Institution, Suitland, USA.) Kiyana’s rendition is almost as terse: when Turkey-Owner sees his first terrifying monster, Kiyana simply names it as a chickadee. But when Turkey-Owner’s sister lays eyes on the monster, she recognizes it by both its name and its behavior: “Why, there she saw a little chickadee perching here and there.” (Kiyana n.db 4J.) Kiyana again names Turkey-Owner’s second monster but gives more detail about its distinctive behavior: “Next, at some point or other he saw a great big turkey puffing out its feathers again and again. Every time it puffed out its feathers, it boomed out.” (Kiyana n.db 5A-B.) In this case, the verb stems employed are highly evocative: ni.škeni.škeška.- ‘puff out one’s feather’s repeatedly’ is the reduplicated version of a stem made up of ni.šk- ‘disordered, disheveled, encumbered’ and -eška. ‘become,’ with ni.škeška.- used to describe raised hackles and puffedout or fanned-out feathers; nanamahkwe.we.nawi.- ‘expand roaring’ is composed of nanamahkwe.we.- ‘a colossal roaring sound’ and -inawi. ‘movement from the center of one’s body,’ such as sliding, slithering, wriggling, stretching, or swelling. The sister recognizes her brother’s expanding, booming monster as a ki.hcˇe.wa, a turkey gobbler engaged in a mating display. She encourages her brother to hunt it and any other animals he sees. From this point onward Turkey-Owner hunts all kinds of small game animals. Finally, Kiyana identifies Turkey-Owner’s third monster by its habitat, and then by its name and its distinctive behavior, and lastly by its effect on the siblings’ lives. “At some point again, when he came to a clearing in the valley, oh! there he saw a fearsome-looking monster … Oh! there she saw a great big deer lying, engaged in chewing its cud.” (Kiyana n.db 6B-C and 6G-H.) When Turkey-Owner’s sister sees the deer, she encourages him to shoot it. From this point forward in Kiyana’s story, Turkey-Owner hunts every kind of game animal, and he and his sister have a wealth of meat. X7 identifies four of Turkey-Owner’s five monsters by their habitat, appearance, behavior, and effect on the siblings’ lives; s/he skips the encounter with the turkey, but mentions it later as having featured in its expected place in the sequence, after the grouse and before the deer. X7’s Turkey-Owner stumbles upon the grouse in a thicket: “One time he was hunting birds here and there in a thicket. And there in the thicket he heard something he couldn’t identify making a thumping noise, and

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he headed that way. Surreptitiously he stuck his head out, where a log was lying. There on top of the log something was pacing up and down, flapping its wings now here, now there. It really gave him a scare. ‘It’s a monster!’ he thought. (For it was really drumming fiercely.)” (Anonymous and Ša.pocˇi.wa n.d 4F-M.) TurkeyOwner sees his first deer on a gorgeous day in the open prairie: “Why, there he saw a creature top-heavy with horns lying at the edge of the prairie.” (Anonymous and Ša.pocˇi.wa n.d 6K.) Turkey-Owner is surprised by his first black bear while walking in the woods: “Well now, the boy was hunting birds here and there another time, hunting birds in the wooded country. At some point, as he was walking along, some branches were breaking off in different places over his head, and he looked up. There he saw something go climbing up a great big tree, and it was black and large, as he gazed at it. Why, he perceived it was a monster.” (Anonymous and Ša.pocˇi.wa n.d 8E-K.) Turkey-Owner encounters his first buffalo on a riverbank in the wide-open prairie: “And then another time he was hunting birds in different places, and (headed) to the river, and hunted turkeys along the bank. He kept hearing the sounds of some unidentified creature, and slowly he went towards it. He came out where the prairie opened up. Oh! there he saw something pacing back and forth; it was black and had a red head and looked top-heavy.” (Anonymous and Ša.pocˇi.wa n.d 10G-N.) X7 situates all four game animals in their natural habitat. S/he identifies the grouse by its habitat and by aspects of its behavior, and the deer and bear and buffalo by their habitat, by aspects of their appearance, and by aspects of their behavior (in the deer’s and buffalo’s case, merely that the deer is lying down and the buffalo is pacing back and forth). S/he also describes how each of the four animals enriches the siblings’ lives: after Turkey-Owner’s sister persuades him to hunt grouse, they have delicious food for the first time. After he learns to hunt deer, they have plenty of meat and the wherewithal to make moccasins. Once he is hunting bears, they begin to put on weight. When he has learned to hunt buffalo, he becomes a widely renowned hunter. All the words describing the animals’ appearance and behavior are verbs. In the case of the buffalo, for instance, e.h=ki.wi-papa.mitose.nicˇi, e.h=mahkate.wesinicˇi, e.h=meškwitepe.nicˇi, e.h=ni.ška.pata.ninicˇi ‘it was pacing back and forth; it was black and had a red head and looked top-heavy.’ Here preverb ki.wi means ‘from place to place,’ papa.mitose.- is reduplicated pemit- ‘crossways, sideways’ and -ose. ‘walk’; mahkate.wesi- ‘be black’ is mahkate.w- ‘black’ and -esi ‘be’; meškwitepe.‘have a red head’ is meškw- ‘red’ and -itepe. ‘have a head’; ni.ška.pata.ni- ‘look encumbered’ is ni.šk- ‘disordered, disheveled, encumbered’ and -a.pata.ni ‘seem.’ (Anonymous and Ša.pocˇi.wa n.d 10M-N.) Leaf ’s nameless hero, shortly after receiving his first bow and arrow from his sister, flees in terror from a tiny chickadee he sees right outside their house. Only the name and location of the bird is given, with no description. He is next terrorized by a quail: “And then he saw another monster. As it turns out, it was a bobwhite quail, with a striped head.” Next he encounters a grouse, and then a turkey, each

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identified merely by its name. His sister then tells him about three game animals he has yet to meet: “Next, soon, you will see animals wearing bones upright on their heads. So then you should shoot them. Those selfsame creatures are deer. Next, a pair of creatures in a tree will have faces painted in stripes. Soon you will see them. They will be lying flattened on the crook of a branch.” And lastly, she says, he will see a pair of delicious-tasting black creatures called bears. Her brother then in fact encounters first a raccoon (“a creature with a painted face lying in a tree”) and then a deer (“a monster wearing bones upright on its head”). He begins to hunt them without first troubling his sister with warnings about monsters. The bears are not mentioned again. (Leaf n.d 2F-9G.) Leaf gives next to no indication of the various game animals’ preferred haunts, and gives only brief, though vivid, descriptions of four of the seven animals’ distinctive appearance. The closest he gets to indicating an animal’s habitat and behavior is with the chickadee, who confronts the hero right outside his house (chickadees are known to be friendly to humans and to frequent human yards), and with the raccoons, which get three word-picture verbs in all, describing their striped faces and their habit of lying plastered flat in the crook of a tree. (Leaf n.d 7C-E, 8D.) Leaf does, however, emphasize the fact that after his nameless hero learns to hunt chickadees, he and his sister regularly have birds to eat. After he learns to hunt quails, they regularly have whole meals of meat to eat. They have an abundance of meat after he learns to hunt first grouse and then turkeys. And once he learns to hunt deer, they finally have buckskin clothes to wear. (Leaf n.d 3F-H, 4M, 5G-H, 6G, 9D.) Bullard’s Effigy-Owner meets seven “monstrous” game animals. The closest Bullard’s narrative comes to describing their habitats is to say that Effigy-Owner first spots the raccoon and the beavers at water’s edge, and first spots the buffalo at forest’s edge. Bullard gives no description of the grouse or the deer, except that he has Effigy-Owner tell his sister that the grouse is “really fearsome-looking” (pe.hki=meko nešiwina.kosiwa), a phrase that crops up repeatedly in the monstersversus-game-animals passages. Of the turkey, Effigy-Owner says a little more: “It was really fearsome-looking. It really had a neck still all covered in blood.” In other words, Effigy-Owner thinks the turkey has blood dripping down its neck from a recent meal of raw meat. The complex verb stem ayi.ši-meškowihkwe.kan‘have a neck still covered in blood’ is composed of meškow- ‘covered in blood,’ -ihkwe.kan ‘neck,’ and a preverb ayi.ši meaning ‘still.’ (Bullard and Lasley n.d 5CD.) The raccoon is introduced by no fewer than four verbs describing its behavior and appearance: “Next, at some point something was messing around there at the water’s edge. Lo, it had a striped face. It was engaged at times in fishing for crawfish with its hands, and at other times in scratching its testicles.” Upon seeing it, Effigy-Owner runs home to warn his sister about a really fearsome-looking monster with a striped face. (Bullard and Lasley n.d 5N-6B.) Effigy-Owner’s beavers get four verbs describing their single shocking activity: “Next, at some point or other as he was walking along one day, a tree fell at the water’s edge. Suddenly he

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saw them there. Lo, they were messing around on all sides, gnawing on trees. And with that, suddenly a tree fell.” Effigy-Owner rushes home to warn his sister about a pair of monsters who are felling trees over at the water’s edge. (Bullard and Lasley n.d 6M-7A.) Effigy-Owner’s first deer is briefly introduced by colorless locatives, noun, and verb: “Next, over there somewhere, he saw something hanging around.” (Bullard and Lasley n.d 7M.) He flees home to beg his sister to run away with him, because he’s seen a monster. The buffalo’s first mention involves the same colorless noun and verb but slightly more substantive locatives. This is followed by two verbs describing its appearance, bracketed by verbs repeating how terrifying it is: “Next, at some point somewhere over there at the edge of the forest something was hanging around. Lo, it was fearsome-looking, and it had a humped back. Lo, what’s more, it was big, and fearsome-looking.” (Bullard and Lasley n.d 8I-K.) The neon verb stem here is mo.škipehkwan- ‘have a hunched back.’ The morpheme mo.šk- is most often used to invoke displaced, swelling liquid: floodwaters rising, streams bubbling, things boiling to the surface of a pot, a large creature in the water surfacing and approaching the shore. It can also be used of the sun slipping out from behind a cloud, of a man’s eyes bulging in fear as he runs from an angry grizzly bear, or of sexual parts (testicles, rump, vulva) bulging indecently into view. Here, Effigy-Owner uses it to describe the buffalo’s back bulging up out of the shape he expects a spine to make. After the buffalo incident, Effigy-Owner encounters his last monster, a black bear, when it is standing upright: “standing on its hind legs here and there, meddling with some unknown object here and there. Lo, it was tall. ‘Jeepers!’ he thought to himself. And it was black.” He pelts home as fast as he can run to tell his sister that they should flee because he has seen a really fearsome monster, and that it is absolutely definitely a monster this time, a tall one standing up on its hind legs in various places in order to meddle with some unknown object. (Bullard and Lasley n.d 9H-Q.) For each of these seven monsters, Effigy-Owner’s sister tells him the animal’s proper name. She tells him that it is a kind of creature that humans eat. Three of these animals have a substantial impact on the siblings’ lives: once Effigy-Owner learns to hunt turkeys, he is able to hunt every kind of small game animal. Once he kills his first deer, he and his sister are richly supplied with food. And after he’s killed a bear, he’s no longer frightened of anything he meets, and can hunt every kind of game. Chuck goes into much more detail about the cannibal giant incursion than any of the other authors. He gives a most affecting account of Caribou’s terror upon seeing each monster, and of Caribou’s pathetic appeals to his sister, and his profound reluctance to return to the monsters’ haunts. Caribou’s first monster, a chickadee, is merely identified by its location near the house, and by a verb that suggests it is a bird. “After he really knew how to shoot, at some point some unidentified creature came and alit where their firewood was.” (Chuck n.d 12C-D.) Caribou describes the second monster, a robin, to his sister: “It has a red breast, and its face is painted with red paint.” (Chuck n.d 13L.) Caribou’s third monster

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is not described (except as “really fearsome-looking” as it walks across his field of view) until Caribou’s sister lays eyes on it. Then she perceives that “It was a ruffed grouse with a fanned-out tail of feathers.” (Chuck n.d 15P. The verb stem here, ni.škihkecˇe.šin- ‘lie with fanned-out tailfeathers,’ is composed once again of ni.šk-, combined with -ihkecˇe.- ‘bird’s tailfeathers’ and -išin ‘lie.’ ) Caribou is so overcome after seeing the turkey that it costs his sister considerable effort to extract any useful information from him. “It has some kind of a red spot painted on its forehead. And there’s some kind of a thing standing up on its rump. It spreads (that thing) out, and (that thing) is round.” (Chuck n.d 16P-S.) Caribou’s sister has to coax a description of the skunk from him, too: “It’s black. It has a white back. It has a white face. That’s what it looks like.… And also, on its rump it sets it upright. The thing set upright by it is fuzzy.” (Chuck n.d 18B-E and 18G-H.) When Caribou’s sister finally elicits a description of the raccoon from him, he says, “It has a striped face. And the thing it jabbed into its rump is striped.” (Chuck n.d 19A-B.) The seventh monster, Caribou’s first deer, is the first game animal since the chickadee to be located in a landscape: he sees it in the prairie. After much coaxing, he tells his sister, “Well, it’s wearing sticks on its head, roots.” (Chuck n.d 20G.) He describes the bear at greater length: “It’s black. It’s really big. It has a yellow nose.” (Chuck n.d 21W-Y.) He describes the buffalo at much greater length: “It’s black. It’s big. It has ruffled-up hair on its head. It’s wearing sticks on its head. It’s only fuzzy towards its head. It’s not fuzzy on the half toward its rump. It looks as if it has no hair.” (Chuck n.d 22V-23F. The verb describing the ruffled-up hair on the buffalo’s head sports yet another instance of ni.šk-.) Caribou’s tenth and final monster, an elk, is also located on the prairie, in a herd of others just like it. Caribou compares it to the deer: “Like the way the horns were on that first buck I killed, my first. But its horns are even longer than its body. It’s fearsome-looking. It has a red coat.” (Chuck n.d 24C-F.) In contrast to Kiyana, who described Turkey-Owner’s three monsters purely in terms of their habitat and behavior, Chuck describes Caribou’s ten monsters almost purely in terms of their appearance, except that he situates the first monster, the chickadee, atop the woodpile next to the house, and two of the last three monsters, the deer and the elk, out on the prairie. At one point, too, Chuck mentions that Caribou keeps hunting further and further afield, and encounters each new monster at a greater distance from home. Chuck also marks the progression from one animal to the next in terms of time: Caribou meets the chickadee when he’s old enough to have some skill with his bow, the robin the following spring, the grouse when he’s no longer small, the turkey when he’s almost a young man, and the deer after he’s full-grown. Caribou’s sister does more than tell Caribou each new animal’s true name. She locates each animal in the lost life of their village. She tells him what that animal meant to their elders, or to the boys who would have been his playmates, or to the manitou who ordered the world for human beings. She makes thin soup from the chickadees and more robust soups from the robins. She uses the feathers

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of each new bird to fletch bigger arrows for a bigger bow for her brother. She makes bowstrings and moccasins from parts of the deer, floor-coverings from the bearskins, blankets from the buffalo-hides, and the very best stores of meat from the elk. When she coaxes her brother to tell her about the raccoon, and then again when she questions him about the buffalo, she says a version of the following: “After you describe it, I’ll know what it’s called. When you’re done telling about it, I’ll know what it is.’ (Chuck n.d 18Z-AA; also, with some variation, 22S-U.)

17.4 Kiyana’s tale of the almost alligator bride: Lessons of how not to live in the world The trope of isolated children mistaking game animals for monsters turns up in one other narrative, the tale Kiyana titled “The Boys Who Lived with Their Mother,” a comic riff on the traditional theme in which every part of the original story goes awry. Two small boys, instead of one, live alone in the wilderness with their mother. Instead of first learning to hunt small birds that can be used to season soup with fragments of meat, they shoot frogs and bees for fun, and are badly stung by the outraged bees. They subsist only on vegetables: Indian potatoes, hog peanuts, and the occasional arrowhead corm or yellow-lotus seed. All four of these are Meskwaki plants, but are wild plants rather than the staple cultivars whose tutelary spirits have entered into partnership with human beings while the Earth endures. The boys’ mother urges them to hunt deer, but in vain, for they have no idea what deer are like. When they finally do stumble across a deer, it happens to be in the kind of place deer frequent, a clearing in a valley. But it is two rutting stags with their antlers locked together that the boys find: “One time, when they came out into a ravine, right before their eyes they saw two large monsters fused together. (Now in actual fact, they were two battling rivals. And they got stuck together when their horns became locked.)” (Kiyana n.da 3G-4B; translation by Ives Goddard.) The boys flee for home. They then try to dissemble having had a bad fright, but nonetheless tell their mother that they saw a pair of monsters. What follows is a series of mishaps: their mother tries to kill the deer herself, bare-handed; the deer careen around at a gallop, one of them trampling the boys, and the other running off with the mother, battering her and tearing her clothes. By the time she limps home she is a mass of injuries. At this point a nameless benefactor turns up to scold her, and to heal her, and to give her the dead deer she failed to kill herself, and to force her sons to grow up, by bathing them in a waterfall and by stretching them to adult height. As adults, the boys begin to hunt deer and bears, but they show no interest in embarking upon their next adventure. Their mother has to prompt them to seek

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out wives. One of her sons flatly refuses. The other grudgingly agrees. He carries out her instructions faithfully: he follows the river downstream until he sees someone lying stretched out on a sandbank, and he proposes to that person. He makes his addresses four times, but gets no reply. When he turns around to leave, he suddenly feels something jab him in the back of his leg. Turning back slowly, not wishing to flinch, but clearly expecting to be confronted with the rather alarming person he saw stretched out on the sandbank, he beholds a beautiful young woman who informs him that he has just proposed to her brother’s pet alligator by mistake. She suggests that he marry her instead. Kiyana introduces both the deer and the alligator by name, by an appropriate habitat, and by an appropriate behavior. But his wayward youth not only mistakes a game animal for a man-eating monster, but mistakes a man-eating monster for a bride. His mother has sent him south all the way out of Meskwaki country to seek a wife in exactly the habitats where alligators are found. This tale of Kiyana’s takes the boy’s non-recognition of the characters populating his world to a ludicrous extreme, and also highlights the dangers of inappropriate treatment of humans, game animals, manitous, and monsters both when you first meet them and when you learn their right names. In “The Boys Who Lived with Their Mother” or “The Almost Alligator Bride,” the hero’s whimsical approach to hunting and his indifference to finding new family leads to his getting stung by bees, trampled by deer, and nearly eaten by an alligator. And his mother’s misguided vision, imparted to her son, suggests that she, too, approached the manitous improperly, and knew no better than to send her son to marry an exotic monster in an exotic land.

17.5 Conclusion In the Meskwaki winter-story world, successful hunters are those who understand and respect the animals they hunt, and who are blessed by those animals in return. The monsters-versus-game-animals vignettes tell how a boy learns to forge harmonious animal and human partnerships, while the story of the almost alligator bride tells how a boy botches all his interactions with those same prospective partners. One of the beauties of these stories is their capacity to teach newcomers about the world while simultaneously allowing old-timers to glimpse the world’s familiar denizens through new eyes. All seven tales highlight the ways in which the children’s lives improve once the boys learn to hunt, but they differ dramatically in how they imagine the boys’ first sight of their various “monsters.” Kiyana’s Turkey-Owner’s three monsters are introduced by characteristic behavior, but also by characteristic habitat, in the case of the deer. X7’s Turkey-Owner’s four monsters are identified primarily by habitat and behavior, but also by details of their appearance, in the case of the dear, bear, and buffalo. Leaf ’s nameless hero’s seven

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monsters are identified merely by name (grouse and turkey), or by their appearance (quail, deer, and bear), or by their habitat and behavior (chickadee), or by their habitat and behavior and appearance (raccoon). Bullard’s Effigy-Owner’s seven monsters are identified merely by name (grouse and deer), or by appearance (turkey), or by habitat and behavior (beaver), or by habitat and appearance (buffalo), or by behavior and appearance (bear), or by habitat, behavior, and appearance (raccoon). Chuck’s Caribou, the hero most affected by the sight of the monsters, sees them in terms of their appearance (robin, grouse, turkey, skunk, raccoon, bear, and buffalo), or their appearance and their habitat (chickadee, deer, and elk). Kiyana’s ne’er-do-well brothers’ monstrous stags are described in terms of habitat, appearance, and behavior. In six of these seven tales, all but Chuck’s, the characteristic haunts and characteristic behavior of the animals are treated as at least as important signifiers, or still more important signifiers, than the details of their appearance. This seems to be a natural consequence of the fact that it is the relations between the characters in a story, and the characters and their environments, that matter most in the winter-story cosmos (see again Goddard 1990: 168– 170). Beyond this, it is noteworthy that none of the five authors uses rote words or phrases to describe the different animals. In fact, they do not even use similar words or phrases, or pursue identical strategies of delineating the hero’s bugbears. In other words, even though the authors were contemporaries from the same community, they seem to be improvising their heroes’ novel impressions of the animals. The closest approach to a recurring description of the game animals is the fact that ni.šk- figures in verbs describing five different creatures in the two Turkey-Owner tales (by Kiyana and Anonymous) and in Chuck’s tale of Caribou. The closest approach to a recurring formula in these stories are the boys’ cries of seeing monsters (nene.wa.wa maneto.wa ‘I saw a monster,’ e.h=ne.wa.ˇci maneto.wani ‘he saw a monster,’ maneto.waki nene.wa.pena ‘we saw monsters’) and their finding these apparitions frightful (pe.hki=meko nešiwina.kosiwa or pe.hki=meko e.h=nešiwina.kosinicˇi ‘it was really fearsome-looking’). Some version of ne.w- with maneto.w- occurs in all seven tales; nešiwina.kosi- crops up repeatedly in the Turkey-Owner, Effigy-Owner, and Caribou stories, but not in Bill Leaf ’s two tales or in the story of the almost alligator bride. The Meskwaki word for ‘monster,’ maneto.wa, has multiple meanings, distinguished only by the contexts in which it appears: maneto.wa is not only the word for monster, but also the generic word for a snake, as well as the word for any kind of spirit, benign or malign, and the word for a human with spirit powers, and the word for the greatest of the spirits, God. Ten sentences after Caribou insists to his sister that the deer he saw in the prairie “is really and truly utterly absolutely a monster (maneto.wa),” she begins an explanation in which she invokes God (maneto.wa) twice, assuring her brother that it is God who put deer on

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Earth for people to eat. (Chuck n.d 20C and 20M-21G.) Monster and manitou are two sides of the same coin, defined by individuals’ relation to the other creatures peopling their world. The boy orphaned by cannibal giants learns that many apparently fearsome monsters are actually benign manitous who are partners for those humans who understand their own role in the relationships ordering the cosmos. Fortified with this knowledge, he braves perils to find a wife to bring home to his sister so that she will have company and so that they can all raise a child together. Algonquian verbal morphology has extraordinary expressive capabilities, famously characterized by Sapir (1921: 244) in his claim that “single Algonkin words are like tiny imagist poems.” The Meskwaki winter story convention of naming characters and phenomena, and detailing actions and events, but rarely indulging in description, means that the flashes of description stand out in threedimensional technicolor against a blander, flatter background. In Caribou’s sister’s words, “After you describe it, I’ll know what it’s called. When you’re done telling about it, I’ll know what it is.” The game-animals-as-monsters descriptions furnish several verb stems attested nowhere else to date—stems that include asa.wikome.‘have a yellow nose,’ meškowihkwe.kan- ‘have a neck covered in blood,’ and ni.ška.hkwiwine.šin- ‘lie cumbered by horns.’ At least one of these hapax legomena affords an illuminating new metaphor: the use of mo.šk- in mo.škipehkwan- ‘have one’s back swell up out of true’ (said of a buffalo seen through novice eyes), as contrasted for instance with wa.kisikiwe.- ‘have a crooked spine’ (said of a human with a hunched back), sheds new light on the morpheme. Insights into the range of meanings that make up the fractal shapes of morphemes such as mo.šk- help us look forward in time to the coining of new words and look backward in time to glean new understanding of semantic shifts. Taken all together, Leaf ’s, Kiyana’s, Anonymous’s, Bullard’s, and Chuck’s gameanimals-as-monsters episodes reinforce a prevailing winter story aesthetic: that individuals’ habits, habitats, and interactions are far more significant than their appearance: and yet, sudden flashes of awareness of their appearance can come as shocks of wonder or terror. This chapter, with all its flaws, was inspired by the teaching of Andrew Garrett, my favorite lecturer of all time. And to the reader — kete.pihi. (You have made me happy.)

18 The material and the textual in documentation of Native American languages Lisa Conathan

18.1 Introduction I am typing on Mohican homeland. In the late eighteenth century many Mohicans were removed from land settled by the family of the first benefactor of Williams College (where I work today) to Oneida, New York, and then to Wisconsin. The tribal government eventually established an office in Williamstown, MA, circling back to assert an administrative and cultural presence in the region. It is this relationship between Mohicans and what some consider to be the world’s leading liberal arts college that motivates me to investigate the institutional history that I reference today. Through colonial dispossession, the institutional history of my employer intersects with the massive sweep of Algonquian migrations, and therefore with a compelling distant connection to the compact geography of the two California Algic languages (Yurok and Wiyot, distantly related to Mohican) which, under the mentorship of Andrew Garrett, have had an outsized impact on my own career path. In writing about the interplay between printed documentation and language revitalization, I recognize the primacy of Native people in the history of the printed word on this continent by referencing Wawaus, or James Printer, the Nipmuc typesetter who formed the Algonquian Bible from type. His words have been handed down through generations and reanimated today through the schools, programs, and publications of the Wôpanˆaak Language Reclamation Project and other Southern New England Algonquian revitalization programs.¹ The colonialist trends that brought about our current global crisis of language endangerment are manifested in each of the texts discussed in this chapter. In ¹ For more on the indigenous practitioners instrumental to early American printing, see Kimberly Toney’s digital exhibit “From English to Algonquian,” https://americanantiquarian.org/ EnglishtoAlgonquian/.

Lisa Conathan, The material and the textual in documentation of Native American languages. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Lisa Conathan (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0018

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countervailing balance, a generative impulse complements the traditional cycle of book production, one that inserts orality into the cycle “from thought to writing to printed characters and back to thought again.”² This generativity is what indigenous creators and speakers have continuously brought to the practice of maintaining and reclaiming language. Examples from the modern practice of documenting the languages of Native North America highlight the interaction between the form of legacy documentation and its functionality, including contemporary uses for language learning and revitalization. Texts being used for revitalization are living archives and repositories of data informing contemporary native persistence and language reclamation. These same texts have been objects of collecting in the rare book trade, as significant exemplars of American printing history. Three cases illustrate the history of documenting Native North American languages: the poignant and devastating colonial encounter captured by the Massachusett language Bible and subsequent use of Southern New England Algonquian languages (including Wôpanˆaak) in colonial Christian works, in which a hefty commitment to the native language was outcompeted by genocidal demographic changes; the mid-twentieth-century linguist-ethnographer’s pinnacle accomplishment of a bound grammar, text corpus, and a dictionary as a means to claim authority over native languages, and the subsequent evolution of the practice of language documentation; the twenty-first century reclamation of missionary, settler-colonial, and anthropological texts and secondary documentation to breathe new life into stagnant works that were long alienated from their communities. The provenance of texts and vocabulary recorded in print under the conditions of colonialism continues to inform contemporary dialog about the value and function of language documentation. These three snapshots reveal the acuity of the moments when language use was constricted to the page, when a vibrant orality became an object of a philological exercise, and when reference works have been not only instruments of harm and trauma, but also of healing and empowerment. A narrative emerges of the relationship between formal paratext and language use over four centuries of documentation of the languages of Native North America. The Eliot Bible is a metaphor for the imposition of literacy, inextricable from Christianization, on Native modes of communication. The development of the tradition of scholarly language documentation in the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries represents the urge to inscribe intellectual control over language. The reclamation of orality in cultural context serves to restore an indigenous framework for the meaning and use of language.

² Darnton’s oft-reprinted discipline-defining 1982 essay defines this cycle without reference to orality.

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18.2 Legendo The Sawyer Library at Williams College has a circulating copy of a work by Nehemiah Adams: The Life of John Eliot, published in 1847 by the Massachusetts Sabbath School Society. This copy was formerly in the collection of the Mills Theological Society (a student organization) as evidenced by the ghostly presence of a bookplate that has been since pasted over, and a red library stamp on the flyleaf. The Mills Society came about as the result of a merger between two student Christian organizations, the Theological Society, devoted to Bible study, and the Society of Inquiry, which induced young men to devote their life to domestic or foreign missions. Apparently the first activity became inextricable from the second. The Mills Society reflected the values of early nineteenth-century Williams College as a hotbed of evangelical enthusiasm that contributed a disproportionate number of founding members to the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions. Both the society’s namesake Mr. Mills, who served as a missionary in the Mississippi valley, and also the subject of Adams’s biography, John Eliot, who a century and a half earlier than Mills had embarked on a mission to his New World, would have served as inspiration for young men eager to make their Christian mark on indigenous communities. The presence of this humble and well-used volume in the Mills Society library and its persistence in the College’s modern circulating collection reflect the lasting impact of the legacy of seventeenth-century missionary colonists. The book’s tenuous presence in the open stacks continues to communicate the ongoing relevance of this colonial history to the activities of Williams College today. In addition to contextualizing the life of John Eliot, the work describes Eliot’s most lasting mark on book history and language documentation, the compilation of the Bible in Massachusett language. Eliot’s efforts to render the Bible in Massachusett, benefiting from the largely unacknowledged expertise and labor of young Native men, are inextricable from the larger devastation of dispossession and loss imposed by settler colonialism, with Eliot himself as a prominent instrument. Christianization was linked to literacy, and to confinement to the “praying towns” of Massachusetts mission communities, while some Native people were motivated to adopt Christianity in an effort to stave off continuous encroachment from English colonists (Lopenzina 2012 ch. 2; Brooks 2018 ch. 5). Thus the Bible itself can be seen as a monument to Native survival as Nipmuc, Massachusett, and Wampanoag individuals labored to create a circumstance under which their communities might continue, even if circumscribed by the English colony. This Bible is commonly known as the Eliot Bible, or the Massachusett Bible, or the Wampanoag Bible, sometimes referred to as the Indian Bible, occasionally James the Printer’s Bible or by a short title Up-Biblum. It was the first Bible

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produced in what is now the United States, printed in 1661–1663 in Cambridge by Wawaus (also known by the English name James Printer), a Nipmuc printer, together with the Englishman Samuel Green, whose name appears on the Bible’s title page (unlike that of Printer). Wyss (2019) describes the gentlemanly art of coveting the Eliot Bible, a description that aptly fits the Chapin Library copy at Williams College. It was among the first of thousands of books acquired by our benefactor Alfred Clark Chapin in the 1910s as he created from scratch a rare book library worthy of his alma mater. A locally printed description (Adams 1956) attests that the copy in our stewardship was presented to John Eliot’s English sponsors as evidence of his progress on the American continent, to complement his many written tracts and entreaties (compiled in Clark, ed., 2003). As such, it could barely have been read in England, considering it is printed entirely in Massachusett language. Its function in England would have been purely symbolic, unlike the practical use among Native communities of southeastern Massachusetts, where nativized Christianity flourished in the seventeenth century. Librarians including myself have repeated this characterization of the Bible as a presentation copy, though further examination of the binding may hint at a different history of this book. For now, the pristine copy in the custody of the Chapin Library serves to represent Eliot’s striving to demonstrate his accomplishments and the enormity of the resources necessary to pursue his aims of Christianization. The book bears evidence of infrequent use before joining the Chapin collection; since, however, it is a gift that keeps on giving stories of devotion, loss, and persistence. As was the custom in Eliot’s time, and even sometimes in ours, he barely recognized his native collaborators and language teachers in his publications. Eliot left England on his mission having studied classical languages, and therefore had a sense of Indo-European and Semitic grammar, but had no previous notion of Algonquian grammar, which differs profoundly from that of any language he had studied. He needed the patient and extensive support and guidance of native speakers in order to learn a language so fundamentally different from those of his experience. Those native scholars included Job Nesuton (Wampanoag), Wawaus or James Printer (Nipmuc), Cockenoe (Montauk), and undoubtedly others whose names are undocumented. They had studied Latin and Hebrew at schools in Roxbury and Cambridge, and therefore to a certain extent shared a common vocabulary and experience with Eliot around literacy, grammar, and language.³ Missionary linguists have been known to describe Native languages according to familiar patterns of Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. Jonathan Edwards Jr. sketched ³ For accounts of the native scholars who worked with Eliot, see Lopenzina (2012, ch. 2), Dippold (2013), and Brooks (2018, chs. 2 and 5).

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Mohican (like Wôpanˆaak, an Eastern Algonquian language) in his 1778 Observations. Edwards, who spent much of his childhood in Stockbridge where his father ministered, was keen to establish a relationship between Mohican and Hebrew so that he could account for Mohican origins within his understanding of Biblical history. Using the method of comparison that was available to him at the time, he identified surface similarities rather than regular patterns to indicate kinship between Hebrew and Mohican. In contrast to Edwards, the works printed under Eliot’s name traveled a bit of a distance into Algonquian grammar, and while Eliot’s English ear and training affected his description, he and Printer and Nesuton and others discerned and described aspects of grammar particular to Massachusett specifically and Algonquian broadly, including animacy and some of the basics of verbal pronominal affixation. Eliot recognized the novelty of these principles to those who took European languages as a norm. Eliot’s grammatical description (Indian Grammar Begun) is a tantalizing glimpse into his relationship with the group of native scholars, as one can imagine the circumstances under which Eliot sought to bring order to Algonquian grammar through familiar conjugations and declensions. Before delving into grammatical complexities he was ill prepared to confront, however, he wraps up his sketch prematurely with the sentiment “So much for the Rule of Making Words” (1666: 5), dismissing the grammar that he had “begun” but was unable to express fully in print. English missionaries needed to grasp unfamiliar concepts in order to learn the Massachusett language, as Algonquian speakers needed to do in order to learn English. These native speakers mediated between their indigenous fluency, their Christian literacy, and their drive to combine elements of both in the production of Biblical text. Did they, as Round (2010) and Warrior (1995) require us to ask, have any degree of intellectual sovereignty over these texts? Hardly, but did they have a degree of agency in forming these texts, whether in writing the translations or correcting perceived errors as they were setting the type? Undoubtedly. Within a generation, the tremendous effort of this Native cohort to render Christian texts in their language, always attributed in print to Eliot, would begin to be characterized as quaint, as genocidal demographic changes forever altered the sociolinguistic context of the region we call New England. This assault on Algonquian speech communities casts an ironic shadow on Eliot’s straightforward directive to read, write, and speak, when Native speech communities and modes of communication were under attack, not least by Eliot himself. “Legendo, scribendo, loquendo, are the three means to learn a language,” he wrote, presaging the work centuries later to recover spoken language from his printed works (1666: 5). Compare the Massachusett Bible to the 1709 Massachusett psalter edited by Experience Mayhew (also printed by James Printer), which matches sections of text in Massachusett with those in English, so that the text can be used not only for religious study but also as a language-learning aid. This difference in structure

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from the monolingual Bible hints at the intervening devastation of King Philip’s War and the fact that as the eighteenth century commenced, a greater percentage of surviving Native people understood and used English. By the mid-eighteenth century the Boston physician and author William Douglass, in his history of the British colonies, considered the mammoth effort to print the Bible to be pointless and decadent since according to him local native people were not literate in their own language. “Whom does it benefit?” he asked in a snide footnote, a seemingly rhetorical question with only one intended answer, “Nobody” (Douglass 1755: 172). And while Douglass’s uninformed prejudice is blatant throughout his account of British American colonial history, this may be considered a fair question that we continue to ask even today. Who benefits from documentation efforts, and for whose benefit are native languages inscribed onto books, manuscripts, and audiovisual recordings? The Massachusett Bible, over 1200 pages long, was a costly and time-consuming investment. The Bible, symbolizing souls saved through Christianization, was considered to be among the finest and most valuable products of the colonial project in North America. Of a copy sent to King Charles II, the Reverend Richard Baxter remarked, “Such a work and fruit of a plantation was never before presented unto a king” (as quoted in Adams 1847: 241–242). Eliot understood well the symbolic value of the volume that he produced and sent at great expense to his sponsors in England, where he did not intend the recipients to be able to read it, only to appreciate its heft, and the corresponding weight of the labor it took to produce it.

18.3 Scribendo Paging forward from the seventeenth century to the twentieth, the predominant Anglo recorders of the languages of Native North America were no longer missionaries, but ethnographers and linguists. Many sought to establish the scientific nature of the field of Linguistics and defined standards for the recording of data (e.g. the International Phonetic Alphabet and the use of common grammatical terms), which within the discourse of the discipline is the ultimate purpose of recording language. Cues to the formula for mid-century language documentation can be found in earlier publications such as Edward Sapir’s compilation of Yana texts recorded from Sam Batwi and Betty Brown, published in 1910 by the University of California. The monograph includes several elements that are common to the genre of indigenous language texts. In his introduction, Sapir acknowledges the names and locations of his informants, using the terminology of the time. He asserts authority over the Yana language by identifying these language teachers and describing their expertise. For example, Sam Batwi is described as “one of the four or five

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Indians still left that have a speaking knowledge of this dialect and probably the only one that is at all acquainted with the mythology” (6). To use the terminology of O’Brien (2010), Sapir is both “firsting” and “lasting” in this text, as he describes the language as a remnant, accessible only through a few last speakers, and documented in his book for the first time. He writes that “[n]othing has hitherto been published on the Yana except for a few notes in Dixon and Kroeber’s Native Languages of California” (3). Within the rhetoric of this discourse, the first documentation of Yana is also the last possible opportunity to record the language, creating a sense of urgency and scarcity that increases the value of the book in hand. This rhetoric is persistent in the documentation of endangered languages, even today. The Yana texts themselves are presented with a minimum of analysis beyond phrase-by-phrase glosses that give readers a rough idea of the meaning of each word. A smoother English translation follows and throughout footnotes clarify points of translation, more complicated elements of grammar, or textual comparison. Sapir’s audience for this text is his fellow ethnologists and linguists. By framing the speakers of the texts as the last of their kind, Sapir’s assumption underlies this publication that nobody persists other than scholars for whom his book might prove useful. Sam Batwi’s and Betty Brown’s motivations remain their own. These themes of endangered language documentation: the authority of the last speakers, the scarcity of expertise, the urgency to document the language in a fixed format, permeated decades of linguistic documentation. The perfect trilogy of mid-century language documentation was a descriptive grammar, a volume of texts, and a dictionary. This ideal set, traced to Franz Boas’s decades-long work on Kwakiutl, was proliferated by Mary Haas, Chair of the University of California Berkeley department of Linguistics and director of the Survey of California Indian Languages from its establishment in 1953 until her retirement in 1977. Haas trained over a hundred linguists, many of whom worked on Native languages of California. And California provided a diverse catalog of languages and tribes, with at least 50 distinct languages spoken well into the twentieth century, most of them persisting today. Mary Haas herself successfully fulfilled the tripartite gold standard and published a Grammar of Tunica in 1941 (based on her 1935 dissertation), a volume of texts in 1950 and a dictionary in 1953. The simplicity of the title of the grammar, Tunica, calls out the extent to which the Tunica language and identity are considered to be absorbed and defined by the volume. These books were based on Haas’s work with a single speaker of Tunica, Sesostrie Youchigant, also known as Sam Young, who died in 1948 before Haas completed their publications. In Hockett’s 1942 review of Tunica, he comments that Hass “has overcome the tremendous handicap of working with a single informant, of necessity, who remembers the language rather than actually uses it in everyday life” (490). As in Sapir’s works,

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the authority and authenticity of the book is underscored by rarity and the particular, sometimes unique, qualifications of the indigenous language speakers. This rhetoric persisted into the 1990s, when linguists were galvanized by calls to advocate for the documentation of endangered languages by exhortations such as those in Hale et al. (1992), in which Michael Krauss states “by documentation I mean grammar, lexicon, and corpus of texts” (8). The book is a weighty incentive in language documentation, and in 2002 Kenneth Hill reflected on his long-standing working relationship with the Hopi that The Hopi Dictionary Project was formed under the idea that a comprehensive dictionary of the Hopi language, presented as a serious reference work, might motivate Hopis to recognize their language as one of respectable status among the written languages of the world. (Hill, Kenneth C. 2002: 300)

Hill’s motivation was shared by many twentieth-century linguists, who came to see their mission as not only advancing scientific understanding of language, but also to preserve languages at risk of diminishment as modes of communication and repositories of cultural knowledge. The dominant discourse of the time discussed Native American cultures and languages as fading relics, with only a few authentic exemplars remaining that must be targeted for documentation before they expired. Dictionaries and volumes of edited texts, which proliferated during the twentieth century, brought weight and legitimacy to indigenous languages as objects of study. Captured between the plain gray-brown wrappers of a University of California Press edition, livened up by the 1970s to orange and white paperbacks, a language became a tangible object that circulated within a scientific community. The extent of this documentation project can be appreciated by browsing the titles of University of California Linguistics dissertations, many of them descriptive grammars, in the middle decades of the twentieth century. Comparing languages came to mean comparing grammars, comparing one dictionary to another, contrasting volumes of texts. The rhetoric of scarcity and loss also permeates the publications of the most acquisitive collectors of Cherokee manuscripts, Jack and Anna (Gritts) Kilpatrick. The husband-and-wife team set out to collect Cherokee language manuscripts in Oklahoma in the mid twentieth century. Jack Kilpatrick was a composer and musicologist by training and was Chair of the Department of Music at Southern Methodist University. Anna Gritts was related to Uwedasat Sawali, a Cherokee shaman and Christian minister featured prominently in the Kilpatricks’ studies (1965a, 1965b, 1970), and her family connections assisted their documentary collecting. The Kilpatricks focused on collecting manuscripts in syllabary, yet in their publications always transliterated Cherokee excerpts. Images of the original

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syllabary manuscripts appeared as occasional facsimile reproductions,signaling their function as illustrations rather than as textual material (Kilpatrick and Kilpatrick 1965a, 1965b; Conathan 2021). The Kilpatricks’ work challenges contemporary notions of authenticity and integrity of modern Native language documentation by adding layers of interpretation to vernacular texts in their published versions.

18.4 Loquendo Recent decades have witnessed an intellectually, emotionally, and politically powerful surge of Native communities reclaiming missionary, linguistic, and anthropological texts for their own pedagogical and cultural purposes. Part of this reclamation is articulating a capacious definition of what constitutes “language,” bringing it out of the realm of dictionaries, grammars, and texts, and into a culturally and intellectually sovereign context (see Leonard 2017). Included in the decolonizing process is an examination of who benefits from and directs the creation of language documentation. Resources including comprehensive web-based language learning tools such as those for Yurok, Karuk, Hupa, and Northern Paiute described in Garrett (2009, 2013, 2018) include dictionaries, grammars, and text corpora designed according to the needs of language learners, thereby aiding in the repatriation of documentation from libraries, archives, and the academy broadly to Native communities. The development of these resources coincides with a mandate for cultural and epistemic humility in the academy, requiring us to prioritize Native information needs in the creation, preservation, and use of endangered language documentation. This humility extends to a critique of the rhetoric that linguists and anthropologists have commonly used to frame language revitalization and reclamation, including the concepts of universal ownership, hyperbolic valorization, and enumeration (see Jane H. Hill 2002). Contemporary projects to interpret and disseminate the Kilpatricks’ Cherokee manuscripts (such as the Digital Archive of American Indian Languages Preservation and Perseverance) use syllabary as a marker of authenticity and take care to identify Cherokee creators,signaling their prioritization of Native Cherokee speakers and learners over linguists and anthropologists who typically prefer transliterated texts. While some scholars focus on creating resources optimized for revitalization, other learning communities have coalesced around connecting language learners with legacy resources that document their heritage. Breath of Life, a longstanding program at the University of California, Berkeley, that inspired a national program now based at the Myaamia Center, Miami University, provides training to language learners in order to make the best use of archival resources for the purposes of revitalization. These practitioners have found new audiences for legacy

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documentation, transforming it into unanticipated, vital aspects of contemporary cultural practice (see Baldwin et al. 2018). The legacy of scholars such as Haas and Native language caretakers such as Youchigant is evident in the products of contemporary Tunica language revival decades later. In a 2018 interview Donna Pierite, a Tunica language teacher and activist, describes her linguistic awakening, in the mid-’90s, she inherited a tribal copy of the Tunica dictionary, grammar, and collection of cultural texts compiled by linguist Mary Haas, she was enthusiastic about bringing the language back into use. ‘By the time I began the project, Mary Haas had either passed away or was ill, so I never met her, but I felt like this care for the language had been passed to me.’ (Turner-Neal 2018)

The care for the language has been conveyed to contemporary teachers not only by Haas but also by Sesostrie Youchigant/Sam Young. Many of the words in the modern online Tunica-English dictionary derive from the Haas-Youchigant work, though new words are continuously created through revitalization. While the original dictionary that Haas edited was conceived as a companion to the accompanying texts, with limited utility for language learning, today’s tools have been reconfigured with revitalization at the fore (Anderson 2020). The close working relationship between Haas and Youchigant/Young, though originally framed within a scholarly context, today has a community’s language as its legacy. Likewise the website of the Wôpanˆaak Language Reclamation Project (https:// www.wlrp.org/) reproduces an image of a microfilm of a page from the Eliot Bible, stating “the existence of this bible and other legal documents written in Wôpanˆaak has made the reclamation of this once lost language possible.” The text highlighted in their digital space has lived many lives, at the sixteenth-century pulpit, on the printing press of the Harvard Indian College, on the shelves of collectors, in the hands of annotators, under the microfilm camera, through the scanner, to today’s Wôpanˆaak language teachers. The use of legacy Native North American material for reclamation enlivens an archive, reanimating texts to short circuit the colonial narrative of literacy, documentation, and description. The fundamental principle of an archive is that it will be used for unanticipated purposes, those other than originally intended. Did Wawaus/James Printer anticipate that centuries later his descendants and relations would use his words to reanimate a language that the Wampanoag would call “once lost” centuries later? He may have. Did Sesostrie Youchigant, Sam Batwi, and Betty Brown think of their great grandchildren when enlisting or allowing linguists to mark their words? Referencing Bruchac’s (2018) work on the relationship between indigenous informants and American anthropologists, we know that all of these indigenous language keepers may have had an agenda and

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intended audience entirely separate from those whose names circumscribed the printed works. Linguists, teachers, and language learners who reframe legacy text in adapted paratextual elements convey a message about the purpose, audience, and ownership of these resources. As a non-Native linguist and librarian, I live with the legacy of colonial documentation by grappling with the contradictions of language that has been conscripted into the service of Church and State and which persists to inform the reclamation of sovereign modes of communication today.

19 Community-participatory orthography development in the Máı´jùnà communities of Peruvian Amazonia Christine Beier and Lev Michael

19.1 Introduction Orthographies are a key opportunity for productive collaborations among linguists and community members. In many contexts, a satisfactory orthography can be one of the most valued outcomes for community members from collaborating with linguists on the documentation and description of their languages. At the same time, orthographies can be highly ideologically charged, and may become proxies or arenas for debates or conflicts that go far beyond questions of what may constitute suitable writing systems for the languages and communities in question. The complexities of representing spoken language in written form is a topic of long-standing importance to linguists and sociologists of language (e.g. Bolinger 1946; Berry 1968 [1958]; Fishman 1977; Sebba 2007; Cahill & Rice 2014, and authors therein). Smalley (1964) presented an early articulation of five basic principles for orthography design—“maximum motivation for the learner, maximum representation of speech, maximum ease of learning, maximum transfer, and maximum ease of reproduction” (as cited in Berry 1977, 3)—four of which, as Jones and Mooney (2017, 23) note, are “extra-linguistic.” Nonetheless, as Seifart (2008, 275) observes, “The idea persists [among most linguists] that a good orthography is simply one that represents all phonological contrasts. However, orthography development … involves not only phonological, prosodic, grammatical, and semantic aspects of the language… but also a wide variety of non-linguistic issues, among them pedagogical and psycholinguistic aspects of reading and writing and the sociolinguistic situation.” Grenoble and Whaley (2005, 137) use even stronger terms; in their view, “[t]he importance of sociological factors cannot be overstated. Regardless of how linguistically and technically sound an orthography might be, its initial (and continued) acceptance by the people for whom it is designed is critical in determining its eventual effectiveness and use.” As a concrete response to these important considerations, in this chapter we discuss a Christine Beier and Lev Michael, Community-participatory orthography development in the Máı´jùnà communities of Peruvian Amazonia. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Christine Beier and Lev Michael (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0019

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tested methodology for collaborative orthography design that is both ‘linguistically sound’ and attentive to key aspects of the ‘extra-linguistic’ situation. This chapter describes a model for community-participatory orthography development that emerged from collaboration between the authors of this chapter¹ and members of the Máı´jùnà communities of Peruvian Amazonia, a model we hope will be useful to other collaborative teams of community members and linguists. Crucially, this model aims to support the development of orthographies that are satisfactory not only in their ability to represent relevant aspects of phonology but also in social and ideological terms, through actively involving speaker-community members so that they feel a sense of ownership over the resulting orthography. This is achieved by simultaneously centering decisionmaking by community members and empowering them in terms of relevant technical linguistic knowledge, while scaffolding the orthography development process in a way that encourages the evaluation of diverse criteria and perspectives in arriving at decisions about orthographies. We take two approaches in presenting this model. First, we situate it in the ethnographic particulars of the context in which it was developed, by presenting a narrative account of the emergence, functioning, and outcomes of this community-participatory orthography development model between 2006 and 2013, mainly in the context of the Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì Project (hereafter, MP). Then we step back from the particulars of this case and present the model in schematic form, with the goal of facilitating evaluation, use, and repurposing of the model in other orthography development contexts. We intend this two-pronged approach to illuminate the distinction between developments that were contingent upon the specific circumstances of the MP, on the one hand; and strategic actions and decisions that more generally applicable, on the other. We realize this model is not unique either in its focus on centering community decision-making, or in training of community members in linguistics (see, e.g. Rice 2011; Yamada 2014; Viñas-de-Puig et al. 2021). However, we believe that the ways these components combine in this model, plus its concrete structure, will be useful in other contexts where community members and linguists seek to collaborate in developing and revising orthographies. Before closing this general introduction, we wish to draw attention to a key facet of the broader intellectual context in which this model developed. From our viewpoint, successful models for collaboration between linguists and community members will play an increasingly important role in advancing linguistic research with speakers of South American Indigenous languages across all areas and subfields. In the area of historical linguistics, in particular, a basic research priority ¹ The overview and syntheses offered in this chapter are limited to the perspectives of the two authors, but we hope to include our Máí collaborators in more extensive reflexive assessments of the MP in the future, once the circumstances of the COVID-19 pandemic allow us to return to collaborative work in the Máíjùnà communities.

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is the development of richer and more detailed lexical documentation for a larger number of Indigenous South American languages (Michael & Chousou-Polydouri 2019). Happily, lexical documentation is usually also a priority for Indigenous South American communities. This intersection in priorities presents both opportunities and challenges. On the one hand, lexical documentation presents a sterling opportunity for close intellectual collaboration between linguists and community members. In particular, it is rare for linguists, especially junior linguists, to have sufficient locally situated cultural and environmental knowledge to properly document many important lexical domains, but community members have precisely this expertise. Simultaneously, the collaboration can benefit from linguists’ knowledge regarding which structural aspects of the lexicon merit documentation—such as morphological subcategorizational properties (e.g. irregular plurals), allomorphy, and special syntactic properties. On the other hand, any resulting research products that are community-facing—especially dictionaries—will be subject to critical review and scrutiny by a wide range of community members. Since one aspect of such works most likely to attract community members’ critical attention is the way the lexical items in their language are represented, this makes orthographic decisions crucial not only for community-level acceptance of lexical documentation resources but also for community-level commitment to the linguistic research endeavor itself. Successful community-participatory orthography development, as a component of collaborative research more broadly, thus has significant ramifications not only for research with individual languages, but also for larger-scale investigations into the linguistic history of South America, and no doubt, beyond.

19.2 The Máı´jùnà people and their language Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì is the traditional language of the Máı´jùnà people, and is spoken in northern Peruvian Amazonia by 80–90 people out of a population of approximately 400 individuals who would identify as Máı´ in appropriate contexts.² Speakers of Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì live in four government-recognized and titled comunidades nativas (‘native communities’), all located in the region between the Napo and Putumayo rivers, as shown in Figure 19.1. The communities of Puerto Huamán and Nueva Vida are located on the Yanayacu River; the community of Sucusari on the Sucusari River, and the community of Totoya on the Algodón River. Additionally, in the last 15 years there has been an increasing migration of residents of Totoya to the nearest major town, San Antonio del Estrecho, to gain easier access to goods and government services, especially education and healthcare. ² Information in this section comes from MP research unless a citation is provided.

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Figure 19.1 Locations of the four Máíjùnà communities in Loreto, Peru (west to east): Puerto Huamán, Nueva Vida, Sucusari, and Totoya. Source: Modified from the base map in Gilmore et al. (2010, 299).

The modern Máı´jùnà still engage in subsistence activities that would be quite familiar to their ancestors, including hunting, fishing, manioc and plantain agriculture, and the gathering of palm fruits, while also participating in the local cash-based economy via the sale of farm and forest products, small-scale logging, and wage labor outside their communities. Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì is a member of the Western branch of the Tukanoan family, and speakers recognize three major varieties, roughly associated with (1) Puerto Huamán and Nueva Vida, (2) Sucusari, and (3) Totoya. Especially salient to speakers of Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì are sound changes like the loss of /g/, associated with the Sucusari region, and the loss of inter-vocalic /h/, associated with the Totoya region. There is also evidence of family-level lects (Skilton 2017), reflecting further internal diversity prior to demographic collapse (see Section 19.3).

19.2.1 Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì phonology and the Velie orthography Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì resembles most other Tukanoan languages in both its phonological inventory and its supersegmental processes and features, especially in exhibiting nasal harmony and tone. The MP team adopted relatively surface-transparent

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phonological representations for Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì, yielding the phonological inventory given in Tables 19.1 and 19.2. As was true for many Peruvian Amazonian peoples, in the mid-twentieth century the Summer Institute of Linguistics (SIL) played a major role in the development of bilingual schools and indigenous literacy in the Máı´jùnà communities. Daniel and Virginia Velie, the SIL couple who worked in Máı´jùnà communities, developed a hispanophone orthography, also in Tables 19.1 and 19.2, which was taught in the first bilingual school (see Section 19.3); and in which were written pedagogical materials and translated portions of the New Testament. The Velie orthography employs a number of Spanish orthographic graphemic conventions, such as the use of and for /k/, and for /w/; and it uses underscores to indicate nasal vowels, likely motivated by a desire to leave space for tone marks above vowels; in practice, however, tone marks were omitted in written materials presented by the Velies,³ and Máı´ individuals who learned to use this orthography did not learn to write tone marks. Table 19.1 Máíjı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì vowel phonemes and corresponding graphemes in the MP and Velie orthographies

Table 19.2 Máíjı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì consonant phonemes, allophones, and corresponding graphemes in the MP and Velie orthographies; where the orthographies differ, MP is in the top cell and Velie in the bottom cell

³ The Velies’ dictionary indicates that tone marks are written for roots for which a tonal minimal pair exists (Velie & Velie 1981: 9); however, most roots participating in tonal minimal pairs or triplets were written without tone marks.

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When we began working closely with Máı´ individuals in 2010, we learned that a handful of adult men in their 50s were able to read and write in this orthography, and that the Máı´jùnà school teachers were also familiar with it. A wider group of Máı´ in their 40s and 50s had also had some exposure to the orthography. To the best of our knowledge, the orthography was little-used by Máı´ outside of the context of the SIL-run school and few printed materials were ever produced that employed it.

19.3 Historical context for language shift and subsequent revival A grim historical record shows that an original Máı´jùnà population of many thousands was decimated through the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries by successive waves of introduced diseases and missionization, and through the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries by the genocide and economic oppression of the Rubber Boom; by the mid-twentieth century, a population of only a few hundred individuals remained, distributed in numerous small settlements across the extent of their traditional territory (Espinosa 1955). With the added suffering of the patrón-peon debt-peonage system up through the 1950s, this era likely represented the demographic and political nadir for the Máı´jùnà people, from which they subsequently began to rebound. In the 1960s, with the encouragement of evangelical missionaries, especially those of the SIL, the scattered smaller Máı´jùnà settlements merged into the communities of Sucusari, Puerto Huamán, and Totoya. In this period, the Velies established a Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì-Spanish bilingual school, staffed by a young Máı´ man, in Sucusari. Greater demographic concentration plus access to education made it easier for Máı´ individuals to assert their economic and political independence, and Máı´jùnà self-determination continued to grow. In the 1970s and 1980s, Puerto Huamán, Sucusari, and Totoya all obtained official comunidad nativa titles.⁴ Subsequently, in the mid-1980s, Nueva Vida was formed, then titled, by a group of families that split off from Puerto Huamán. While a few men had been bilingual in Spanish or Quechua before this period, as the Máı´jùnà gained more direct access to the mestizo-dominated economic world, a rapid process of shift to Spanish took place. Community members recount encountering stark anti-indigenous racism as they started taking wage-earning jobs outside the Máı´jùnà communities; and as visitors, especially traders, came in larger numbers to their communities. As a response to these experiences, young Máı´ parents started using Spanish exclusively with their children, with the ⁴ In Peru, comunidad nativa titles are issued and administered at the federal, not regional, level and they establish certain rights and responsibilities regarding, for example, self-governance, land use, education, and health care.

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explicitly stated goal of their children becoming fluent Spanish speakers, to help their children avoid the racism that they themselves had suffered.⁵ Thus, whereas all children born to parents who were already adults at this historical juncture were raised as Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì speakers, no parents who became adults during this time, or after it, raised their children as Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì speakers. The result was an extremely abrupt interruption of full Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì language transmission in the late 1970s, with the exception of a few children raised by their grandparents. Limited passive language ability was acquired by children through the early 1990s, after which children grew up wholly monolingual in Spanish. The 1990s, however, saw important changes in Peruvian Amazonia, as indigenous political organizing, nascent in previous decades, greatly increased in intensity and scope; and as mestizo attitudes toward Peruvian Amazonian Indigenous peoples gradually became more positive. Like a number of other Peruvian Amazonian peoples (Beier & Michael 2018), the Máı´jùnà people took this as an opportunity to organize politically, with the explicit aims of gaining full control over their traditional territories, combating environmental degradation in them, and revitalizing their culture and language. A key concrete step in this process was the formation, in the mid 2000s, of the Máı´jùnà indigenous federation, FECONAMAI (Federación de Comunidades Nativas Máı´jùnà), which has since coordinated political activity among the four Máı´jùnà communities and with non-Máı´jùnà allies and collaborators; and which has served as the official face of the Máı´jùnà people in interactions with government bodies and NGOs. FECONAMAI has had important successes, including bringing Máı´jùnà, spread over three river basins, back into closer contact with each other, after many decades of having drifted apart socially and politically; and in gaining official protection of traditional Máı´jùnà lands that were not originally included in their community land titles. Cultural and linguistic revalorization and revitalization have also been important goals for FECONAMAI, which is how the authors came to be involved with FECONAMAI and the Máı´jùnà communities.

19.4 The emergence of the Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì Project The goals and organization of the Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì Project in general, and of the community-participatory orthography development process in particular, emerged through a series of community-level conversations, followed by structured collaborative project development at two FECONAMAI congresses, in 2009 and 2010. ⁵ In interviews and discussions with the authors, this generation of parents made it very clear that their goal was not to prevent their children from learning Máíjı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì. Rather, they explained, they had assumed, because their children were Máíjùnà, they would inevitably learn to speak Máíjı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì fluently.

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Foundational conversations began in 2006, when the authors made visits to Sucusari, Puerto Huamán, and Nueva Vida, in order to assess possible interest in a collaborative language documentation and description project.⁶ We received a warm reception in each community, and strongly positive responses to the general idea of the project we described. As Beier (2006) wrote: [T]he level of awareness and concern in the communities regarding language loss and its implications is quite high, and is closely linked to local efforts to found the federation … many people are thinking in great detail about the future of their communities and the role that their heritage language and culture will play in that future.

It merits special mention that on that first visit to Nueva Vida in 2006, we two began our lasting friendship and collaboration with Liberato Mozoline Mogica and his brother, Alberto, whose deep knowledge of, and commitment to, their language has been an inspiration and a driving force in the MP ever since. In particular, their metalinguistic insights into tone and nasality in Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì were the seed for many of the MP team’s analyses.⁷ Next, in 2009, Beier attended and addressed the FECONAMAI congress in Sucusari, in response to which Máı´jùnà attendees expressed widespread support for the development of written materials in and on Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì, especially a more satisfactory dictionary⁸ and pedagogical materials written in a locally developed, unified orthography that accommodated all four communities.⁹ Concretely, they gave their support for the authors to begin work with Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì speakers the following year (summer 2010); and committed to working out the details of the Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì Project (as the collaborative linguistic project came to be known) at the 2010 FECONAMAI congress. In our view, a rousing speech at the opening of the congress, made first in Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì and then in Spanish, by Sebastian Rı´os Ochoa, one of the most influential and respected of contemporary Máı´ leaders, in which he addressed the value of speaking, remembering, and writing Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì as part of maintaining a Máı´jùnà identity, helped set a general tone that supported the positive outcomes for a language-oriented collaboration. At the 2010 FECONAMAI congress in Puerto Huamán, several working groups were created to facilitate intensive discussion about important topics, including a ‘Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì language’ working group. Attendees’ interest in language-related issues ⁶ Our areal interest in Peruvian Amazonia had made us aware that Máíjı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì was both endangered and under-documented. ⁷ Sadly, Alberto passed away in May 2021. ⁸ As part of our commitment to serving community interests, the MP has released several drafts of the dictionary-in-progress; the most recent is Michael et al. (2013). ⁹ Materials of many types produced by the MP are freely available at the California Language Archive, http://dx.doi.org/doi:10.7297/X2DR2SGD, and at http://www.cabeceras.org.

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was great, and many people also brought their opinions and concerns related to their heritage language to us outside the working-group context. While working-group participants again expressed great interest in the preparation of reference and pedagogical materials in and about Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì, now Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì orthography reform emerged as the first priority. A diverse set of Máı´ individuals expressed specific concerns with the extant Velie orthography. The first was its treatment of [d] and [ɾ], which are saliently distinct to many Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì speakers, but are represented by a single grapheme in the Velie orthography (Section 19.2.1). The second concerned its treatment of nominal classifiers (Farmer 2015) as separate orthographic words, which many Máı´ felt should form an orthographic word with the nouns they classified. The third major concern was how Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì-internal dialectal diversity would be addressed in any orthography reform process. Some Máı´ individuals, especially those employed as teachers in the government bilingual schools, expressed the opinion that a single “correct” way of spelling Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì words must be found. Others expressed the opinion that they did not wish to see an orthography developed that failed to accurately represent the variety of Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì they spoke, or the one associated with their community. Several suggested that the best solution was to have speakers from all four communities involved in the process of orthography reform. In response to these and other perspectives expressed by Máı´, the authors pondered how to structure an orthography reform process in which community members made all critical orthography-related decisions, but which also allowed them to draw on linguistic expertise in doing so. We reflected on our experiences with, and knowledge of, a variety of nominally community-participatory events involving Peruvian Amazonian communities on a range of topics (e.g. land rights and formal education) that had failed to be meaningfully participatory, and considered why. In our analysis, lack of meaningful participation happened for two related reasons. First, we had witnessed nominally community-participatory events where it was clear that the relevant outside entity had in effect made all meaningful decisions prior to the event in question, and was simply seeking assent or approbation from community members. Second, we had witnessed numerous events in which community members lacked important background knowledge or expertise necessary for critically evaluating the proposal(s) they were presented with, impeding their ability either to respond confidently or to make informed decisions. With these concerns at the forefront in our minds during discussions with Máı´jùnà about orthography reform, two general ideals emerged: first, whatever shape the orthography development process might take, community members would ultimately make all the key decisions about the orthography; and second, community members would have the opportunity to learn relevant aspects of

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linguistics and principles of orthography design so that they could make fully informed decisions about their orthography. From these ideals, a basic framework for collaboration between Máı´jùnà and the team of ‘visiting linguists’ (hereafter, VLs) developed, centered on a series of annual workshops in which Máı´ individuals selected as ‘community linguists’ (hereafter, CLs) would both (a) receive training in linguistics and orthography design and (b) collaborate with the VL team on orthography reform and materials preparation. At least two CLs would be selected from each of the four communities based on criteria negotiated at the time, including both native-speakerhood in Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì and literacy skills. This framework generated much excitement, and the working group produced ample practical advice on the details of organizing the workshops. When the working groups concluded, Michael presented the proposal that had emerged for the MP to the full congress: a three-year collaborative project, involving a team of CLs and VLs, the goals of which were (a) to significantly advance the documentation and description of Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì, (b) to develop materials useful for language revitalization, including a dictionary and pedagogical materials, and (c) to carry out home-based language revitalization activities. In the plenary discussion that followed, the membership reacted very positively to this proposal, while also cementing two priorities: the importance of orthography reform and of equal participation by all communities. They decided that all CLs would be fully fluent native speakers, and able to read and write (whether in Spanish, Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì, or both). It was also agreed that the orthographic proposal produced by the CLs would be formally presented at a future FECONAMAI congress for approval by attendees. These basic goals and principles were summarized in an official Act of FECONAMAI, signed by the authors and the FECONAMAI leadership.

19.5 The Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì workshops and orthography development 19.5.1 Overview of the workshops As agreed upon at the 2010 FECONAMAI congress, three MP workshops were held, in 2011, 2012, and 2013. Ten CLs, chosen by their communities, participated in all three workshops: Chó̱kótù Everest Rı´os Vaca, Dékóbı̵̀ Rusber Tangoa Rı´os, I̵Í̵ ́ sé Segundo Rı´os Tapullima, Játı´ Teodora Tamayo Tapullima, Mà̱gàró Grapulio Tamayo Mera, Mákákùrà Lindaura Pinedo Rı´os, Mátà̱kè Sebastian Rı´os Ochoa, Pı´rı´ Lizardo Gonzales Flores, Sábà Liberato Mozoline Mogica, and Tı´mı´ Alberto Mozoline Mogica. In addition, eight VLs participated in one or more of the workshops: Bóchìchì Lev Michael, Máı´bàrò Christine Beier, Mámàsò Stephanie Farmer, Békótù Amalia Skilton, Békó Kelsey Neely, Mákòbè Greg Finley,

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Nèsı̵ı̵́ ́ sì John Sylak, and Tı̵ı̵́ ́ tı̵́ Grace Neveu. Each workshop had different goals, which we summarize next. • Workshop 1: Training of CLs in introductory articulatory phonetics and segmental phonology; development of a proposal for a new orthography; preliminary writing practice using proposed orthography; preliminary exploration of tone and nasality; collaborative lexical documentation. • Workshop 2: Training of CLs in introductory morphology; collaborative research on morphology and wordhood; collaborative research on tone; writing practice using new proposed orthography; collaborative lexical documentation. • Workshop 3: Review and evaluation of orthography, extensive writing practice, collaborative lexical documentation. The workshops were held in the community of Nueva Vida, at the small language center that the authors had constructed there in 2011. The CLs who were from the three other communities were housed with either kin or friends in Nueva Vida, or in the community meeting house. Each workshop lasted for 14 days, including two Sundays off. The participants assembled at 8am each morning, and worked together until noon. After a 1.5 hour break for lunch, work continued until 5pm. During each block of work, we typically cycled through a number of different activities, including collaborative lexical research in break-out groups, Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì writing practice, collaborative grammatical analysis, and in workshop 1, linguistic training and scaffolded discussion and decision-making of Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì orthography. We turn now to a discussion of the most relevant aspects of that first workshop.

19.5.2 Workshop 1 The VLs were put in charge of the large-scale organization of the first workshop, so we decided to front-load the linguistic training component, followed by the orthography development component, followed by broader discussions and writing practice toward the end of the workshop. Week 1 We felt that it was critical to start by addressing the issue of language variation, in large part because we had heard language ideologies voiced by some Máı´ that we feared could hamstring the orthography development process—and worse, negatively affect the reception of any community-oriented materials that the MP would produce. Attitudes toward Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì-internal diversity vary considerably among Máı´, but those with more social and economic connections to mestizo society tended to express views that certain varieties of Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì are the ‘correct’

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ones, or ‘better than’ other ones. Since it was clear that many Máı´ were concerned about their own variety being excluded in the context of the MP, it was essential to tackle the question of Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì-internal diversity directly. To do this, Michael structured the discussion of variation in two parts: a first part, which he led, focused on the language ideological dimension of variation; and a second part focused on the question of the standardization of Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì, which was a decision that the CLs needed to make. He introduced the language ideological question by focusing on global languages like Spanish and English, and on how the varieties of these languages differ between countries. He then posed the question of whether it made sense to ask about two such varieties (e.g. Peruvian Spanish and Argentinian Spanish, or American English and Australian English) which one was ‘correct’ or ‘better.’ This led to a discussion of whether it made sense for the speakers of one variety to impose their preferences on those of the other. In the context of these global languages, all CLs agreed that it did not make sense to speak of one variety as ‘more correct’ than any other, or for speakers of one variety to impose their will (in the form of standardization) on speakers of another variety. When the discussion turned to Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì, however, opinions were split. Although some had been swayed by the analogy with Spanish and English and adopted an inclusive stance, allowing each variety of Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì to be represented in ways that reflected its specific characteristics, others still felt there was value in establishing a single Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì standard. At that point, some CLs turned the discussion in a very practical direction: what exactly would this mean for the orthography and for resources like the Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì dictionary? In this context, it became clear to all the CLs that any effort to impose a standard would leave some speakers very dissatisfied. With this in mind, all finally agreed that they would work toward a common alphabet, but that speakers of each dialect could spell words in the way appropriate for their variety. With this important issue resolved, Michael turned to teaching the CLs the basics of articulatory phonetics. All expressed great excitement about, and satisfaction with, this material, and especially with the idea that graphemes in general, and IPA symbols in particular, could represent relatively precise combinations of positions and motions of articulators. Two parts of our work on articulatory phonetics elicited particularly enthusiastic interest: (a) a vocal tract sagittal section diagram and (b) the use of mirror to show the airflow differences between oral and nasal vowels.¹⁰ The sagittal section diagram, combined with practice in feeling the position and contact point of one’s own articulators, led the CLs to an understanding of the three-way link ¹⁰ The idea of using a mirror to show the presence of nasal airflow was proposed by VL team member Stephanie Farmer.

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between speech sounds, articulations, and IPA symbols. Similarly, the mirror method was very effective in clarifying CLs’ understanding of the difference between oral and nasal vowels. After these experiences, several CLs remarked that they understood the idea behind writing speech sounds much more clearly than they had before, and they now felt much better positioned to think about writing Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì. The discussion of the phoneme concept proved more challenging for all involved, but many CLs firmly grasped the concept of minimal pairs/triplets and found them very useful for thinking about contrasts in Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì, especially those involving tone and nasality. Note that in our early discussions of articulatory phonetics and phonological analysis, we deliberately focused on languages other than Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì and Spanish, although we did refer to them as points of comparison. In particular, we used examples from other Amazonian languages alongside familiar global languages like English, French, and Russian. Similarly, we situated our use of the IPA in a discussion of how mappings between graphemes and speech sounds vary across languages, and thus represent historically situated conventions, rather than essential properties of the graphemes themselves. This ‘cross-linguistic’ approach had two main objectives. The first was ideological: we wished to explicitly put Amazonian indigenous languages and global languages on the same footing in the context of the workshop, not only in terms of the attention we paid to them, but also regarding the global utility of the analytical concepts and tools we were discussing. Second, we felt that it would be helpful for the CLs to learn about phonetics and phonology without having to engage simultaneously with the more-ideologically freighted nature of the analysis of Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì. Week 2 In the second week, we turned to applying these phonetic and phonological tools to Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì. The first stage was assembling an inventory of Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì speech sounds using IPA symbols. We began with a ‘free-listing’ activity where CLs volunteered phones, and we organized them in a table listing place and manner of articulation. Next, we reviewed the table together and identified and filled in gaps. The resulting table was an object of considerable pride for all workshop participants. The next stage was to identify sets of sounds to be treated as related allophones of phonemes. Two pairs of allophones, [ts] ~ [s] and [tʃ ] ~ [ʃ ], which are in free variation in the speech of many speakers, were readily identified as related. A more challenging case involved [d] and [ɾ]. These two speech sounds do not contrast, and they are in complementary distribution in morphologically simplex forms, with [d] appearing word-initially, and [ɾ] appearing intervocalically. The same generalization holds for many morphologically complex forms, but in some, [d] variably surfaces instead of [ɾ] at word-internal morpheme boundaries, despite

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appearing intervocalically. This phenomenon appeared to depend on speech rate, as well as the transparency to speakers of the morphological composition of the form, plus other factors that remained unclear. It was here that the opinions of the VLs and the CLs first diverged on an analytical issue. The VLs found the non-contrastiveness of [d] and [ɾ], and their distributional properties, compelling evidence for treating them as allophones of the same phoneme. The CLs, on the other hand, while acknowledging both facts, were hesitant to treat [d] and [ɾ] as allophones, for two reasons. The first was that their distribution is not neatly complementary. But the other, more important by far, was their very strong intuition that [d] and [ɾ] are meaningfully distinct speech sounds, in a way that they did not find [ts] and [s], or [tʃ ] and [ʃ ] to be. In retrospect, it seems clear that CLs were expressing their intuition that the speech sounds were distinctive, despite their not being contrastive, suggesting that [d] and [ɾ] are now quasi-phonemes (Kiparsky 2015) in Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì. The VLs suggested treating them as allophones of the same phoneme, due to their not being contrastive, but to leave open for future discussion the question of what this would entail for the orthography. The CLs agreed to this proposal, and having settled on a provisional phonemic analysis of the language, we turned to the final phase of developing the orthographic proposal. In this stage, we first discussed in detail the idea that there is no intrinsic link between a letter and the phoneme or sound it represents; and that such links are in fact conventions that arise historically in particular orthographic traditions. We discussed, for example, the quite different sounds represented by in Spanish, French, German, and English. The CLs grasped this point very easily, perhaps in part because, by this point, the CLs had been using IPA symbols for more than a week. We felt that this conceptual step was important to make the CLs comfortable with thinking about a range of options in their own orthography development process, especially since we had heard voiced in certain contexts (especially the 2010 congress) language ideologies that attributed intrinsic relationships between speech sounds and graphemes. We then discussed basic orthographic design principles, including 1-to-1 mapping between phonemes and letters in an alphabet, the value of maintaining continuity in orthographic traditions, and considerations of ease in using graphemes in various media. When it came to the actual orthographic decision-making process, the procedure that Michael suggested was to proceed phoneme by phoneme. First, the CLs would brainstorm all the possible graphemes that might be used for a given phoneme. Then the CLs and VLs discussed as a group the various strengths and weaknesses of the suggested alternatives in light of the orthography design principles we had discussed. When it seemed that the discussion among the CLs and VLs had run its course, the VLs then left the room so that the CLs could

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continue the discussion among themselves, and make a decision regarding the choice of grapheme, upon which the VLs were called back and informed of the CLs’ decisions. Michael selected an order for the discussion of phonemes that placed easier decisions early in the process, to build a sense of accomplishment, and left potentially more challenging cases for later. Grapheme choices were straightforward in cases where there was only one plausible option, e.g. /a/ and /t/. In several other cases, the CLs also made decisions quickly, despite there being alternatives. For example, in the case of nasal vowels, the initial brainstorming yielded just two possibilities: a tilde above, as in the IPA and in many other Amazonian languages; or an underscore, as in the Velie orthography. The CLs emphasized that the underscore was already familiar as a way of representing nasal vowels for some of them, and that this option had the advantage of not competing with tone marks for the space above vowels. Thus the CLs called the VLs back relatively quickly and informed us that they had decided on the underscore. Not surprisingly, the most extensive discussion concerned /d/ and its two allophones, [d] and [ɾ]. This discussion revolved around two main options: choosing a single grapheme for this phoneme, whether or , (although only was taken seriously, since it is the one used in the Velie orthography); or choosing both graphemes, and . We all reviewed all the points made during our discussion of the phonological analysis of these speech sounds, and it became clear that while the CLs understood perfectly that [d] and [ɾ] do not contrast, and that they do have a largely complementary distribution, most of them felt strongly that they were different sounds that needed to be represented with different graphemes. The VLs raised, in this context, the additional concern that if the orthography opted to use both and , it might be difficult for users to select which grapheme to use in cases where the surface realization of the phoneme is variable. The CLs deliberated for about 90 minutes before calling the VLs back, and informed us that they had decided in favor of the two-grapheme option. Another interesting decision emerged for the very last item that the CLs tackled: the representation of tone. The Velie orthography had effectively disregarded tone, but the teamwork we had done earlier in the workshop to discover many tonal minimal triplets had deeply impressed the CLs with the importance of tone in contrasts among Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì words. As a group, we discussed three options: not marking tone at all; marking high tones only, with an acute accent mark; and marking both high and low, with acute and grave accent marks respectively. In the face of obvious widespread enthusiasm among the CLs for marking tone, the VLs sounded a note of caution: although the CLs had easily distinguished roots with different tonal melodies in the collaborative workshop sessions, when the CLs had practiced writing tone marks on roots on their own, they found it quite challenging to identify which of the three tonal patterns (HH, HL, or LL) a given root

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had—even when a root was a member of a minimal triplet. We voiced a concern that including exhaustive tone-marking in the orthography might make it difficult to use. The CLs responded that they recognized this potential difficulty, but ultimately, since tone distinguishes roots and affixes in Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì, it should be marked. This, they said, was just something that people would need to learn when writing Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì. The CLs’ deliberations on the marking of tone were quite brief: they opted for marking both high and low tones on all words. With the decision about tone-marking made, the CLs had developed a complete proposal for a new orthography (shown in Tables 19.1 and 19.2). The CLs expressed great satisfaction with this achievement, and predicted that the proposal would be received warmly at the FECONAMAI congress, which was to begin the following week. In the remaining days of that first workshop, we continued writing practice with the proposed orthography, which now formed part of our commitment to test and evaluate the new orthography through the two remaining workshops.

19.5.3 Reception of the orthography proposal and subsequent modifications 2011 congress The 2011 FECONAMAI congress took place in Nueva Vida, and we had timed the first workshop to end just before the congress began. All the CLs and VLs attended the congress, where the proposed revised orthography was slated for discussion and approval. During a part of the congress devoted to discussion of the MP, several CLs first described the activities of the workshop, including the linguistic training, collaborative lexical work, and crucially, the orthography development process. Liberato Mozoline Mogica and Alberto Mozoline Mogica, in their roles as CLs from Nueva Vida, requested to address the congress first, and spoke at some length in both Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì and Spanish, about how much they and the other CLs were learning in the workshops, and how valuable they considered the MP and its outcomes to be for the future of the Máı´jùnà people. Their perspective and opinions were well-received and had a clear impact on ‘public opinion’ among the attendees at large. Then the VLs and CLs jointly presented the proposed revised orthography, emphasizing the decisions that had been made about the orthographic treatment of /d/ and tone. After a brief Q&A with congress attendees, the proposed orthography was provisionally approved by acclamation, and a final decision was scheduled to be made at the 2013 congress, pending testing and evaluation of the orthography in the two workshops in the intervening years. Having completed the orthography design process in workshop 1, workshops 2 and 3 focused on collaborative work on a Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì dictionary, the collaborative study of Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì morphology and tone, in addition to testing and evaluating

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the new orthography. We briefly describe below just a few issues relevant to the orthography that arose during these workshops. Workshop 2 An important topic explored in workshop 2 was the complex inflectional paradigms of Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì verbs. The VLs taught basic morphological analysis to the CLs, who generally expressed great satisfaction in being able to see how different morphemes contributed to the meaning of Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì words. We also had very fruitful discussions regarding tonal patterns in inflected Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì verbs, observing that some inflections were only distinguished by their tones, and that in most inflectional paradigms, stem-final tones spread to inflectional suffixes, but not to what were clearly separate words to their right. Significantly, when we turned to nominal morphology, we saw that the final tone of nominal roots spread to adjacent nominal classifiers, in the same way that verbal inflectional suffixes take stem-final tones, suggesting that noun classifiers are part of the same word as their associated nominal roots. This discovery allowed us to respond to an orthographic concern voiced by some participants at the 2010 FECONAMAI congress, namely that the Velie orthography treats noun classifiers as separate orthographic words, a practice that clashed with some Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì speakers’ intuitions. On the basis of the tonal evidence, the CLs were unanimous in deciding to write noun classifiers as part of the same orthographic word as their adjacent nouns. Workshop 3 A core focus of workshop 3 was taking stock of the orthography that we had been using since workshop 1, in both writing practice and the new Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì dictionary. Our group discussions revealed that, although all the CLs and VLs thought the new orthography was working well, marking tones remained difficult for most of the CLs. Nonetheless, the CLs rejected outright the idea of abandoning tone marking in the orthography, arguing that because tone alone can distinguish roots in Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì, it must be marked; and that learning to write tone is simply one of many things that people need to learn when writing Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì. Their solution was a unanimous vote for tone marking to be optional. 2013 congress The final step in the Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì orthography development process was the official adoption, at the 2013 FECONAMAI congress, of the proposed revised orthography, (provisionally approved in 2011). Following a relatively brief report by several of the CLs and VLs on the viability of the revised orthography, as tested during workshop writing practice and the elaboration of the new Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì dictionary, the FECONAMAI membership voted by acclamation to adopt the revised orthography on a permanent basis. Official standardization Over the course of the 2010s, the Peruvian Ministry of Education (hereafter, MinEdu) aimed to develop official alphabets for all Peruvian

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indigenous languages. Central to this process were workshops held by MinEdu personnel in which community members were invited to participate; and during which alphabets were first proposed, and then accepted by participating community members. MinEdu turned its attention to Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì in 2015, roughly a year after the first phase of the MP had been completed. The authors were invited to participate in the MinEdu alphabet workshop, and while we appreciated the invitation, we declined, for two reasons. First, we felt that our participation was at best superfluous: there was little we could contribute as linguists that the CLs could not convey at least as well as we could. And second, we felt that our presence at the workshop could easily end up undermining the authority of the CLs and the Máı´jùnà more generally. According to what our Máı´ colleagues told us, their workshop proceeded rather differently from what MinEdu had planned. Apparently, the Máı´ participants simply informed the MinEdu representative that they had already developed an orthography; that it had already been approved by FECONAMAI; and that it was not necessary to go through another alphabet development process. They reported that there was some discussion of the CLs’ graphemic choices, but ultimately the MinEdu representative simply accepted the alphabet that had emerged from the community-participatory orthography development process. The alphabet was granted official status by Resolución Ministerial #521-2015-MINEDU on November 16, 2015. Note that this is the only case we know of, in the context of MinEdu’s alphabet officialization process, where the speakers of a language effectively shortcircuited the alphabet development process by presenting the ministry with an orthography they had developed.

19.6 Community-participatory orthography development: A model 19.6.1 Conceptual grounding of the model In this section, we outline the key components of our model for communityparticipatory orthography development, presented in a form that is intended to facilitate use and repurposing of the model in other orthography development contexts. The purpose of this model is to scaffold a collaborative process that yields a functional orthography over which both language users and the broader speaker community feel ownership. Our model presupposes that the purpose of this orthography is to serve the needs of the local speaker/user community; and that a team of individuals with a diversity of perspectives will commit themselves to collaborating on the development of that orthography. Because orthographic choices can be (or become) an arena for broader ideological and

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political conflicts (see especially Section 19.6.3), this model centers the creation of an orthography designed, negotiated, and owned by language users themselves. To achieve this end, this model prioritizes decision-making by speakercommunity members regarding orthography design. At the same time, the model is built on the assumption that these decisions should be made from the bestinformed position possible, grounded in knowledge of the sound system of the language, the principles that underlie orthography design, and crucially, intimate knowledge of relevant local social and political concerns. The components of this model scaffold the orthography development process in a way that encourages critical evaluation of, and deliberation over, diverse criteria and perspectives prior to arriving at orthographic decisions. Throughout the process, outsider-participants must work actively to make sure that speaker-community participants know that their knowledge, experience, views, and concerns are taken seriously as part of the process. In our experience, outsiders too often slip into a dominant and dominating role, letting their special social status and sense of expertise inflate their local position to the point of alienating local participants. Concretely, the knowledge that linguists have may indeed be unique in a given place, but knowledge of linguistics is a relatively small piece of the total situation in which an orthography design process is taking place. Linguists should not overestimate either the value or the relevance of what they know relative to speaker-community members’ perspectives and values.

19.6.2 Components of the model This model consists of a series of stages, framed in the perspective of the ‘visiting linguist’ (VL). Each stage is defined by specific milestones, to be attained before moving on to the next stage. Stage 1: Initial proposal for collaboration If you are in an appropriate position to collaborate with members of a speaker community in orthography development, the first stage is to communicate your willingness to do so to potential collaborators. Milestone: An agreement to collaborate is reached. Stage 2: Preliminary conversations In this stage, a wide range of opinions are aired in both planned meetings and spontaneous conversations among various groups of stakeholders. Some will be organized by you and include you; ideally, many will not. In addition, during this stage, you (and other VLs) focus on learning as much as possible about existing resources; the language’s phonology; local political and ideological debates, etc., in order to prepare for future steps.

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Milestone: a ‘core team’¹¹ of collaborators is formed, who commit to carrying out the orthography design process to its fruition. Stage 3: Team building, planning, and gathering of resources The core team recruits additional members to form the full ‘design team.’ This team handles logistical planning, including the timeline for the orthography design process and the number and type of trainings necessary to equip all team members with relevant expertise. The team presents proposals to, e.g. relevant community leaders and governing bodies; potential funding sources; and potential ‘outsider’ organizational collaborators. Milestones: A detailed plan emerges; specific responsibilities are assumed by team members based on their knowledge and skills; explicit proposals are made; adequate resources and necessary permissions and agreements are obtained. Stage 4: Training and orthography proposal development The team carries out all planned training and orthography design activities. Milestone: The team produces an orthography proposal that they unanimously support. Stage 5: Presentation of results The team presents their proposed orthography (and the reasoning behind it) to relevant constituents and bodies of the community-at-large. Milestone: If the orthography proposal is accepted, go to stage 7. If the orthography proposal is not accepted, go to stage 6. Stage 6: Negotiation of results The design team spearheads meetings, consultations, and/or additional trainings, as necessary, to address whatever issues prevented the acceptance of the orthography proposal. Once these issues have been addressed, the team returns to stage 5. Stage 7: Formalization and implementation of the new orthography Before disbanding, the design team takes whatever steps are locally appropriate to ‘formalize’ the orthography, including crafting a proposal for how to disseminate the new orthography and train community members in its use. This stage also constitutes an important opportunity for discussing ideas about encouraging widespread use of the orthography, including the development of new materials that employ it.

19.6.3 The place of language ideologies in this model In writing this chapter, we have revealed some of our own language ideologies (see, e.g. Silverstein 1979; Schieffelin et al. 1998; Woolard 2020)—such as the high value ¹¹ In the MP, the ‘core team’ was made up of all ~14 CLs and VLs.

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we place on linguistic diversity, and on multilingualism, and on native-language literacy, to name just a few. In any orthography design process, numerous other language ideologies will also come into play. Moreover, when that design process is deliberative and intensive, language ideological differences may become ideological conflicts. As a means for addressing locally-active language ideologies and minimizing conflicts, many ideologies can be rendered explicit and examined proactively through a structured, scaffolded process of ‘ideological clarification’ (see, e.g. Fishman 1991; Dauenhauer & Dauenhauer 1996; Kroskrity 2009). For example, starting with a discussion about widespread language ideologies that assign different levels of prestige to different varieties of English, Spanish, Chinese, and/or other familiar ‘powerful’ languages can help bring to light previously-unexamined beliefs at a general level, laying a foundation upon which to build subsequent discussions of the specific local language ideologies surrounding the language variety/varieties that are the focus of the workshop itself. Because ideologies are so powerful a factor in the success or failure of an orthography, and because local language ideologies will have an impact on orthography design sooner or later, we feel it is best to begin addressing them directly as early as possible. Even with the best of planning, however, powerful language ideologies will emerge organically when talking about orthography design, so it is imperative that the team agree, in advance, on a strategy for handing these spontaneous events with sensitivity and due consideration. At minimum, having structured discussions of some language ideologies early on builds common ground that will then be available later when other ideologies present themselves.

19.6.4 Linguistics training for community linguists In the model described here, the training of CLs in relevant aspects of linguistics is an essential component of the orthography design process. The objective of this training is to provide CLs with the technical linguistic knowledge and tools that will enable them to make better-informed orthography design decisions. At the same time, during these trainings, CLs will educate VLs about a range of social, cultural, and political facets of the context in which the orthography design process is unfolding. It is crucial to the success of these events for VLs not to conceptualize these trainings as ‘one way’ streets, where they alone are (conceptually) the only experts, and (interactionally) the only trainers. CLs (and other community members) are the experts on many relevant topics and themes, and in this model, VLs sit down and listen to CLs about these topics and themes. Offering this training in an intensive workshop environment has numerous benefits. First, bringing people together for a sustained workshop allows them to focus their attention and immerse themselves in the material. Second, much of the material that these trainings will cover is likely to be completely new to many of

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the participants, and the workshops are structured to include ample time for the learning process. Third, outside of the actual workshop sessions, as people socialize with each other during meals and breaks, participants’ sense of ‘fellow feeling’ and collaboration can grow organically. Fourth, as informal conversations about workshop material unfold, participants deepen their comprehension and discover doubts as well as new insights. In our model, training for the CLs involves rounds of ‘theory’ (presentation and examination of conceptual material) alternating with rounds of ‘praxis’ in which conceptual material is examined, applied, and practiced. The trainings cycle through the following modalities: (1) lessons and presentations given to the whole group by one or more VLs, (2) presentations given to the group by one or more CLs; (3) structured whole-group discussions; (4) structured break-out group discussions; (5) in-session exercises for individual participants to practice the application of material; and (6) in-session exercises for groups of participants to practice the application of material. At the most general level, we recommend drawing relevant concepts from articulatory phonetics, phonology, morphology, and cross-linguistic typology, as well as from areal linguistics and historical linguistics. More concretely, here are a few topic areas that we consider essential content. Sounds and symbols What is an alphabet? What is an orthography? How is an orthography distinct from an alphabet? What is the IPA and what does it represent? How is the IPA used in global languages? How can the IPA help us understand the difference between sounds and symbols? Between different symbol systems? Articulatory phonetics What is the basic physiology of human speech? What are places of articulation? What are manners of articulation? How can we characterize, in articulatory terms, the sounds in languages that participants know? Phonology Phonemes and allophones: contrastive versus non-contrastive sound differences, ‘minimal pairs’ (and triplets, etc.). What do they tell us about sound/meaning relationships? How can they be used to guide decisions about orthography design? Distributional differences between different phonemes and allophones of a given phoneme. Morphology Free versus bound morphemes; what is a word? How do words differ from affixes, clitics, and so on? What are the most useful criteria for defining wordhood in the relevant context? Practicum In our model, the practicum component of the training process is indispensable. Practicing writing with the evolving orthography as a regular part

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of the workshop will allow questions, subtleties, and other issues to emerge and get solved. In the early phases of training, the practice can focus on lexical/dictionary work. In the later phases, participants can shift focus to writing sentences, and then to writing original texts. Having structured opportunities to write their own short stories (personal narratives) is a fun way for CLs to test the orthography, to develop new habits of writing, and to increase participants’ sense of ownership in the orthography. Variation What is a dialect? What is a language? What is linguistic diversity? What is variation? Where can we see variation in our own language use? A cross-linguistic perspective Starting from a broad and inclusive cross-linguistic perspective is, in our experience, an indispensable strategy for introducing important concepts and themes. Introducing everything from linguistic terms to ideological issues by first exploring ‘other languages’ (especially global, regional, and related languages) can help to establish the universal applicability and utility of concepts prior to applying them to the language at hand. Spoken practice is important as well. Having participants explain aloud, to each other (and eventually, to other speakers beyond the workshop), how various parts of the alphabet and the orthography work and why builds not only their comprehension of but also their confidence in the evolving writing system.

19.6.4.1 Some practical considerations in staging workshops Choosing a venue. There are significant benefits to working in a single dedicated space for the duration of the workshop. For example, in the MP workshops, we made handwritten posters summarizing the content of the workshop as it unfolded, hanging them up on the walls of the workshop space as we went along. This created a tangible sense of cumulative accomplishment; the posters served as points of reference in subsequent lessons and conversations; and they became resources for participants to revisit and review as necessary. Workshop frequency and length. How many workshops you need will depend on how much collaborative work and training your team decides is necessary. As for duration, however, we strongly recommend an intensive workshop roughly two weeks in length, so that participants have sufficient time to delve into the material, practice it, and integrate it. For example, in the MP, we agreed on a series of three two-week workshops, over three consecutive (U.S. academic) summers. Two weeks each summer was enough time to delve into substantive issues but not so much time as to create significant (family) hardships. The decision to have three two-week long workshops was the outcome of many discussions and negotiations. This was feasible in part because Máı´ individuals do not generally work for

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wages for other people, and so all the workshop participants were free to decide to participate with no risk to their longer term employment. Workshop costs. A significant type of contribution from outsider-participants is financial and material resources. Funding for workshops can be built into research grants when those workshops include, for example, collaborative lexical work and/or text creation. In our view, it is crucial that local participants be fairly compensated for their time participating in the workshop(s), since their time spent in the workshop takes them away from their regular responsibilities and activities. Construing the workshops as ‘well-paid work’ also lays the ground for the work to be taken seriously by all parties. In the MP, grant funding secured by the VLs provided the CLs with transportation, food, materials, and wages for each workshop.

19.7 Concluding remarks To close, we note that no orthography is perfect—which means, happily, that there are always multiple technically distinct solutions that are adequate to the challenge of representing a language in written form. We have argued that the most important characteristic of a successful orthography is that its potential speaker-community users feel a sense of ownership and investment in it, which will sustain their long-term interest in using it. In this chapter, we have sought to describe one successful model for developing a complete orthography that satisfies this key desideratum, and we hope that others may find this model useful and inspiring.

Acknowledgment We gratefully acknowledge support for the MP from the National Sciences Foundation (Grant #BCS-1065621) and Cabeceras Aid Project.

20 The value of family relations for revitalization Marianne Mithun

Communities working for language revitalization vary widely in their resources. Some have the luxury of skilled first-language speakers, experts who can not only provide vocabulary and grammatical constructions to meet the needs of new learners, but also explore the often subtle aspects of their uses. Importantly, their spontaneous speech can provide models of how skilled speakers interact in everyday life, what they choose to say to each other, and how they choose to say it. Unfortunately, for some communities there are only sparse written records of speakers now gone. But such situations may not be entirely hopeless. Documentation of related languages, coupled with an understanding of their common ancestor and the developments that have occurred in each, can enrich even sparse records of languages no longer spoken, giving us a better idea of what earlier transcribers might have heard, of at least some of the grammatical markers and constructions hidden in what they captured, and potentially laying the groundwork for judicious augmentation of existing materials. Such possibilities are illustrated here with examples from Susquehannock, a language indigenous to what is now Pennsylvania. From just two short lists of words and phrases recorded during the mid-seventeenth century, some almost comically mistranslated, we can glean a good idea of how words were pronounced, of their meanings, and of their components. Documentation of related languages can also provide an essential tool for assessing the status of the material.

20.1 The Susquehannock The Susquehannock first encountered Europeans in 1608. Living along the Susquehanna River in what is now southeastern Pennsylvania, they developed extensive trade relations with peoples in the surrounding areas. They were known by different names by the different European groups they interacted with. The English colonists in Virginia and Maryland knew them as the Canestoga, a term from the Five Nations Iroquois languages spoken to the north across what is now New York State. (The Mohawk term is Kanahstó:ken ‘forked rafters,’ consisting of a neuter gender prefix ka-, incorporated noun -nahst- ‘rafter,’ and the stative verb Marianne Mithun, The value of family relations for revitalization. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Marianne Mithun (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0020

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Figure 20.1 Map by Charles Edward, Public Domain. Source: https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Beaver_wars_map.jpg

-oken ‘forked’ or ‘branching.’ ) The French knew them by the Wendat (Huron) cognate Andaste. The Dutch and the Swedes knew them as the Minquas, the name used by the Delaware, an Algonquian group to the east. Their location can be seen in Figure 20.1. The group was never large, but smallpox and war took a devastating toll over the next century and a half, and many Susquehannock people went to live with neighboring Five Nations Iroquois and Delaware groups. A detailed account is in Jennings 1978. In 1763 all remaining members of the small community were murdered. The last known first-language speakers of the language were gone by the mid-eighteenth century. The Susquehannock language, however, was not completely lost. A Swedish pastor, Johan Campanius, served from 1642 to 1648 as Chaplain at Fort Christina in present-day Wilmington, Delaware. During his time there he translated Martin Luther’s catechism into Pidgin Delaware (Goddard 1997). When the volume was published 50 years later, appended to it was a “Vocabula Mahakuassica,” containing 80 words of Susquehannock (Campanius 1696). Shortly after that his grandson, Thomas Campanius Holm, reprinted the list with a few additions in another volume, A Short Description of the Province of New Sweden (Holm 1702). Together the two lists provide a total of 89 Susquehannock words and phrases. The numerals from the first list can be seen in Figure 20.2. The Susquehannock were initially identified as Delaware, then subsequently as offshoots of the Tuscarora, Huron, Seneca, Cayuga, and Mohawk, all Iroquoian

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Figure 20.2 Susquehannock Numerals: Campanius 1696: 160.

peoples. With the wordlists and an understanding of developments through time within the Iroquoian family, we can identify them more precisely.

20.2 The Iroquoian language family The Iroquoians are indigenous to eastern North America. Basic relations among the documented languages in the family are sketched in (1). (1)

The Iroquoian language family

Proto-Iroquoian

Southern Iroquoian

Northern Iroquoian Lake Iroquoian Iroquois Proper

Cherokee

Tuscarora

Nottoway Wendat/ Wyandot

Laurentian Seneca Cayuga Onondaga Oneida

Mohawk

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The ancestors of the modern Iroquoians apparently first separated into a Southern group and a Northern group. The only known Southern Iroquoians are the Cherokee. Cherokee is now spoken primarily in North Carolina and Oklahoma. First to separate from the Northern group were ancestors of the Tuscarora and Nottoway. At contact the Tuscarora were living in what is now North Carolina, but around 1712 most Tuscarora began migrating north to their Iroquois relatives, ultimately settling in western New York State and southern Ontario. The Nottoway were living in what is now southeastern Virginia. Their language was spoken into the nineteenth century, but it is known only by two wordlists recorded early in the century. The Wendat (Huron) first encountered Europeans when Champlain arrived in what is now Ontario in 1609. In 1649, after major wars, they scattered, some moving east to their current home near Quebec City. Others, together with the defeated Erie, Neutral, and Tionontati, fled west to the upper Great Lakes area, then Detroit, Ohio, Kansas, and ultimately northeastern Oklahoma. When Jacques Cartier sailed up the St. Lawrence in 1534 and 1535, he encountered people living in villages along the river. Vocabularies appended to his ship’s logs show that their language, now known as Laurentian, was clearly Iroquoian (Mithun 1982a). The Seneca, Cayuga, Onondaga, Oneida, and Mohawk were living at contact in communities across what is now New York State, the Seneca at the western edge and the Mohawk at the eastern edge. The family tree in (1) is based on features shared by the various languages and innovations within each. Not surprisingly, divisions were not as sudden and definitive as such a model might suggest. After their defeat in 1649, many Wendat took up residence with various Iroquois groups, leaving their mark on their languages. There were also ongoing contacts among these five groups, which together formed the Five Nations Iroquois Confederacy. A quick inspection of the Susquehannock wordlists shows that the language is Iroquoian. Among those words, 29% have Southern Iroquoian cognates, and 85% have Northern Iroquoian cognates. The numbers are in keeping with an identification of Susquehannock as Northern Iroquoian, but on their own they cannot constitute evidence of its exact place within the family. The wordlist is quite limited, and an absence of obvious cognates in particular languages does not constitute proof that they did not exist. Furthermore, some of the similar words could have been transferred through contact. The Susquehannock were well known fur traders, for example, and terms shared with other Northern languages include those for ‘hide,’ ‘beaver,’ ‘bear,’ ‘deer,’ ‘elk,’ ‘fisher,’ ‘otter,’ and ‘fox,’ as well as ‘kettle’ and ‘gun.’ To determine where the language might fit into a schema like that in (1), we can search for innovations shared with individual relatives. In fact, the Susquehannock wordlists show none of the innovations which characterize just Cherokee, Tuscarora, Nottoway, or Wendat/Wyandot. They do, however, show numerous shared innovations with Seneca, Cayuga, Onondaga, Oneida, and Mohawk as

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a group. Susquehannock apparently represents a separate branch of Iroquois Proper, on a par with Seneca-Cayuga, Onondaga, and Oneida-Mohawk (Mithun 1981).

20.3 Susquehannock sounds On their own, the two Campanius wordlists provide some idea of what the language may have sounded like. With a knowledge of the sounds of related languages and the histories of their development, we can come quite close to what Campanius must have heard. The sound system of Proto-Iroquois Proper consisted of just 11 consonants and six vowels. They are traditionally grouped into the categories in (2) on the basis of their patterning. (2)

The Proto-Northern-Iroquoian sounds Obstruents Resonants Laryngeals

Consonants ∗ t, ∗ k, ∗ kʷ ∗ s ∗ tš ∗ n ∗r ∗w ∗ h ∗ʔ

Vowels Oral ∗

∗

∗

i ∗

∗

e

∗

a

ɛ̨

∗

ǫ

o

y Nasal

The history of the family is well enough understood that it is possible to reconstruct earlier forms of most of the words on the lists, allowing us to determine what Campanius must have heard.¹ The Susquehannock forms cited with Swedish translations are from Campanius 1696, and those cited with just English translation are from Holm 1702. Most of the entries appear in both lists. ¹ The spelling conventions in use in the modern Iroquoian communities vary slightly. Most letters represent their customary IPA counterparts, though Cherokee, Seneca, Cayuga, and Onondaga communities distinguish non-distinctive voicing of obstruents to facilitate interpretation for English speakers. Nasalized vowels are represented with different conventions in the different communities. In Tuscarora, the two nasalized vowels have merged to a nasalized schwa [ə̯], spelled . For Seneca the two are spelled and , for Cayuga and , for Onondaga and , for Oneida and , and for Mohawk and . Glottal stops are represented with the symbol in some communities and an apostrophe in others. The palatal glide is written in most systems, but in four Mohawk communities. To facilitate comparisons across the languages, forms in the modern languages are represented phonemically here, with Americanist conventions as in (2): the alveopalatal fricative [ʃ ] is written , and the palatal glide [j] is written . Nottoway, Wendat, Wyandot, and Laurentian forms are given in the original transcription. Unless otherwise noted, the Cherokee material cited here comes from Feeling 1975; the Tuscarora from speaker Elton Greene; the Nottoway from the 1820 Wood manuscript; the Wendat from SagardTheodat 1632 and Potier 1745; the Wyandot from Barbeau 1960; the Laurentian from Biggar 1924; the Seneca from speakers Esther Blueye and Myrtle Peterson; the Cayuga from speakers Reginald Henry and Jim Skye; the Onondaga from Woodbury 2003; the Oneida from speaker Mercy Doxtator and Michelson and Doxtator 2002; and the Mohawk from speakers Charlotte Kaherákwas Bush, Margaret White Edwards, Josephine Kaieríthon Horne, Annette Kaia’titáhkhe’ Jacobs, Kanerahtenhá:wi Hilda Nicholas, and Watshenní:ne’ Sawyer.

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The potential value of related languages for recovering pronunciation can be illustrated with the laryngeals. As seen in (2), Proto-Iroquoian contained both h and glottal stop ʔ, both of which have continued into the modern languages, occurring in both syllable onsets and codas. Both can be seen in words for ‘shoe.’ (3)

‘Shoe’ Tuscarora Seneca Cayuga Onondaga Oneida Mohawk

uhnáhkwaɁ ahtáhkwaʔ ahtáhkwaʔ ahtáhkwaʔ áhtaʔ ahtáhkwaʔ / áhta

Susquehannock atackqua =

∗

ahtáhkwaʔ

(The Tuscarora u- is an added neuter prefix.) In most European languages, h does not normally occur at the ends of syllables (coda position), and glottal stops are not distinctive, so, not surprisingly, European scribes often did not write them. Campanius listed the Susquehannock term for ‘shoe’ as atackqua. On the basis of the words in (3), we can surmise that the Proto-Northern-Iroquoian term was ∗ ahtáhkwaʔ, and that it continued unchanged into Proto-Iroquois Proper. We can accordingly restore the full Susquehannock form: ∗ ahtáhkwaʔ. In what follows, the likely values of each of the Susquehannock sounds are described. In each example, the words on the left are as Campanius wrote them, and those on the right, preceded by an asterisk ∗ , are phonemic reconstructions of what he must have heard.

20.3.1 The obstruents ∗ t, ∗ k, ∗ s, ∗ tš, ∗ kʷ In the Iroquoian languages, voicing of obstruents is not distinctive. There is generally some voicing before voiced sounds, with stronger voicing between voiced sounds, though the precise degree of voicing varies slightly across the languages. Just this patterning can be seen in the Campanius transcriptions. Initial obstruents before voiced sounds were sometimes written as voiceless and sometimes as voiced. Those between voiced sounds were more often written as voiced. Those before voiceless sounds and at the ends of words were written voiceless. (4)

Obstruent Voicing Tiggene/Tykeni ∗ tékeni: ∗ Tickeron tékerǫʔ ∗ Kahreenach kahré:nahs ∗ Koonæ kowá:nɛ̨

‘two’ ‘eight’ ‘it cuts’ ‘large’

THE VALUE OF FAMILY REL ATIONS FOR REVITALIZ ATION Kaatzie Kaatzie Khaalis Tzadack Gáija Zatznwri Zaruncka Sattæænde/sattaande Schæænu Wáderon Mnádra, Canadra Karw̃w̃ ta Onskat Wisck Jajack/Jaiack

321

∗

ká:tsi ‘Come!’ kátsɛ̨ ʔ ‘dish’ ∗ ká:lis ‘stocking(s)’ ∗ tsá:tak ‘seven’ ∗ ká:yɛ̨ :ʔ ‘it lies’ ∗ satsnó:re ‘Hurry!’ ∗ sahrǫ́khaʔ ‘you understand’ ∗ sahtɛ̨́:ti ‘Go away!’ ∗ skɛ̨́:nǫʔ ‘peacefully’ ∗ wátrǫ? ‘nine’ ∗ kanáʔtaraʔ ‘bread’ ∗ karǫ́:taʔ ‘stone’ ∗ ǫ́ skat ‘one’ ∗ wisk ‘five’ ∗ yáhyaʔk ‘six’ ∗

In some dialects of Seneca and Mohawk, the combination ty is pronounced as an alveopalatal affricate [tzˇ]. Campanius’ transcriptions indicate the same pronunciation in Susquehannock. (5)

Palatalization of ∗ ty Jáse, Jase ‘Swåger,’ ‘Brother-in-law’ ∗ tyáʔse (Five Nations Iroquois: ‘cousin’) Jihadaeaero ∗

‘Min synnerlige gode Wan,’ ‘My particularly good friend’

tyatɛ̨́:roɁ ty-at-ɛ̨ ro-ʔ 1INCL.DU-REFL-be.friend-STATIVE ‘you and I are friends to each other’

20.3.2 The affricate ∗ tš In the Lake languages, an original ∗ tš was deaffricated to s everywhere except before i or y. In some dialects of Seneca, Cayuga, and Mohawk, this affricate is now pronounced as an alveolar ts ([ts], [dz]), and the y has disappeared. Susquehannock shows the same development. (6)

Susquehannock affricate ts Tzadack ∗ tsá:tak ‘seven’ Tzátzie ∗ tsátyɛ̨ ‘Sit down, you two’ Kaatzie ∗ ká:tsi ‘Come!’ Kaatzie ∗ kátsɛ̨ ʔ ‘dish’

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20.3.3 The liquids ∗ l and ∗ r All of the modern Iroquoian languages have just one liquid (though it was lost during the eighteenth century in Seneca and Onondaga). In Tuscarora, Nottoway, Cayuga, and older Seneca this is a retroflex [r]. In Oneida it is a lateral [l]. Cherokee and Mohawk each have both [r] and [l] dialects. The Susquehannock wordlists contain both and . (7)

Khaalis ‘Strempor’ Orócquae ‘Ko¨tt’

‘stocking(s)’ ‘meat’

This might raise the question of whether there was actually just one language or dialect represented. In fact the two liquids appear within the same word in the Campanius lists. (8)

Sarakaliw ‘Skiuta’ ‘shoot’

In modern Mohawk, some dialects contain a retroflex flap [r], some contain a clear lateral [l], but some contain a sound midway between. Modern Onondaga contains no liquids at all, but they were still recorded in an extensive German/Onondaga/Delaware dictionary compiled by David Zeisberger, who served as a Moravian missionary to Delaware and Iroquois groups during the mideighteenth century. (The dictionary was published more than a century later.) (9)

Onondaga: Zeisberger 1887: 80 otori ‘Frosty’ zajólli ‘Frozen’ óllie. órrie ‘Friend’

The Wendat recorded by Sagard also shows both r and l, even within a single word, as in qualairio ‘le cry qu’on fait par la ville pour inviter à la dance’ (1632: 33). The fact that all branches of the family show variation between r and l suggests that the Susquehannock simply continued the original sound, which ranged over the two.

20.3.4 The laryngeals ∗ h, ∗ ʔ As noted, laryngeals are often missing from European transcriptions, as in the word for ‘shoe.’ Comparisons with cognates in related languages allows us to restore them in Susquehannock. (10)

Kareenach Orocguæ Zwroncka Jaiack Ojeengqua

∗

kahré:nahs ohráhkwaʔ ∗ sahrǫ́khaʔ ∗ yáhyaʔk ∗ oyɛ̨́ʔkwaʔ ∗

‘it cuts’ ‘flesh, meat’ ‘you understand’ ‘six’ ‘tobacco’

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20.3.5 The nasal vowels Proto-Iroquois Proper contained two nasal vowels. They are pronounced slightly differently in the various modern languages. (11)

Nasal vowels in Iroquois Proper languages Seneca [ɛ̨ ] [ɔ̨ ~ ǫ] Cayuga [ɛ̨ ] [ǫ ~ ų] Onondaga [ɛ̨ ] [ų] Oneida [ʌ̨ ] [ʊ̨ ~ ų] Mohawk [ʌ̨ ] [ų]

The Campanius wordlists show that the two nasal vowels were distinguished in Susquehannock, apparently one a mid to low front vowel, the other a mid to high back vowel. Campanius wrote the first , , and , and the second , , , and . (Vowels were often doubled to indicate length.) Following n and at the ends of words the n was often omitted. The slight differences were not a matter of context: sometimes the same word appears once spelled one way, once spelled another. (12)

∗

ɛ̨ adwgen/hadoogan ojeenqua/ojéngqua onæsta áxe koonæ wásha hoona/honan

∗

ató:kɛ̨ ʔ ‘axe’ oyɛ̨́ʔkwaʔ ‘tobacco’ ∗ onɛ̨́hstaʔ ‘corn’ ∗ áhsɛ̨ ‘three’ ∗ kowá:nɛ̨ ‘large’ ∗ wáhshɛ̨ : ‘ten’ ∗ ó:nɛ̨ ‘now’ ∗

∗

ǫ tikerom chanoona kahwroonta/karw̃da stunga zaruncka/saróncka ow̃ntack tinnijgo

∗

tekerǫʔ kanǫ́:naʔ ∗ karǫ́taʔ ∗ ostǫ:ha ∗ sahrǫ́ khaʔ ∗ ó:tak ∗ to nı´:kǫ

∗

‘eight’ ‘tobacco pipe’ ‘gun’ ‘a little’ ‘you understand’ ‘pot/ kettle’ ‘How much?

20.3.6 Epenthesis Some transcriptions of some Nottoway words, and some earlier transcription of Onondaga, show a sporadic intrusive -e- between obstruents and resonants. In Mohawk this has become regular, and these epenthetic e’s now sound just like

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other e’s. The Campanius wordlists indicate that such epenthesis had become regular in Susquehannock as well. (13)

Susquehannock systematic epenthesis ∗ tiggene tékeni ‘two’ ∗ tickerom tékerǫʔ ‘eight’ waderom ∗ wáʔterǫʔ ‘nine’ ∗ katzera kátsheraʔ ‘clothing’

20.3.7 Prosody: Stress and vowel length In Proto-Northern-Iroquoian, stress was basically penultimate, falling on the second-to-the-last syllable of the word. Closed stressed syllables remained short (CV́), but open stressed syllables were lengthened (CV́:). Stress patterns have changed drastically in Seneca and Cayuga, and certain other adjustments have been made in Onondaga, Oneida, and Mohawk. Some epenthetic vowels have been added in some of the languages, which did not affect stress placement or vowel length: original stressed vowels remain stressed, and original short vowels remain stressed. The Campanius vocabularies indicate that the original ProtoNorthern-Iroquoian system remained essentially intact in Susquehannock. Stress was sometimes indicated with an accent mark and, as noted, length with double vowels. (14)

Penultimate stress, closed syllables ∗ Áxe áh.sɛ̨ ‘Three’ ∗ kás.ha ‘Pass it to me’ Kássha ∗ Tzátyɛ̨ Tsát.yɛ̨ ‘Sit down, you two’ ∗ Uthı´ysta o.tsı´s.taʔ ‘fire, coal, spark’ ∗ Orócquæ o.hrá.hkwaʔ ‘meat’ Serwquácksi ∗ Se.rih.wák.si ‘You are bad’ ∗ Zwróncka Sa.hrǫ́k.haʔ ‘You understand’

(15)

Penultimate stress, open syllables ∗ Hoona ó:.nɛ̨ ‘now’ ∗ Ow̃ntack ǫ́:.tak ‘pot, kettle’ ∗ Khaalis ká: ris ‘stockings’ ∗ Kaatzie ká: tsi ‘Come here!’ Chanoona ∗ ka.nǫ́:.naʔ ‘tobacco pipe’ ∗ Oneegha oh.né:.kaʔ ‘water’ Kareenach ∗ kah.ré:.nahs ‘it cuts’

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20.3.8 Interpreting transcription In some cases puzzles arise not from questions about what the scribe may have heard, but rather what he may have written. The numeral ‘four’ is cognate across the Iroquois languages. (16)

Iroquois Proper ‘Four’ Seneca ke:ih Cayuga ké:ih Onondaga kayé:ih Oneida kayé: Mohawk kayé:ri

This numeral was apparently an Iroquois Proper innovation. A different word can be reconstructed for Proto-Iroquoian. It occurs in both the Southern and Northern branches: ∗ hɛ̨́ʔnahk, with reflexes Cherokee nʌ̨ :gi, Tuscarora hə̨ ՛ ʔtahk, Nottoway héntag, Wendat dac, and Wyandot dahk. The Iroquois Proper word has a transparent origin: it is descended from the verb ∗ kayé:ri ‘it is correct.’ Seneca, Cayuga, Onondaga and Oneida have lost the liquid, but it is still robust in Mohawk, and it was still present in Seneca and Onondaga in the seventeenth century. The Seneca manuscript dictionary by Garnier from about 1700 lists the form gaiéri, the Onondaga dictionary from the same time lists it as gayeri (Shea 1860: 85), and the Zeisberger dictionary from the mid-eighteenth century lists it as gajèri (1887: 79). The Susquehannock counterpart rajéni is at first surprising. The published Susquehannock wordlists were of course taken from handwritten notes. It appears that what was interpreted as r was actually a handwritten c, and what was interpreted as n was an r. (17)

Susquehannock ‘four’ rajane = ∗ cajere =

∗

kayé:ri.

20.4 Susquehannock morphology Three lexical categories are usually distinguished in Northern Iroquoian languages on the basis of their internal structure: Nouns, Verbs, and Particles. Words of each type occur in the Campanius material. An understanding of the structures in related languages allows us to see their components.

20.4.1 Noun morphology Morphological nouns are used in Iroquoian languages only to refer. Basic noun morphology consists of a neuter prefix, a noun stem, and a noun suffix. The neuter

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prefix is ∗ o- or ∗ ka- (Ø before the vowels a, e, ɛͅ , ǫ). The most common noun suffix in the Iroquois Proper languages is ∗ -aʔ. Exactly these forms can be discerned in items on the lists. (18)

Noun morphology Susquehannock oO-jeengqu-a ∗ o-yɛͅ ՛Ɂkw-aɁ ∗ o-hné:k-aɁ O-neegh-a ∗ U-thsı´yst-a o-tsı´st-aɁ ∗ O-rócqu-ae o-hráhkw-aɁ ∗ O-næst-a o-nɛ̨ hst-aʔ

‘tobacco’ ‘water’ ‘ember, fire’ ‘meat’ ‘seed, corn’

Susquehannock kaKa-rw̃w̃nt-a ∗ ka-rǫ́:t-aɁ ∗ Ka-nadr-a ka-náɁtar-aɁ ∗ Kaa-tzie ká-tshe-Ɂ ∗ Khaa-lis ká:-ris/∗ ka-rı´sr-aɁ ∗ Ca-neeg-a ka-hné:k-aʔ ∗ Cha-noon-a ka-nǫ́:nawɛ̨ -Ɂ Susquehannock Ø ∗ _Adwgen _ató:kɛ̨ -Ɂ _Atackqu-a ∗ _ahtáhkhw-aɁ _Ow̃ntack ∗ _ǫ́:tak

‘stone’ ‘bread’ ‘dish’ ‘stockings’ ‘water’ ‘tobacco pipe’

‘axe’ ‘shoes’ ‘pot, kettle’

20.4.2 Verb morphology Iroquoian verbs function as predicates, as would be expected, but they can also serve as full sentences in themselves, since they contain identification of their core arguments in the pronominal prefixes and aspect suffixes, and as referring expressions with no further markers of nominalization. Verb morphology is templatic: all elements occur in a specific order. The basic verb template for the Iroquois Proper languages is in Figure 20.3.

PREPRONOMINAL PREFIXES

PRONOMINAL PREFIXES

REFLEXIVE MIDDLE

NOUN STEM

VERB ROOT

Figure 20.3 Basic Verb Template: Iroquois Proper.

DERIVATIONAL SUFFIXES

ASPECT SUFFIXES

ADDED TENSE, etc.

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Several of the positions in the template contain multiple slots themselves. Among the prepronominal prefixes are a Negative, Coincident, Contrastive, Partitive, Translocative, Factual, Duplicative, Future, Irrealis, Cislocative, and Repetitive. They occur in that order, except some appear in the same slot and thus do not co-occur: the Negative, Coincident, Contrastive, and Partitive occur initially; the Future and Irrealis share a slot; and the Cislocative and Repetitive immediately precede the pronominal prefixes. There are around 60 pronominal prefixes, with slight differences from one language to the next. Derivational suffixes include Inchoatives, Causatives, Instrumental Applicatives, Benefactive Applicatives, Distributives, Andatives, and an Ambulative. Aspect suffixes are a Habitual, Perfective, and Stative. Final suffixes are a Progressive, Remote and Former Pasts, and a Continuative. Only the pronominal prefix, verb root, and aspect suffix are obligatory. The pronominal prefixes distinguish first, second, and third persons, inclusive and exclusive first persons, masculine, feminine, and neuter third persons, singular, dual, and plural number, and grammatical agents and patients. (Not all of these distinctions are made in every form.) The Susquehannock lists provide evidence of many of these. (19)

First person singular ∗ k- ‘I’ kahwroonta/karw̃da ‘Bo¨ssa,’ ‘A gun’

∗

karóͅ Ɂtats k-aróͅ Ɂtat-s 1SG.AGT-shoot-HAB ‘I blow, shoot’

The first person inclusive dual agent has the form ty- before a, pronounced ∗ [dzˇ] (20)

First person inclusive dual agent ∗ ty- ‘you and I’ ∗ Jase ‘Swager,’ Tyà:se! ‘Cousin!’ (vocative) ‘Brother-in-law’ Short form of

(21)

∗

tyará?seʔ ty-ar-a?s-eʔ 1INCL.AGT-REFL-be.cousin-ST ‘you and I are cousins to each other’

First person inclusive dual agent ∗ ty- ‘you and I’ Jihadaeaero ‘Min synnerlige gode Wan,’ ‘My particularly good friend’ ∗ tyatɛ̨́:roɁ ‘my friend’ ty-at-enro-ʔ 1INCL.DU-REFL-be.friend-ST ‘you and I are friends to each other’ = ‘my friend’

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(22) Second person singular agent ∗ s- ‘you’ Z-arúncka ‘jag forstår,’ ‘I understand’ [sic]

∗

sahrǫ́khaʔ s-ahrǫ́hk-haʔ 2SG.AGT-know.a.language-HAB ‘you understand [a language]’

(23) Second person singular agent ∗ se- ‘you’ before resonants Se-rwquacksi ‘Tu åst ond,’ ‘You are bad’ ∗ serihwáksi se-rihw-aks-i 2SG.AGT-matter-be.bad-ST ‘you have a bad way, you are bad’ Commands include pronominal prefixes with nearly the same forms. They, too, distinguish singular, dual, and plural number. (24)

Second person singular agent ∗ sZ-atznwri ‘War snaar,’ ‘Be quick’

∗

satshnó:re s-at-hsnore 2SG.AGT-MID-be.quick ‘Be quick!, Hurry!’

(25)

Second person dual agent ∗ tsy- ‘you two’ (before a) Tzátzic/Tzátzie ‘Sitt och hwijla,’ ‘Sit and stay’ ∗ tsátyɛ̨ ! ts-at-yɛ̨ 2DU.AGT-MID-set ‘Sit down, you two.

(26)

Neuter agent ∗ ka- ‘it’ Ka-reenach ‘Knijf,’ ‘A Knife’

(27)

Feminine patient ∗ ako- ‘she, her’ Acho-nhaessti. ‘Quinna,’ ‘A woman’

(28) Transitive ∗ sk- ‘you > me’ Skaddanijnu? ‘Will you sell or barter something?’

∗

kahré:nahs ka-hren-ahs N.AGT-cut-HAB ‘it cuts’ ∗

akonhéhtyɛͅ Ɂ ako-nhehtyɛ̨ -ʔ F.SG.PAT-be.female-ST ‘she is female,’ ‘woman’ ∗

ɛͅ skatɛͅ hnı´:nǫɁs ɛͅ -sk-atɛͅ -hninǫ-Ɂs FUT-2SG>1SG-REFL -buy-BEN.APPL.PFV ‘You will sell it to me.’

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Additional verb morphology can be discerned from the lists as well. Among the prepronominal prefixes is a Cislocative which indicates either location at a place or motion toward the speaker or center of interest. Cognates of the command in (29) persist in all of the Northern languages, though the verb root itself has eroded in all of them. (29)

Cislocative ∗ ka- ‘hither’ Kaatzie/Kaatzic ‘Kom hijt,’ ‘Come here’

∗

Ká:tsi ka-ts-i CISL-2SG.IMPER.AGT-x ‘Come here!’

The Cislocative has further evolved in all of the languages to replace the older first person Patient pronominal element in certain transitive pronominal prefixes. The extent of this development varies across the languages, but it appears in at least some commands in all of them. (30)

CISLOCATIVE + 2SG > 2SG > 1SG ‘you to me’ Ká-ssha schaeaenu ‘Gif mig thetta fo¨r intet.,’ ‘Give me that for nothing.’ ∗ Kásha ské:nɛ̨ ʔ ka-s-ha ské:nɛ̨ ʔ CISL-2SG.AGT-carry peacefully give me peacefully

There are also faint traces of the Repetitive prefix. The main function of this prefix is to indicate repetition, as in ‘Say it again,’ or return to a previous state, as in ‘Sit back down.’ It does not occur in this function in either of the Susquehannock lists. It also occurs in two other functions throughout the family. One is to form nominals from verbs by adding the meaning ‘the one who/that.’ This use can be seen in (31). The Susquehannock word for ‘turkey’ looks much like those in Oneida and Mohawk (particularly if what was interpreted as h was actually n), though it is not a perfect match. (31)

Repetitive Skáirwha / Skáirwha ‘Kalkoon’ / ‘Turkey’

∗

skawiró:waneʔ s-ka-wir-owan-eʔ REP-N.AGT-baby-be.big-ST ‘the one that is a big baby’ = ‘turkey’

The Northern languages terms for numerals ‘eleven’ through ‘nineteen’ consist of a numeral from ‘one’ to ‘nine,’ followed by another word. In all but two of the languages this word is based on a verb ∗ káhere’ ‘it is on top.’ In all but one of these it includes the repetitive prefix s-. This is apparently the Susquehannock form as well.

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(32)

Repetitive: ‘Twelve’ Tuscarora né:kti: θkáheʔr Nottoway dekane skahr Wendat tendi iskare Seneca tekhni: ska:eʔ Cayuga teknı´: skḁeʔ Onondaga teknı´ káhe:ʔ Oneida tékni yawʌ̨ :lé: Mohawk tékeni yawʌ̨̀reʔ Susquehannock Tiggene schaaro

∗

tékeni skáhreʔ

Another prepronominal prefix is the Duplicative ∗ te-, which indicates various kinds of ‘two-ness’. It can be seen in the Susquehannock numerals for ‘two,’ ‘twelve,’ and ‘twenty.’ It should be noted that the term for ‘twenty’ appears to be a kind of foreigner talk. In all of the other languages, the numeral ‘twenty’ is simply a single verb ‘it is two tens.’ In the Susquehannock entry, the word ‘two’ has been added, and the Duplicative, already a prefix in Proto-Iroquoian, was written separately. (33)

Duplicative Tiggene Tykeni d. washa

∗

te-keni tewáhshɛ̨ : te-w-ahshɛ̨ -: DV-N.AGT-be.ten-ST ‘twenty’

‘two’

∗

Finally, there are some examples of the partitive ∗ ni-. In one of its uses it occurs in verbs of quantity above two. The term for ‘hundred’ does not match those in the other languages, but its structure is clear. (34)

Partitive Wásha ne Wássha

‘100’

∗

wáhshɛ: w-ahshɛ̨ -: N-be.ten-ST

Tinnijgo ‘Huru muckit,’ ‘How much’

niwáhshɛ̨ : ni-w-ahsɛ̨ -: PRT-N-be.ten-ST ∗

to: nı´:kǫ: to: ni-k-ǫ-: how PRT-N-be.an.amount-ST ‘How much?’

The Susquehannock vocabularies also provide evidence of the aspect suffixes, recognizable from cognates in other Iroquoian languages. Both the Habitual and the Stative aspects have multiple forms in each language. The two most common Habitual suffixes, ∗ -(ah)s and ∗ -haʔ can be discerned.

THE VALUE OF FAMILY REL ATIONS FOR REVITALIZ ATION (35) Habitual suffixes ∗ -(ah)s Kahreen-ach ‘Knifj,’ ‘A knife’ ∗ -haɁ Zwrónck-a ‘Jag fo¨rstår,’ ‘I understand’

∗

kahré:n-ahs ‘it cut-s’

∗

sahrǫk-haɁ

331

‘you understand’

(As noted in Section 20.5, this last word was apparently misinterpreted by Campanius.) Stative suffixes show a variety of forms in each of the languages. The form ∗ -ɛ̨ form occurs throughout the family. The form ∗ -i occurs in Onondaga, Wendat (Huron), and Wyandot. It also occurs in Susquehannock. (36) Stative suffixes ∗ -ɛ̨ Koon-æ / Koona ‘Stoor’ /‘Great, large’ ∗ -i Serwquácks-i ‘Tu åst ond,’ ‘You are bad.’

∗

kowá:n-ɛ̨

∗

serihwáks-i ‘you are bad’

‘it is big’

Cognates of the stem of this verb, ∗ -rihw-aks- ‘matter-be.bad’ occur in all the other languages, but not with this form of the Stative.

20.4.3 Particles Particles are by definition monomorphemic, though they can be compounded. They serve a wide variety of adverbial, syntactic, discourse, and expressive functions. The Campanius wordlists provide some examples of particles with counterparts in related languages. (37)

Particles Hoona Sattaeaende ‘Jag gar nu bort.,’ ῾Now I am going away.’

∗

ó:nɛͅ

‘now’

Achóxa ‘Straxt,’ ‘Directly’

∗

Óksa!

‘Quick!’

20.5 Syntax? The circumstances under which the Susquehannock material was collected are not entirely clear, but we know that Campanius did not himself speak the language. Among the challenges of working with such material are the likelihood of misunderstandings and the possibility that the Susquehannock speakers may have been adjusting their language to facilitate communication, producing “foreigner talk.” An understanding of related languages indicates that both occurred here.

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20.5.1 Pronouns Among the entries in the lists are the sentences in (38). The words are easy to identify on the basis of similar forms in related languages. (38)

Sattæænde. ‘Jag gar nu bort.’ Hoona sattaande. ‘Now I am going away.’

∗

Ó:nɛ̨ sahtɛͅ :ti! onɛ̨ s-ahtɛ̨ ti now 2SG.AGT-leave ‘Now go away!’

There is an interesting mismatch in the translations here. The pronominal prefix on the verb is the second person singular agent s- ‘you.’ What Campanius translated as ‘I am going away’ was actually a command, ‘(You) go away!, Leave!.’ Such mix-ups are not uncommon in exchanges of this type. A scribe might ask “How do you say ‘I go away’” and receive as an answer ‘You go away.’ The sentence in (39) shows a similar person mix-up. The individual words are well-formed, but they would not appear together. Independent pronouns like the first person ∗ i:ʔi ‘I/me/my/we/us/our/’ are normally used only contrastively, and again the pronoun does not match the pronominal prefix on the verb. (39)

Hije Zwróncka ‘Men jag fo¨rstår.’ [‘But I understand.’ ] ∗ Í:Ɂi sahrǫ́khaɁ. iɁi s-ahrǫk-haɁ 1 2SG.AGT-understand-HAB I myself you understand (and speak a language)’

[sic]

The sentence in (40) is even less idiomatic, though the individual words are well formed. This one contains the second person independent pronoun ∗ i:s. (40) Chanooro hiss. ‘I make much of you.’

∗

Kanó:ron

´ı:s.

[sic]

ka-nor-on is N.AGT-be.dear-ST 2 it is dear you yourself The sentence in (41) was translated as a question, but it contains no interrogative marker. The verb itself is appropriate for such a question, but in all of the Northern Iroquoian languages except Seneca, such questions contain a question particle following the first element of the sentence. It is possible that Susquehannock, like Seneca, lacked such a particle; it is more likely that the question was simplified for the benefit of the audience, with the interrogative meaning carried by prosody. Unfortunately, without more information, it is impossible to know.

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Gáija/Gáije ‘Har tu?’ [‘Do you have?’]

333

∗

Ká:yɛͅ Ɂ ka-yɛͅ -Ɂ N.AGT-lie-ST ‘it lies’ = ‘there is/are …’

20.5.2 Negation The modern Iroquois languages form negative constructions with a Negative prefix teʔ- or, except for Seneca, a Contrastive prefix th-. The Negative prefix ∗ teʔ- is quite old, one of the first prefixes to be added to the verb. All of the languages except Seneca have now reinforced these morphological negative constructions with an additional negative particle meaning ‘no’ (Mithun 1995). (42)

Iroquoian negation Wendat (Chaumonot in Fraser 1920: 768) harask8ache ‘he goes’ stan te-harask8ache ‘he does not go’ Wyandot (Barbeau 1960: 217) yehe’ ‘I want’ ą’a tɛ’-yéhe’ ‘I do not want’ Seneca (Esther Blueye, speaker p.c.) katkwe:nyǫs ‘I win’ teʔ-katkwenyǫs ‘I don’t win’ Cayuga (Reginald Henry, speaker p.c.) kakɛ̨ htsih ‘it is old’ thɛ̨ ʔ tʔe-kákɛ̨ htsih ‘it is not old’ Onondaga (Wallace Chafe p.c. from Jessie Pierce) ethéʔtheʔ ‘she’s pounding’ ya teʔ-ethéʔthaʔ ‘she’s not pounding’ Oneida (Lounsbury 1953: 47) ´ı.kelheʔ ‘I want to’ yah té:-kelheʔ ‘I don’t want to’ Mohawk (Kaia'titáhkhe’ Jacobs, speaker p.c.) yè:terųʔ ‘she’s home’ yáh te-yè:terųʔ ‘she’s not home’

In light of these constructions, the Susquehannock negatives seem surprising. ´ at the beginning of the sentence, Negation is indicated simply with a particle tæsta also translated as ‘no.’

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(43)

Susquehannock negation Taesta. ‘Neij,’ ‘No’ Taesta gayw. ‘Har tu intet’ Taésta Zwroncka. ‘Jag fo¨rstår intet,’ ‘I do not understand’ Testa sis chijerw. ‘The dog does not bite’ Tésta gáije. ‘Jag har intet,’ ‘I have not’

It is likely that these are again examples of “foreigner talk,” with the use of separate words rather than morphology. (This particle taésta is possibly cognate with the Mohawk command Téstaʔn ‘Stop!.’ )

20.5.3 Content questions There is one set of constructions that might reflect actual usage, analytic constructions consisting of separate words. These are content questions. It is easy to see what their forms were on the basis of similar forms in related languages. (44)

Content questions Aenhoduraada? ‘What will you?’ Anhooda? ‘What?’ ∗

NahóɁtɛͅ Ɂ na-h-oɁtɛͅ -Ɂ PRT-N-be.a.kind.of-ST such it is a kind of ‘Something,’ ‘What?’

(45)

Content question Tinnijgo ottchowrha? ‘Huru muckit penningar wil tu hafwa therfo¨re?’ ‘How much money will you have for it?’ ∗

To: nı´:kǫ: to: ni-k-ǫ-: how PRT-N-amount-ST how so it amounts ‘How much wampum?’

otkóɁrhaɁ o-tkoʔrh-a? N-wampum-NOUN.SUFFIX wampum

There is much that cannot be known with certainty about Susquehannock syntax, because speakers were apparently working to make themselves understood by listeners who did not know the language. All of the words are themselves grammatical, but most multi-word constructions simply do not match constructions in related languages. In fact Thomason (1980) points out that Campanius’ Delaware Catechism ‘according to Holmer’s convincing analysis (1946), indicates that its author had an extremely weak knowledge, if any at all, of actual Delaware

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morphology and syntax, and the “Delaware” material attached to it . . . matches other Jargon [=Pidgin Delaware] attestations quite well.’ (Thomason 1980: 189)

20.6 Conclusion On its own, the Susquehannock documentation might be close to impenetrable. It would be difficult to know for certain what sounds the transcriptions were meant to capture. Small glimpses of grammar might be suggestive, but their reliability would be weak. Pronominal prefixes on verbs might go unnoticed, but a discerning analyst might note the initial s- on some verbs and conclude, erroneously, that it was a first person prefix. A negative construction might be discerned, but it would be concluded that negation was accomplished simply by preceding a statement with the particle ‘no.’ With documentation of related languages, however, and an understanding of the developments that have taken place in each, we can identify most words, know how they sounded, and recognize their morphological structure. On the basis of our understanding of the sound changes observable in the Susquehannock material, and the attested inflectional affixes, in combination with careful judgment, we can predict the forms of more words. From the verb listed as Zwróncka ‘jag fo¨rstår’ (actually ‘you understand, speak a language’), for example, we can construct the paradigm in (46). (46)

Susquehannock ‘understand a language’ kahrǫ́khaʔ ‘I understand’ yakyahrǫ́khaʔ ‘we two understand’ (exclusive dual ‘s/he and I’) yakwahrǫ́khaʔ ‘we all understand’ (exclusive plural ‘they and I’) tyahrǫ́khaʔ ‘you and I understand’ (inclusive dual ‘you and I’) twahrǫ́khaʔ ‘you all and I understand’ (inclusive plural ‘you all and I’) sahrókhaʔ ‘you understand (sg)’ tsahrǫ́khaʔ ‘you two understand (du)’ sewahrǫ́khaʔ ‘you all understand (pl)’

On the model of the examples in (44) and (45), we can construct more content questions with the initial question words ‘what’ and ‘how much.’ The fact that the corpus consists of just eighty-nine words and phrases, with a preponderance of nouns and few derivationally complex words, limits what can be done. Knowledge of related languages is helpful in another way as well. It allows us to recognize not just mistranslations, but also “foreigner talk,’ constructions that almost certainly were not characteristic of the language as normally spoken. Ultimately, the Susquehannock story highlights the value of every detail that can be recorded of languages still spoken today by small groups. Those currently

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working on community revitalization projects based on older records of the languages have much to tell us about what they have found the most useful, and what additional material they wish they could have.

Acknowledgment Throughout his academic life, Andrew Garrett has been a leading light in historical linguistics. After moving to California, he became engaged in language revitalization projects with Indigenous communities. His work highlights the fact that the two lines of work can be mutually supportive.

PART III

LO OK I NG F ORWA R D : N EW A PPR O ACH E S

21 Sound structure and the psycholinguistics of language contact Molly Babel and Melinda Fricke

21.1 Introduction Languages in contact tend to become more similar to one another, sharing structural similarities that varieties outside of such contact situations do not show. While in principle any dimension of language is susceptible to contact-induced change, our focus is on the sound patterns of languages in contact. This focus is largely based on our own expertise, but it is also an area that deserves increased attention; we propose that our understanding of language contact processes more generally can be improved by more carefully considering the psycholinguistic processes and mechanisms that result in the mutual influence of sound categories. In this chapter we propose a conceptualization of the literatures on language contact and mutual influence of sound categories in terms of three interrelated areas of inquiry: Static Knowledge of Phonetic Categories, Dynamic Processes of Cross-Linguistic Influence, and Relating Individuals to Communities. The overarching question to be answered is, how do processes of cross-language interaction within an individual speaker shape sound patterns in the context of languages in contact, such that the community norms are shifted? In recent years linguists have worked toward building an understanding of language contact that is more psycholinguistically informed (Van Coetsem 2000; Winford 2007; Lipski 2020), and we feel the opportunity is ripe to more fully integrate these previously disparate research traditions. To do so, we must adopt an approach that is rooted in seminal work (Thomason & Kaufman 1988), grounded in psycholinguistic- (MacWhinney 1992; Green 2018) and phonetically-informed models of sound change (Garrett & Johnson 2013; Harrington & Schiel 2017; Harrington et al. 2018), and that integrates recent findings regarding code-switching (Fricke et al. 2016; BeattyMartı´nez et al. 2020) and multidirectional effects of language influence (Linck et al. 2009; Chang 2012). We want a framework that is broadly applicable and able to generalize to, for example, language contact in both the pre-colonized Americas, where long-term bilingualism and multilingualism have been characterized as both active and passive (Conathan 2006), and to the present day, where Molly Babel and Melinda Fricke, Sound structure and the psycholinguistics of language contact. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Molly Babel and Melinda Fricke (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0021

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indigenous communities and other linguistic minorities balance the maintenance of their languages with a societally dominant language (e.g. English, Spanish, Mandarin). To that end, we focus here on developing an enriched understanding of language contact outcomes in the domains of phonetics and phonology. This work is inspired by a large body of influential and seminal empirical and theoretical work on language contact (e.g. Silva-Corvalán 1994; Myers-Scotton 1995, 1997; Lipski 2005; Cacoullos & Travis 2016). For reasons of time and space, we certainly fail to provide exhaustive coverage of this impressive body of literature, ultimately just scraping the surface of the full integration across literatures that is possible, but we aim to at least delineate the principle ideas animating these literatures, and to point out the ways in which they are overlapping versus distinct.

21.1.1 Defining our terms and circumscribing our task There is active debate among scholars concerning the types of phenomena that should be labeled as sound change. Garrett (2015), for example, takes a somewhat agnostic position on this issue, noting that some scholars would include sound-related changes apparently stemming from either morphophonemic analogy or lexical borrowing, while others would restrict the term’s usage to cases of phonologization of phonetic precursors (e.g. Hyman 1977). For the purposes of the present discussion, we remain similarly agnostic and make no prescriptions as to the specific changes that should be included within the category of “contactinduced sound changes.” However, we agree with Garrett’s (2015) statement that “[d]efining the object of study is important when different definitions lead to different views of its mechanisms and properties.” For now, we simply underscore the notion that qualitatively distinct types of sound-related change may relate to distinct psycholinguistic mechanisms, and we suggest this as a fruitful question for future research. With respect to the literature reviewed here, we focus on speech production, rather than speech perception, for several reasons. While contact-induced changes in speech perception likely undergird or complement changes in speech production, we narrow in on speech production as it is this performance of phonetic and phonological categories that is typically described by the fieldworkers documenting and describing language contact situations. It is certainly the case that ambient language exposure without productive skills creates linguistic knowledge (Orena et al. 2015; Oh et al. 2020), and there exists a substantial body of work that is relevant for understanding contact-related shifts in perception (e.g. Grosjean 1988, 1997; Best & Tyler 2007; Shook & Marian 2013) or in word recognition without changes in phonetic category perception (Samuel & Larraza 2015). However, the evidence from experimental speech perception studies that is most directly

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related to questions of synchronic sound changes-in-progress is somewhat mixed. While some studies have found that changes in perception precede changes in production at the individual level (Harrington et al. 2008), others have found that production changes precede a more conservative perceptual system (Coetzee et al. 2018; Pinget et al. 2020). An adequate review that incorporates the perceptual literature is thus beyond the scope of the current proposal, and our focus on production allows us to side-step the need to address the coordination of changes in perception and production. A focus on production thus narrows our angle to the performance of language, and to the task of assessing what we can infer of linguistic competence and the hidden aspects of linguistic knowledge from the behaviors that individuals showcase. This performance is inherently affected by psycholinguistic processes, which shape and provide shape to the more “static” phonemic categories we often consider when analyzing phonological patterns and structures. And while the processes that exert themselves on an individual level are certainly a worthy topic of study in their own right (see, e.g. Hall-Lew et al. 2021, and other chapters within this collection), these individual differences need to coalesce into a stable pattern of community variation in order to constitute a substantive case of language contact. What we mean here is that while an individual bilingual may exhibit evidence of cross-linguistic mutual influence by virtue of her bilingualism, the pattern must be exhibited on a community level in order to be considered a part of the language variety as a whole, and the latter is the signature of language contact as traditionally conceived. “Observing a language variety as a whole” entails considering a snapshot at a particular moment in time, as all language patterns are subject to eventual change, and the patterns of some speech communities are more ephemeral than others. An example one might proffer here is that of so-called heritage speakers. In the most common usage of this term, heritage languages and speakers arise out of diasporas into (contemporary) societies where younger generations sometimes rapidly shift their individual language dominance to that of the local societally dominant language. Some caution is warranted here, as a huge degree of linguistic variability is present within and across such communities; the term can refer to a wide variety of individuals, language proficiencies, and contact situations, and recent scholarship on the topic has arguably been too focused on communities in the highly monolingual and English-dominant United States (Muysken 2020; Polinsky & Scontras 2020). While we reference the literature on heritage speakers at several points, and indeed believe it relevant to understanding the mechanisms potentially implicated in language contact, our focus is not specifically on this population. Rather, we take heritage speakers and the study of change in heritage languages as just one of many potential venues for observing the ways in which differences in the language history of individual speakers may ultimately contribute to language shift at the level of the community.

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Relatedly, we note that throughout this chapter, we use the term “bilingual” in a broad sense to refer to any individual who uses more than one language. This is in line with recent calls in the psycholinguistic literature to treat bilingualism as a “continuous variable” (Luk & Bialystok 2013; Fricke et al. 2019), i.e. to move away from comparing a priori groupings of speakers and to focus instead on exploring individual differences among multilingual speakers in a principled way, so as to uncover the specific aspects of linguistic experience and knowledge that relate to observed differences in processing behavior. The sections that follow are organized in terms of three components that any fully elaborated account of language change must address: (1) the nature of the linguistic knowledge that is possessed by individual speakers, (2) the sources of variation that shape the linguistic variants present in the population of speakers, and (3) a conceptualization of how the language use of individual speakers relates to the more abstract notion of the language variety as spoken by the community. Given the present goal of more fully integrating what is known about the psycholinguistics and language contact outcomes of sound categories in particular, the sections corresponding to these three components are focused on the issues of (1) how phonetic category knowledge is structured within the mind of a multilingual speaker, (2) how dynamic psycholinguistic processes impact the realization of phonetic categories in speech production, and (3) how the study of linguistic communities and their ecology can (and should) enrich our understanding of how processes occurring at the level of the individual might ultimately be elevated to instances of community-wide language contact.

21.2 A tripartite framework for linking psycholinguistics and language contact 21.2.1 Static knowledge of phonetic categories 21.2.1.1 What are phonetic categories, and how do they behave? One issue in considering how to relate scholarship on language contact to psycholinguistic models of language processing and representation is that traditional phonological descriptions of sound patterns are inherently categorical, while the patterns themselves are instantiated in a physical reality that is highly multidimensional. Moreover, the distributional nature of categories entails that a given category’s realization is also highly variable. Thus despite simplifying assumptions made in many analyses and models, the full suite of realizations of a given category may contain rather distinct productions (e.g. the distribution associated with initial /t/ cannot just contain variation along the positive voice-onset-time dimension but must also encapsulate the vast array of dimensions associated with phonologically voiceless categories (Lisker & Abramson 1964), as well as realizations

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where millimeter differences in exact place of articulation will result in frication, particularly in the context of /ɹ/, to give an English-centric example). The variability underlying a phonological category in bilinguals can be seen in a bilingual’s creative deployment of that category (e.g. Bullock & Toribio 2009). With the understanding that phonological categories are the labels on multidimensional phonetically variable distributions, what is the behavior of these categories in the face of language contact? A language’s phonological inventory may contract (e.g. undergo merger), expand (e.g. develop a new category), or maintain its structure. On the phonetic level, any of one of these phonological possibilities may involve phonetic change. Mergers and new categories clearly have phonetic consequences (Trudgill & Foxcroft 1978), but even as phonological contrasts are maintained, the phonetic distributions of early bilinguals’ categories may be different from monolinguals’ realizations, suggesting that competing crosslinguistic forces have been exerted (Guion 2003; MacLeod & Stoel-Gammon 2005; Sundara et al. 2006; MacLeod et al. 2009; MacLeod & Stoel-Gammon 2009), though a recent meta-analysis suggests that the evidence for bilinguals to have phonetic categories that fall between monolingual language norms is weak (Casillas 2021). Rather, Casillas (2021) suggests that early bilinguals are able to establish phonetic categories that align with the category distributions of monolinguals for a bilingual’s respective languages. Shifting phonetic categories are the face value of language contact, but note that in studying the multidimensional phonetic variation present within a category at a given moment in time, we cannot discern whether this surface-level variation is the outcome of dynamic psycholinguistic processes of competition and activation, or whether this is the more-or-less fixed location of these categories for bilingual speakers. We return to the literature on dynamic psycholinguistic processes in the section that follows. It is generally assumed that for sound structure to show mutual influence, there must be some link connecting cross-linguistic categories. Such a connection needn’t be simple category equivalence (e.g. as in prominent models of second language acquisition; Best & Tyler 2007; Flege & Bohn 2021), but rather could consist of a more abstract phonological coupling. Considering a Chinese-Korean bilingual border community, Schertz et al. (2019) examined participation in sound changes within the sibilant inventories of this community of speakers for whom we may not want to assume that there is category equivalence, or even a phonological link between sounds. Schertz and colleagues found that older speakers showed assimiliation, which is predicted as a result of category equivalence, since they were second language learners of Mandarin. The younger speakers, who were more proficient bilinguals, showed evidence for a stronger link across languages, but also some evidence for independence. Importantly, these data neatly show that there can be connections across a bilingual’s phonological categories, but such a link perhaps should not be thought of as inevitable, and is subject to influence from factors related to an individual’s history of language experience.

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21.2.1.2 Relating bilingual phonetic categories to language contact outcomes In terms of making predictions regarding the steady-state structure of bilingual phonological categories, the Speech Learning Model (Flege 1995, 2002) is a prominent model of second language acquisition intended to account for the manifestation and degree of a second language accent. A recent revision to the model (SLM-r; Flege & Bohn 2021) aims to account for an individual’s changes in accent over the lifespan as the bilingual phonetic system is reorganized— potentially as a product of changing language input—an example of how mutual language influence over time can surface as an individual-level language contact pattern. This focus on individual-level patterns is rooted in the idea that individual differences in category precision, related to auditory acuity and language experience, determines whether an individual creates a composite distribution of phonologically connected categories across their languages or maintains distinct categories for each language (Kartushina & Frauenfelder 2014; Kartushina et al. 2015, 2016a,b). The body of literature documenting category assimilation in second language speakers is too vast to reference here, and we direct readers to overview works in this area (e.g. Flege et al. 2003; Best & Tyler 2007; Flege 2007; Chang 2019). While second language acquisition is certainly one opportunity for language contact, new variants and varieties often arise in language contact contexts when bilingualism is sustained over generations, and early bilinguals are well equipped to create distinct categories despite strong phonetic similarities, regardless of individual auditory acuity (Werker & Byers-Heinlein 2008). Interestingly, despite early bilinguals’ abilities to maintain distinct categories across languages with similar phonetic properties, structural similarities at the phonetic and phonological levels can, of course, still develop. Category assimilation can occur at both the segmental (e.g. Flege 1995) and at the suprasegmental levels (e.g. Simonet 2011; Torgersen & Szakay 2012; Wu et al. 2017). Within the sociolinguistic literature, the notion of linguistic transfer is implicated as eliciting convergent contact behavior, and this has been referred to as a change-by-accommodation model when applied to actual scenarios of language change (Trudgill 1986; Labov 1990). In the change-by-accommodation model, language change is the product of accommodation or convergence to the linguistic patterns of interlocutors or the ambient speech community. In the case of bilinguals, change-by-accommodation involves linguistic transfer across one’s languages in a way that is seeded by exposure to and use of one or both languages within the community, involving accommodation to the linguistic properties of the ambient language(s). While evidence of such accommodation in the immediate/short-term is pervasive in both monolingual (e.g. Pardo 2006; Babel 2012) and bilingual populations (e.g. Kim et al. 2011), the evidence that short-term accommodation accumulates in the medium-term is lacking (Sonderegger et al. 2017) and such evidence is crucial for drawing a direct line from patterns at the level of the individual to that of the community.

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Another general wrinkle in pointing to linguistic transfer or accommodation as an explanation for language convergence is that it does not make specific predictions as to why some phonological categories are more prone to influence than others. A recent proposal makes predictions regarding the dynamics of languageinternal sound change, and this may ultimately provide more mechanistic power to our theorizing about language change in contact situations. Harrington and Schiel (2017) and Harrington et al. (2018) propose that sound change arises when two different distributions of a category are in contact, but when the skew of one group’s distribution falls into the path of the other. This skew can be asymmetric such that if we have two language models, A and B, and if the variation is structured such that A’s distribution is skewed toward B more than B’s toward A, then A will shift in the direction of B. In the context of language contact, we could imagine a language with a centralized /a/, which is in contact with a language with a more backed /ɑ/, and let us assume that these sounds are phonologically linked in the bilingual’s mind. Now imagine that the centralized /a/ has a more variable distribution that skews toward [ɑ], while the backed /ɑ/ has a less variable distribution. Following Harrington and Schiel (2017) and Harrington et al. (2018), we would predict that the centralized /a/ language would be more likely to change and be pulled in the direction of the /ɑ/ than the /ɑ/ would be pulled toward the /a/. We return to an application of this model at the end of this chapter, as we highlight forward-looking work.

21.2.2 Dynamic processes of cross-linguistic influence The study of bilingual phonetic production and the structure of phonological categories is important for understanding the surface forms that are ultimately affected by processes of language change. However, a mechanistic account of language contact must also be based in psycholinguistic work probing the speaker-level variables and phenomena that shape the linguistic variation present in the population. The most critical psycholinguistic phenomenon with respect to diachronic processes of language contact is the concept of cross-language activation. Crosslanguage activation refers to the idea that within the mind of the bilingual, the activation of linguistic representations can spread from one language to the other; in the course of planning to say the word “fork,” for example, a Spanish-English bilingual will almost undoubtedly activate the Spanish translation equivalent, “tenedor” (see Kroll et al. 2015, for a recent review). Decades of research have shown that cross-language activation is pervasive in bilingual language processing, with many studies devoted to furthering our understanding of the circumstances that modulate it, and the ways in which bilingual speakers navigate it. In this section we explore three main classes of variables and their relation to dynamic processes of cross-linguistic interaction: characteristics of the languages in contact,

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characteristics of the individual speaker, and characteristics of the linguistic setting. We also note that a recent study by Yao and Chang (2016) explored all three of these, the main findings of which will be incorporated below.

21.2.2.1 Characteristics of the languages in contact The subconscious activation of non-target representations (e.g. “tenedor” in the context of “fork”) has often been explored using experimental paradigms involving word reading and picture naming. More recently, studies have begun to ask whether and when cross-language activation occurring during the planning stages of language production has consequences for phonetic and phonological representations. Many of these studies have compared the production of so-called “cognate” words to that of a control condition of “non-cognates.” In the present context, it should be noted that cognate here refers to words that overlap substantially in both meaning and phonological form across languages, whether or not they are historically related. The widely accepted logic is that words that share form and meaning across languages are a locus of cross-language connections within the bilingual mind (which is why the historical relation is irrelevant; only the individual speaker’s propensity to analogize synchronically is relevant), so to the extent that such cognates are produced differently from non-cognates, this is taken as evidence that both languages have been activated in the course of speech planning. Several recent studies have found that the phonetic production of cognate words is likely to show influence from the non-target language. To take just two examples, Goldrick et al. (2014) found that when bilinguals were required by the experimental paradigm to switch languages, the initial stop consonants in English-Spanish cognate words were shifted toward the phonetic norms of the non-target language, while Simonet and Amengual (2020) found that the degree to which Catalan /a/ underwent a Catalan-specific phonological stress-reduction process was reduced when produced within cognate words, within a language mixing context. Crucially, then, work in this vein has shown not only that cognates are more likely to show phonetic transfer effects, but that cross-language phonetic influence is a dynamic property that can be increased or decreased as a function of other variables that are likely to be relevant to questions of diachronic language contact. These include properties such as the extent and type of phonological overlap across languages (Yao & Chang 2016), language proficiency and/or dominance (Jacobs et al. 2016), and the linguistic context in which speech is produced (e.g. whether the context is likely to involve language mixing; Olson 2013). We return to these issues below. Importantly for formulating models and predictions regarding diachronic language contact phenomena, and despite recent advances in our understanding of when cross-language activation effects can be seen in phonetic production, there are several limitations of the existing work in this area. A significant one is the lack of typological diversity in the languages that have been studied; with a notable

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exception of Yao and Chang (2016), work examining the mechanisms responsible for dynamic cross-language influence has generally included English or Spanish (or both) within the language pairing under investigation (but see Wu et al. 2017; Kirby & Giang 2021, for more typologically diverse work relevant to understanding the static relationships among bilingual categories). It is therefore unclear to what extent existing findings might be generalized to typologically dissimilar languages and language pairings, and indeed, whether typological characteristics (phonological or otherwise) have a role to play in predicting the extent of dynamic cross-language phonetic processes. If the findings from other areas of psycholinguistics turn out to be relevant here, then we can predict that the typological characteristics of the languages in contact will in fact play a rather minor role. Work using other experimental paradigms has shown that even languages that differ considerably from a typological standpoint show robust evidence of crosslanguage activation as words are being retrieved from memory (see, e.g. Hoshino and Kroll 2008, for data on Japanese–English bilinguals, Shook & Marian 2016, for Chinese–English bilinguals, and Shook & Marian 2012, for American Sign Language–English bilinguals). Work with Dutch–Cantonese bilinguals has also shown that connections across typologically dissimilar languages can alter the primary unit used for speech planning; Timmer and Chen (2017) present evidence that when processing Cantonese, Dutch–Cantonese bilinguals raised in the Netherlands use segment-sized units for phonological encoding, as Dutch monolinguals do, as opposed to the syllable-sized units used by Cantonese monolinguals. Such findings are consistent with a view of speaker-internal language contact in which the linguist’s conception of language relatedness is irrelevant, and language contact phenomena at the level of the individual speaker are constrained only by the bilingual’s willingness to draw connections across the languages they speak. A second limitation, perhaps related to the first, is that the majority of psycholinguistic-phonetic work has focused on a very limited set of phonological relations across languages. The production of voice onset time (VOT) for voiceless stops has been a very frequent subject of study (Antoniou et al. 2011; Amengual 2012; Olson 2013; Goldrick et al. 2014; inter alia), likely due in part to the ease of quantifying changes in VOT production, and due in part to the phonologically unmarked status of voiceless stops and the resulting high probability that they will be present within the phonological inventory of any given pair of languages. A smaller number of studies have examined dynamic changes in vowel production (Simonet 2014; Yao & Chang 2016; Simonet & Amengual 2020), and thus far have reported patterns that are largely analogous to the findings regarding VOT: cross-language phonetic influence appears more likely in lexical items that are linked across languages (i.e. cognates), and in settings where both languages are more likely to be psycholinguistically active (i.e. when participants are in a more bilingual language mode; Soares & Grosjean 1984; Grosjean 1997).

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Given the very narrow focus of existing work in this area, then, a critical issue going forward will be expanding the typological range of language pairings and the set of phonetic and phonological phenomena under study.

21.2.2.2 Characteristics of the individual speaker Many studies taking a psycholinguistic approach to cross-language phonetic effects have examined production by bilinguals who are clearly more dominant in one language than the other. This is in part because most bilinguals are more dominant in one language than the other, but even in cases where proficiency appears roughly equivalent across languages, the social and interactional contexts in which bilinguals use their languages are likely to differ (see Gullifer & Titone 2020 for a recent psycholinguistic take on quantifying such differences). At present, it is not well understood whether and which aspects of language experience predict the presence of cross-language phonetic effects. In this section we touch on a few studies that have investigated this question, but this will be an important area for future research. Perhaps surprisingly, several studies have specifically looked for effects of language dominance or proficiency and found none. Amengual (2012) tested four (albeit small) distinct groups of Spanish–English bilinguals and found that all of them showed similar cross-language phonetic influence in their production of VOT for cognate words. Similarly, Simonet (2014) and Simonet and Amengual (2020) found that bilinguals of varying dominance profiles were consistent in their production of cross-language influence on a language-specific vowel category. Jacobs et al. (2016) reported cross-language influence in the speech of highly English-dominant learners of Spanish, but interestingly, only for those who were not immersed in the target language at the time of testing; learners who were immersed in Spanish did not show cross-language phonetic effects, indicating that even to the extent that proficiency/dominance may turn out to be relevant, it is certainly not the only relevant variable. Taken together, the (limited) evidence suggests that as long as some minimal level of proficiency in a language is reached, cross-language phonetic influence may be exerted. This seems to be corroborated by work examining the influence of a less dominant language on the more dominant language (see Kartushina et al. 2016a, for a recent review). Work by Chang (2012), for example, found that English speakers immersed in Korean began showing “phonetic drift” in their native English within just a few weeks of arriving in Korea, and perhaps surprisingly, a follow-up study showed that the degree of drift was more pronounced for learners with less prior experience learning Korean (Chang 2013). As Chang (2012) points out, such findings have implications for language contact inasmuch as they demonstrate that extensive exposure to a second language is not a prerequisite for contact-induced change at the level of the individual speaker.

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21.2.2.3 Characteristics of the linguistic setting In terms of the effects of the linguistic setting, then, the language in which learners are immersed at the time of testing seems to play a role in whether cross-language phonetic effects are observed (Chang 2012; Jacobs et al. 2016; see also Sancier & Fowler 1997). While Chang’s (2013) findings add nuance to this story, the idea that linguistic immersion interacts with dynamic processes of speech planning is consistent with findings from other experimental paradigms (Linck et al. 2009), and may also be related (at least conceptually, if not mechanistically) to studies that have examined effects of experimentally manipulated “language mode” (Soares & Grosjean 1984; Grosjean 1997). Work by Olson (2013, 2016), Simonet (2014), Yao and Chang (2016), and Simonet and Amengual (2020), has demonstrated that the characteristics of the experimental session can modulate cross-language influence, including factors such as the proportion of trials in each language or the task itself (e.g. reading aloud versus translation). That bilinguals appear to be exquisitely sensitive to the wider linguistic context, and that this sensitivity has consequences for the way language is accessed and produced, supports recent proposals relating individuals’ history of language mixing to the language control strategies they come to privilege, and ultimately to the consequences that bilingual experience has for the cognitive system (Green & Abutalebi 2013; Green & Wei 2014; Green 2018). “Language control strategies” here refers to the ways in which bilinguals manage crosslanguage activation during speech planning and comprehension. And while recent evidence from codeswitching corpora confirms that cross-language activation can have consequences for phonetic production during spontaneous conversation (Balukas & Koops 2015; Fricke et al. 2016), much work remains to be done to understand the extent to which findings from carefully controlled experiments can be analogized to the context of natural bilingual conversation. The latter is crucial for being able to relate psycholinguistic theories based on laboratory experimentation to real-world language contact phenomena, since the locus of language contact is natural conversational settings involving social beings using language to interact with the members of their community.

21.2.3 Relating individuals to communities Certainly, the patterns of language use within a speech community in contact set the stage for particular outcomes. For example, imagine a scenario where languages A and B are spoken in the same region, but in distinct spheres. In such an instance a child who speaks A may not begin to form stable phonetic categories for language B until she is older, old enough to have an observable language A accent on her language B productions. One may reasonably predict that the

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language contact outcomes from such a scenario would follow the predictions of the SLA literature, and indeed, relevant findings have been reported for patterns of Catalan–Spanish contact in Majorca (Simonet 2011). Alternative scenarios have been documented in the linguistic ecology of northern California. Multilingualism in many forms, including reportedly passive bilingualism, is described for speakers of Yurok and Karuk with Conathan (2006) citing Powers (1877) as noting that Yurok and Karuk individuals could converse at length in their respective first languages.¹ The multilingualism of northern California certainly also presents evidence of category assimilation as well, noted by Conathon in her analysis of Yurok oral stops across individuals who were also speakers of other northern Californian languages (e.g. Wiyot, Karuk, Shasta, Tolowa, Chimariko). Indeed, Conathon notes that some individuals working with J. P. Harrington were consultants for multiple languages, which provides in some cases the opportunity to discern cross-language influence in indigenous Californian language ecology. While language contact and its structural consequences should not be equated with language loss, language contact in the context of obsolescing languages poses particular challenges (Aikhenvald 2012), and changes in social contexts of language loss—both in the loss of indigenous languages and in heritage speaker populations—are similar to the types of changes experienced by dominant languages (Campbell & Muntzel 1989; Babel 2009; Embick et al. 2020). Some relevant work in this area has taken a variationist perspective to explore apparent-time changes in the context of heritage languages spoken in North America. Kang and Nagy (2016) found that a sound change in progress in mainland Korea is apparently being reversed among younger Korean speakers in Toronto (and also that the sociolinguistic conditioning variables have shifted; see also relevant work by Nagy & Kochetov 2013 and Newlin-Łukowicz 2014), but the reversal of a sound change-in-progress is not unique to heritage populations, as Yao and Chang (2016) similarly identified a process of merger reversal in the Shanghainese spoken as a dominant language by Shanghainese–Mandarin bilinguals in Shanghai. It is as-yet unknown whether sound change due to language contact can be modeled using the same principles that have been proposed to account for sound change in monolingual communities (e.g. Blythe & Croft 2012; Harrington & Schiel 2017; Harrington et al. 2018), but clearly this will be an important topic for future research. In this final section, we turn our attention to recent work that promises to advance our understanding of the relationships between language contact in the minds of individuals, naturally occurring phonetic variation we ¹ Note that reportedly is used in the description here because this observation of a conversation being conducted in two different languages does not inherently mean the individuals could not speak the other’s language. Rather, this could be interpreted as an opportunity to highlight differences and/or to reaffirm cultural identity, as may be the case in instances of cross-dialect divergence in assorted Germanic contexts (e.g. Gilles 1998; Auer & Hinskens 2005).

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can observe in bilingual communities, and how to begin tying such variation to processes of long-term structural change.

21.3 Looking ahead: Using corpus data to begin relating phonetic category knowledge, dynamic language processing, and mechanisms of change Contact varieties are inextricably linked to the communities and social contexts in which they develop. Of relevance, then, is the fact that studying the speech patterns in these communities exclusively within a laboratory setting severely limits the stylistic range that a speaker will perform. Going forward, a method that should therefore complement lab-based studies is that of corpus analysis. Corpora come with their own unique advantages and disadvantages, but one notable arena in which corpora arguably surpass lab experiments is code-switching. Eliciting even remotely natural code-switching in lab-based experiments is a distinct challenge (see, e.g. discussion in Beatty-Martı´nez et al. 2018), and one that limits the researcher’s ability to draw ecologically valid conclusions about the linguistic variants that are likely to occur in contact scenarios. But bilingual spontaneous speech corpora provide a unique view of the empirical landscape of mutual language influence and the development of community-level trends.² Naturally occurring code-switches present in spontaneous speech corpora provide the data needed to examine, for example, the directionality and extent of mutual influence at codeswitch boundaries (Fricke et al. 2016). A similar point has also been made by Travis and Cacoullos (2013) and we feel it is worth reiterating here. Spontaneous speech corpora allow us to observe the range of variation that speakers exhibit, begin to make inferences about the psycholinguistic processes that shape this variation, and glimpse the patterns that may over time give way to structural changes. Corpora also create avenues for new research, allowing questions such as, given the same vocal tract apparatus, what similarities and differences can be observed across a bilingual’s two languages? Identifying such features can establish what is talker-specific versus language-specific. For example, using spontaneous interview speech from early Korean–English bilinguals, Cheng (2020) finds that talkers maintain f0 differences across languages, demonstrating that f0 setting (for some bilinguals, at least) can be a language-independent feature. Similarly, building on work with monolinguals by Lee et al. (2019) and Johnson and Babel (2023a) find that bilinguals’ voice variability is more similar across languages than one might anticipate. ² While spontaneous speech may occasionally muddy our ability to characterize whether a pattern is the result of online processing influence or a more codified pattern, rigorous use of control variables within the corpus and appropriate statistical techniques can help disentangle such conundrums.

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Comparisons across corpora can also allow for a characterization of how features vary depending on the speech community, permitting more robust investigations of which features may be the product of language contact. They can also be used to test specific predictions generated by models intended to account for more general processes of language change. For example, using the SpiCE corpus of early Cantonese–English bilingual speech, Johnson and Babel (2023b) tested the predictions of Harrington and colleagues (Harrington & Schiel 2017; Harrington et al. 2018) in a bilingual context. They found that the skew of the English voiced stop voicing distribution (e.g. actual phonation during closure) and English voiceless stop release patterns in word-final position creep into the linked phonological categories in Cantonese. According to Harrington and colleagues, the more variable English distributions should be further pulled toward the less variable Cantonese distributions, causing Cantonese–English bilinguals’ English patterns to become more Cantonese-like, and Johnson and Babel indeed found evidence supporting this mechanism in the shaping of cross-linguistic mutual influence. To be clear, we are not advocating for researchers to take a fully corpus-based approach to the study of language contact and multilingualism—that would be a mistake. Laboratory experimentation allows us to isolate versus control particular variables as warranted by the research question, and importantly, to infer causation in a way that is not possible with strictly correlational data. Rather, given the importance of situating language contact phenomena within their social and interactive context, we see corpus analysis as a method that can complement laboratory experimentation in critical ways, allowing a methodological back-and-forth that can fuel new research questions and further our understanding of the mechanisms underpinning language contact and change. As in any methodological decision, we urge researchers to carefully consider whether an experiment or a corpus analysis is the most appropriate methodological choice given the research question at hand. We also submit that our toolkits and collaboration networks may need to diversify as we seek to apply the correct methods and address the breadth of real world contact scenarios, in order to answer the big questions about the mechanisms of language contact.

21.4 Conclusion A rich body of empirical work makes clear that languages change in the face of contact with other languages; we know this thanks to findings from descriptive fieldwork, historical linguistics, second language acquisition, phonetics, phonology, and variationist sociolinguistics. With such wide-ranging scholarship to integrate and a limited amount of time and space, ultimately, we are likely leaving readers unsatisfied; we certainly have omitted large swaths of relevant literature. Our hope is that by providing a snapshot of the relevant literatures in one place, and by structuring our review in terms of the organizing principles that can

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help us conceptualize the full complexity of phonetic and phonological language contact phenomena, a more mechanistic approach that lends itself to improved explanatory power can begin to come into focus. Linguistic shifts due to contact between languages initially take place at the individual level, and when they come to be shared across members of a speech community—whether through mutually experienced speaker-internal psycholinguistic influence, or through speaker-tospeaker transmission of variation within a community—we characterize this as language change. While transfer or category assimilation may characterize the nature of the change, these terms do not provide satisfactory explanatory power in terms of how such changes take place. By integrating findings and insights from the descriptive, historical, sociolinguistic, and variationist traditions with those from psycholinguistic studies of bilingual phonetic category structure and processing, a deeper understanding of the mechanisms that drive language change can begin to develop.

21.5 Acknowledgments This contribution likely falls far short of the exceptional scholarship and high expectations that Andrew Garrett modeled for us in graduate school. However, we hope it captures the curious appetite he helped foster and the broad reading and appreciation for other literatures he instilled in us. Ideas in this chapter were built on conversations with students in the Speech in Context Lab at the University of British Columbia, especially Khia Johnson and Rachel Soo.

22 Child-directed speech as a potential source of phonetic precursor enhancement in sound change Evidence from Cantonese Alan C. L. Yu, Carol K. S. To, and Yao Yao

22.1 Introduction Phonetically natural sound changes are often assumed to have articulatory, auditory, perceptual, or aerodynamic origins (Garrett & Johnson 2013). But as Garrett (2015) noted, “[e]ven in the clearest cases of phonologization, the outcome is not identical to the input before the change… any account of sound change must reckon with enhancement of phonetic precursors.” Garrett and Johnson (2013) described two potential enhancement patterns: (i) articulatory enhancement, which involves the increase in magnitude of some existing gesture (e.g. the coarticulatory fronting of a vowel, say [u̟], might be enhanced to become [y]) or temporal realignment of an existing articulatory feature (e.g. the metathesis of a segment to a perceptually more salient position); (ii) auditory enhancement involves the introduction of a new articulatory feature to increase auditory distinctness of a contrast (e.g. prenasalization of a voiced stop to enhance voicing). As noted in their discussion, enhancements often have perceptual motivations but what motivates these enhancements remain not well understood. Garrett and Johnson (2013) hypothesized that enhancement might come about as a way to recruit a new articulatoy feature to support a contrast that is insufficiently salient or to enhance a feature that is occasionally present in natural speech and has a privileged status in listeners’ exemplar memories which speakers might promote and propagate. Lindblom et al. (1995) hypothesize that the “pool of variants” emerged out of the functional communicative aspects of language, with speaking style varying along a continuum from effortful but easy-to-perceive “hyperspeech” to less effortful but harder to perceive “hypospeech.”

Alan C. L. Yu, Carol K. S. To, and Yao Yao, Child-directed speech as a potential source of phonetic precursor enhancement in sound change. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Alan C. L. Yu, Carol K. S. To, and Yao Yao (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0022

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In this study, we focus on the role of child language acquisition as a potential engine of enhancement that propels sound change. The idea that children’s language provides a source for language change has been a stable concept in Linguistics, from August Schleicher to the present. However, the parallels between the innovations commonly observed in children’s productions and attested sound change are questionable at best (Narayan 2013; Foulkes and Vihman 2015). In this study, we focus on the role of the inputs to child language acquisition. As noted above, the “pool of variants” has been hypothesized to emerge out of the functional communicative aspects of language (Lindblom et al. 1995), with speaking style varying along a continuum from “hyper-” to “hypospeech.” In recent years, infant/child-directed speech (IDS/CDS) has been argued to be a form of hyperspeech (Fernald 2000). Segmental contrasts are often found to be enhanced in CDS compared to adult-directed speech (ADS), although there are potential cross-linguistic differences (e.g. Englund 2018). Salmons et al. (2012) hypothesized that the child’s input might be skewed by the prosodic characteristics of CDS in that culture such that the child’s own production may be affected by the subtle differences in such CDS inputs. For example, they argue that the incremental fronting of the vowel in words like bit and hid in North Carolina English across three generations of speakers is not only in line with the “Southern Vowel Shift,” but the production of each subsequent generation of speakers also reflects the stressed realization of the same vowel in the previous generation. An important question from a sound change perspective is whether phonetic variation is enhanced in CDS and, if so, whether such enhancements lead to the emergence of categorical phonological patterns in the children’s production. Previous literature suggests that linguistic variations are amply attested in the speech production of caregivers. However, caregivers often use more standard or non-stigmatized variants when speaking to infants or young children than when speaking to other adults. The tendency to reduce the use of non-standard variants does not necessarily mean that children are not exposed to linguistic variation, however. Foulkes et al. (2005), for example, examined CDS of mothers in Tyneside, England, and found that they used significantly more standard or non-stigmatized variants of (t) in word-medial and word-final prevocalic contexts when speaking to young children (age 2;0 to 4;0) than when speaking to other adults. Nonetheless, their speech to boys contained less standard variants than their speech to girls. Crucially, the mothers’ patterns in CDS were reflected in their children’s performance, suggesting that how mothers tune their linguistic behavior have direct consequences for the development of their children’s linguistic development, including the acquisition of gender-appropriate vernacular. Not all contrasts are enhanced nor are all variations pared down in CDS, however. Smith et al. (2013) examined six morphosyntactic and lexical variables in the

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speech of caregivers and children in Buckie and found that the frequencies of vernacular variant use are more similar between caregivers’ production (CDS) and the children’s production than between community norm (ADS) and CDS and that morphosyntactic variables are more varied than lexical ones. ADS vs. CDS differences are also observed at the phonetic level. Narayan (2013) examined the co-variation between voice onset time (VOT) and post-consonantal fundamental frequency (f0) in English word-initial stop voicing contrast in ADS and IDS (the children were nine months old at the time of recording). He found more overlap in VOT realization in IDS than in ADS, but the decrease in VOT difference is correlated with an increase in f0 difference between voiced and voiceless stops, suggesting that f0 was enhanced as a cue for distinguishing obstruent voicing. While he was quick to point out that these findings do not necessarily imply that English-learning infants would reinterpret the regularity of pitch perturbation as tone, the consistency of a stop voicing-related f0 difference might prevent the learner from making incorrect predictions of voicing. Whether phonetic variation is enhanced or not might be influenced by its phonological status and whether the phonetic variation infringes on the learning process. Martin et al. (2014) investigated vowel devoicing in Japanese comparing across IDS, ADS, and read speech (RS). They found that the rate of devoicing and its association with different speaking style is dependent on vowel height. For high vowels, the rate of devoicing is lowest in IDS, but highest in read speech (i.e. RS → ADS → IDS). For non-high vowels, the association is the opposite. They argued that Japanese devoicing might be better analyzed as two processes. High vowel devoicing can be seen as an intended phonological change while non-high vowel devoicing an unintentional consequence of gestural overlap. The ADS-CDS difference in the rate of high vowel devoicing is accounted for by principles of recoverability. That high vowel devoicing is less frequent in IDS than in ADS might be driven by the desire of the speaker to facilitate children’s recovery of the vowel; as high vowel devoicing is a controlled intentional process, the speakers may choose to not apply this rule.¹ Non-high vowel devoicing is unintentional, thus the speakers are not expected to be able to control its application. Martin et al. (2014) explained the increase in non-high vowel devoicing in IDS in terms of the prevalence of breathiness in IDS. To further explore the potential role of CDS in enhancing phonetic variation, this study examines differences in innovative linguistic variant usage in CDS and ADS in Hong Kong Cantonese (HKC). The syllable structure of HKC is (C)V(C),

¹ Controlled processes, also sometimes referred to as extrinsic processes, maybe categorical or gradient. Crucially, they are language-specific and cannot be explained by universal considerations of phonetic implementation. See Solé (2007) for more discussions.

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with 19 initial consonants /p, pʰ, t, tʰ, k, kʰ, kʷ, kʷʰ, ts, tsʰ, f, s, h, w, j, l, m, n, ŋ/ and six coda consonants /p˺, t˺, k˺, m, n, ŋ/. There are eight vowels /i, y, ε, æ, a, ɔ, u, ɐ/, and eleven diphthongs /ai, ɐi, au, ɐu, ei, ɵi, ɔi, ui, iu, ou, εu/. In addition, Cantonese has six lexical tones (T): T1 [55] high-level, T2 [25] high-rising, T3 [33] mid-level, T4 [21] low-falling, T5 [23] low-rising, and T6 [22] low-level (Bauer and Benedict 1997). HKC is undergoing several segmental and suprasegmental sound changes currently (Bauer 1986; To et al. 2015). Some of the sound changes in progress are very salient and are subjected to considerable social commentaries and stigma. Here, we focus on two such sound changes in progress in particular: the merger of syllable-initial /n/ with /l/ (e.g. [na:m] > [la:m] “male” vs. [la:m] “blue”; Bourgerie 1990) and the loss of the labiovelar stops before /ɔ/ (e.g. [kʷɔŋ] ‘wide’ > [kɔŋ] vs. [kɔŋ] ‘harbor’; Bauer 1982). Both changes are seen as part of the “lazy speech” register and are featured prominently in governmental campaign to “overcome” and “correct” these features. The third pattern concerns the variable realization of /s/ in different vocalic environments, which is not generally viewed as part of the “lazy speech” register. As reviewed above, sociolinguistic studies of the development of phonetic and phonology have observed that the linguistic inputs to children learning a language are structured in ways that encourage socially structured development of the phonological grammar, suggesting that caregivers might modulate certain socially and phonologically relevant contrasts or patterns, presumably to facilitate the acquisition process. How this modulation is manifested might differ across different variables. We hypothesize that the socially stigmatized variants, such as n/l merger and the loss of the labiovelars before /ɔ/, would exhibit the same type of “stigma avoiding/revert to the standard” pattern observed in earlier studies. It is unclear, however, if graded, albeit controlled, phonetic processes such as the variable realization of /s/ in different vocalic contexts would pattern with n/l merger and the loss of the labiovelars, especially since /s/ variation is not canonically associated with the “lazy speech” style. Understanding the behavior of gradient, but controlled, phonetic variation is important as they are seen as ultimately the original source (or phonetic precursor) of community-wide sound changes (Beddor 2009; Stevens et al. 2019; Yu 2021).

22.2 Methodology 22.2.1 The corpus The data reported in this study comes from the Multi-ethnic Hong Kong Cantonese Corpus (MeHKCC; https://ccds.edu.hku.hk/), which aims to investigate how the acquisition of HKC is influenced by the caregivers’ linguistic background.

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The database consists of audio recordings from three groups of mother-toddler dyads where the mothers are (i) South Asians who speak at least one language commonly found in India or Pakistan (e.g. Hindi, Urdu, Punjabi) (ii) recent immigrants from Mainland China whose primary language is Putonghua, and (iii) local ethnic Chinese mothers who speak Cantonese natively. Mothers of the first two groups also speak Cantonese as their second language. The child participants were between ages 20 to 27 months (M = 24.29 months, SD = 1.63) and were typically developing children without any diagnosis of developmental disorders. With the exception of one mother, who reported to have lived in Hong Kong for only 11 years, all other mothers were either born in Hong Kong or have lived in Hong Kong for more than 20 years at the time of the recording. The present study focuses on the speech samples of 28 Cantonese-speaking Hong Kong born mothers recorded when they interacted with their child (CDS; total number of words = 154,379), and when they talked to another adult (ADS) during the interview task (ADS-i henceforth; N = 11,426; see below for more description regarding on the ADSCDS tasks). All mothers within this specific cohort reported that Cantonese is the primary language they use to communicate with their children. Procedures: For the CDS, each mother–child dyad was audio- and videorecorded on the campus of the University of Hong Kong, while the mother was playing with the child in a mock living room equipped with a sofa, a highchair, a floor mat, and age-appropriate toys and books. Each mother wore a Sennheiser MKE 2 clip-on microphone connected to a Zoom H5 digital recorder in a small shoulder bag so that the mother’s movement would not be constrained. Only the mother and the child were in the room during the recording. Each CDS recording session lasted about 60 minutes. After obtaining the CDS samples, a second appointment for the ADS was scheduled within two weeks after the first visit. During the ADS recording session, each mother was interviewed regarding child’s developmental and social history, daily routine, and patterns of language use, as well as the mother’s own background and patterns of language use with coworkers and family members. After the interview, additional narrative speech samples were collected using maps, story cards, and short films. All the recordings were made on the same recorder with a sampling rate of 44.1 kHz. Transcription and forced alignment: The ADS and CDS recordings were transcribed by a team of phonetically trained, native Cantonese-speaking research assistants using the software, Phon (Hedlund & Rose 2019). The research assistants would first determine the temporal boundaries of each utterance, and then transcribe the utterance into Chinese characters or Jyutping symbols (when no standard Chinese characters were available). To ensure transcription reliability, all transcriptions were checked by a separate research assistant.

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The orthographic annotations were submitted to automatic forced alignment using SPeech Phonetization Alignment and Syllabification (SPPAS), a Pythonbased software package for performing forced alignment (Bigi 2015), where the transcribed utterances were parsed into words and syllables. The software identified words and syllables from the actual production, and then the corresponding candidate phonetic forms were generated from the reference dictionary. Each word was parsed into segments using a Cantonese acoustic model implemented in SPPAS (Lee et al. 2002). SPPAS identified the best segmental representation for each phonetic candidate. SPPAS does not provide a means to encode the tonal information of a form. A subset of the recordings were checked and manually corrected by research assistants in terms of both the phonetic labels and the boundaries of the segmental intervals. Agreement between the forced alignment and the manual alignment was fairly good; the accuracy rates in segmental labeling range from 78% with a 10 ms threshold to 81% with a 30 ms threshold and agreement rates in the start and end points of the phonemic interval range from 74% with a 10 ms threshold to 76% with a 30 ms threshold.² The annotation results from forced alignment were analyzed using a series of customized Praat scripts designed to retrieve acoustic and segmental information.

22.3 Results 22.3.1 Vowel and tone systems in Cantonese ADS and CDS We begin with a brief examination of some basic properties of our ADS-CDS corpus. Concerning speaking rate, which was determined by dividing the number of phones within the utterance by the duration of the utterance itself, the mean speaking rate for the CDS corpus is 10.36 phonemes per second (SD = 0.93) and 9.90 phonemes per second (SD = 0.80) for the ADS-i corpus, suggesting that the mothers spoke slightly faster in the CDS condition than in the ADS interview task (cf. Han et al. 2021). Next, we examined the mothers’ vowel and tonal spaces between CDS and ADS conversational speech. Following previous studies (Barry & Blamey 2004; Kuhl et al. 1997; Rattanasone et al. 2013), the size of vowel space was estimated by the triangular area formed by the three corner vowels ([a], [i], [u]) on the F1-F2 (Bark) plane, whereas the size of tonal space was estimated by the triangular area of T1 ² The threshold refers to the window within which a boundary mismatch falls. A 10 ms threshold, for example, refers to a window centered around 5 ms before and 5 ms after a boundary in the manual alignment.

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CDS

F1 (Bark)

5

Vowel

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[a] [i] [u] 7

8 14

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Figure 22.1 Average vowel triangles (solid lines) for ADS and CDS across all the speakers, shown against each speaker’s mean [a]/[i]/[u] formant values.

(high level), T2 (high rising), and T4 (low falling) on the plane of F0 onset and offset. As shown in Figure 22.1, the Cantonese-speaking mothers overall produced a slightly larger [a]-[i]-[u] triangle in ADS (M = 3.99; SD = 1.30) than in CDS (M = 3.48; SD = 1.03; t(27) = 2.70, p = 0.011 in a paired t-test), consistent with the observation of faster speaking rate in the CDS (Moon & Lindblom 1994). On the other hand, the opposite pattern is found for tonal variation (see Figure 22.2). Despite the faster speaking rate, the mothers produced a larger tonal triangle in CDS (M = 0.080; SD = 0.043) than in ADS (M = 0.027; SD = 0.026; t(27) = 5.32, p < 0.001 in a paired t-test), suggesting tonal hyperarticulation in CDS. These findings of vowel space reduction and tonal space expansion in CDS echo the results of Rattanasone et al. 2013, which reported hyperarticulation for tones but not for vowels in Cantonese IDS. Since speaking rate was not examined in Rattanasone et al. 2013, it is unclear if the lack of vowel space reduction might be attributable to a lack of difference in speaking rate between ADS and CDS in their corpus.

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Figure 22.2 Average tone triangles (solid lines) for ADS and CDS across all the speakers, shown against each speaker’s mean T1/T2/T4 F0 onset and offset.

22.3.2 Sound changes in progress in Cantonese ADS and CDS Turning now to the use of phonological variation in ADS and CDS. The question we examined in this section is whether or not the mothers’ speech production incorporates the changed variants and whether the usage rates differ across ADS and CDS. Specifically, we focus on three sound changes in progress. This subsection examines two in particular that are part of the so-called “lazy speech” register and are featured prominently in governmental campaign to “overcome” and “correct” these features: the merger of syllable-initial /n/ with /l/ (e.g. [na:m] > [la:m] “male” vs. [la:m] “blue”) and the loss of the labiovelar stops (e.g. [kʷɔŋ] ‘wide’ > [kɔŋ] vs. [kɔŋ] ‘harbor’). There are 7554 instances of possible syllable-initial /n/s in the corpus (ADS = 1011 and CDS = 6543). The n/l annotations are based on SPPAS’s determination of the best segmental representation for each phonetic candidate. SPPAS’s dictionary included both standard and changed variants. In terms of token frequency, the rate of /n/ being pronounced as [n] is 7% (71 out of 1011 instances) in ADS and 12% (765 out of 6543) in CDS, suggesting that mothers were more conservative in the pronunciation of onset /n/ in CDS than in ADS. The pronunciation of onset

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nasal ([n] =1 ; [l] = 0) was modeled using mixed-effects logistic regression fitted in R, using the glmer() function from the lme4 package (Bates et al. 2011). The regression model tested for the effects of speaking CONDITION (ADS vs. CDS) and speaking RATE (phone per second). The inclusion of an interaction between CONDITION and RATE did not increase model-likelihood and was not included in the final analysis. CONDITION was sum-coded and RATE centered and z-scored. The model also included by-subject random intercepts as well as by-subject random slopes for CONDITION and speaking rate to allow for subject-specific variation in speaking condition and speaking rate. The model also included by-word intercepts to allow for word-specific variation in sound change. The model formula in lme4 style is VARIABLE ~ CONDITION + RATE + (1 + RATE + CONDITION |SUBJECT) + (1 | WORD). Figure 22.3a, which illustrates the model-predicted rate of /n/ being pronounced as [n], suggests that the merger of /n/ with /l/ is more or less complete. The intercept of the regression model is –11.77, which corresponds to a probability of 0.0008% of faithful pronunciation of /n/ in general. Nonetheless, the model suggests that, to a very small degree, some initial /n/ are still pronounced as /n/ and they are more likely to be found in CDS than in ADS (β = –0.229, z = –3.256, p < 0.01). There was also a significant effect of speaking rate (β = –0.26, z = –5.091, p < 0.001), suggesting that the [n] pronunciation is less likely in faster speaking rate. It might seem surprising at first glance that the base rate of faithful pronunciation of /n/ is very low (i.e., 0.0008%) according to the regression analysis given the token frequency distributions reviewed above range from 7% in ADS to 12% in CDS. The discrepancy can be attributed to word-specific effect associated with this variant. That is, the base rate of faithful /n/ realization is ~ 8% on average (the intercept of the regression model = –2.405) in a model without by-word random intercepts compare to 0.0008% in the model reported above. This finding suggests that the faithful pronunciation of [n] is concentrated in a small number of words and these words are used more frequently than the other words. It is worth noting that the direction of the CONDITION effect was the same regardless whether or not by-word random intercepts are included, although the sizes of the CONDITION effect differ. In terms of labiovelar loss, there are 1368 instances of possible labiovelars before /ɔ/ in the corpus (ADS = 870). In terms of token frequency, there are more labiovelars attested in CDS (42%; 214 out of 508) than in ADS (37%; 324/870), suggesting that overall, children are exposed to more conservative variants than innovative ones. The realization of labialized velars (labiovelar = 1; velar = 0) was further modeled similarly as the n/l variation. The inclusion of speaking rate as a predictor did not improve model-likelihood and was dropped from the following analysis. The model formula in lme4 style is VARIABLE ~ CONDITION

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Figure 22.3 Model predictions of the likelihood of (a) syllable-initial /n/ being pronounced as [n] and (b) labiovelars being pronounced as labio-velars.

+ (1 + CONDITION |SUBJECT) + (1 | WORD). The predicted attestation rate of the conservative variant (i.e., the labiovelarization is preserved) is about 39% (the intercept = –0.46) in general. Unlike the n/l merger case, as illustrated in Figure 22.3b, labiovelars are more likely to be pronounced with labialization in ADS than in CDS (β = 0.224, z = 2.249, p < 0.05). This is surprising given the token frequency distribution reviewed above suggests the opposite pattern. Further examination reveals that the effect of CONDITION is reversed (i.e., labiovelars are more conservative in CDS than in ADS) when the regression does not include by-word random intercepts, suggesting that word-specific variation plays a significant role in the realization of labiovelars. As shown in Figure 22.4, there is a total of seven words in the corpus that featured a labiovelar before /ɔ/. Only two of the seven are found in both ADS and CDS and the labiovelar pronunciation is more prevalent in CDS than in ADS in one word (i.e., gwo2 果 “fruit”) and more common in ADS than CDS in the other (i.e., gwo1|gwo3 過 “pass”). Differential participation in sound change is often attributed to frequency effects (e.g. Phillips 2001); frequent words are more likely to participate in change than less frequent ones. Given the small number of lexical items that instantiate this change, at least in this corpus, it is not quite feasible to examine the effect of lexical frequency. However, two observations suggest that lexical frequency is not likely to be the main factor. To begin with, the words gwo2 果 “fruit” and 裹 “bind, wrap” are homophonous historically. The word 裹 “bind, wrap,” which is only attested in CDS, exhibits a much higher rate of de-labialization than the word for 果 “fruit,” which is much more frequently attested in both CDS and ADS. Similarly, the word kwong3 礦 “ore” is only attested once in the corpus and it was not labialized. These findings further highlight the lexical idiosyncratic nature of this sound change; the infrequent

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attestation of a word does not necessarily translate into reduced participation in sound change.

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Figure 22.4 Word-specific percentages of labiovelars being pronounced as labiovelars.

Thus far, our investigations have revealed mixed results concerning the attestation of socially stigmatized sound changes in progress in CDS and ADS. In the case of n/l merger, CDS exhibits slightly more conservative tendencies than ADS, although this sound change in progress is almost complete in this corpus. In the case of the labiovelars, in terms of raw frequency, there are more instances of delabialization in ADS than in CDS, suggesting that children might encounter more instances of the conservative variant in CDS. However, once word-specific effects are controlled for, delabialization is shown to be more frequent in CDS than ADS. This pattern reversal suggests that delabialization in labiovelars might be driven by particular words. These findings are in contrast with what has been reported in prior literature. Recall, for example, that mothers in Tyneside, England, used significantly more standard or non-stigmatized variants of (t) when speaking to their children (Foulkes et al. 2005). Since word-specific effects were not controlled for in that study, it is not clear if the size of the ADS/CDS difference would change if lexical factors are taken into account. Thus far, we have focused on sound changes in progress that have been associated with the socially stigmatized “lazy speech” register. In the next section, we turn to another sound change in progress in HKC, one that is arguably “below the level of consciousness” and is more gradient in character.

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22.3.3 Controlled variation in Cantonese ADS and CDS Traditional description of Cantonese phonology often noted variations in the pronunciation of /s/ dependent on the following vowel (e.g. Chao 1947; Hashimoto 1972; Cheung 1986; Bauer & Benedict 1997), but the specific context of the variation and the nature of the variants have been a matter of debate. Yu (2016) investigated the acoustic realization /s/ preceding one of the following vowels: [i o y e a] and found that the strongest vocalic influence comes along the vocalic rounding dimension. Unlike earlier phonological descriptions which uniformly treat /s/ variation as a categorical phenomenon, Yu (2016) found the vocalic influence to be temporally dynamic, with the rounding effect stronger in the portion of the sibilant interval closest to the onset of the following vowel and weakest or non-existent at the beginning of the sibilant interval. Despite the temporallydependent, hence coarticulatory, nature of the variation, Yu (2016) nonetheless concluded that the variable realization /s/ is part of the controlled phonological competence of the speakers, as evidenced by the fact that the magnitude of the rounding effect is gender-dependent and modulated by the degree of “autistic”-like traits of the speakers. Specifically, female speakers show a much larger difference than male speakers and speakers who have less “autistic”-like traits show a larger rounding effect than those who have more “autistic”-like traits. A recent ultrasound study confirmed that the tongue position of /s/ does not change significantly in different vowel contexts (Yeung 2021), further supporting the idea that the variable acoustic realization of /s/ is due to temporal alignment of the roundedness gesture associated with the following vowel. Thus, unlike the two sound changes in progress above, this particular variation does not involve a categorical shift. The question here is whether this kind of gradient phonological variation exhibits any ADS-CDS difference. Early theories of coarticulation assume that variation in coarticulation results from differences in speech style, which may vary on a continuum of hyper- and hypo-speech depending on whether it is the need of the speaker or the listener that is emphasized (see, e.g. the H & H model of Lindblom 1990). In contrast to this type of speaker-oriented approach to coarticulation, which equates variation in coarticulation as a side-effect of variation in articulatory efforts, some have recently argued that coarticulation might be designed in part for the benefit of the listeners (Scarborough 2004; Wright 2004; Pycha 2015), since the overlapping acoustic properties of a given segment across other segments could provide redundant temporally distributed cues for the spreading segment (Mattingly 1981; Wright 2004). Listeners can take advantage of the contextually predictable nature of coarticulation and use coarticulatory information to identify or predict other portions of the signal. In a series of studies (Solé 1995, 2007; Solé & Ohala 2010), Maria-Josep Solé proposes to examine the controlled nature of a phonetic variation, including coarticulation, by considering how a phonetic pattern is manifested

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across different global duration conditions, such as variation in segmental duration and speaking rates. When the segmental duration is long or if the speaking rate is slow, the speaker-oriented approach to coarticulation would expect a reduction in coarticulatory overlap, while a listener-oriented approach would predict the vocalic coarticulatory effect on /s/ to be constant or enhanced. To test these predictions, spectral means were extracted from all syllable-initial /s/s in the corpus, using a modified version of a customized Praat script (DiCanio 2013), based on the fricative noise between the initial and final 10% of the sibilant duration high-pass filtered with a cut-off of 300 Hz using the time-averaging method (Shadle 2012). Spectral mean has been shown to distinguish well between /s/ and /ʃ/ in English (Shadle & Mair 1996; Jongman et al. 2000) and across different vowel contexts (Nittrouer 1995), gender (Nittrouer 1995) and socio-economic classes (Stuart-Smith 2007). The corpus contains 13585 instances of syllable-initial /s/ in the corpus (ADS = 5904 and CDS = 7681). The spectral mean of /s/ was modeled using linear mixedeffects regression fitted in R, using the lmer() function from the lme4 package (Bates et al. 2011). The regression model tested for the effects of vocalic ROUNDing (rounded vs. unrounded), CONDITION (ADS vs. CDS), sibilant DURATION and speaking RATE (phone per second within the utterance where the target segment is found). Model selection began with all interactions between CONDITION, ROUND, and the temporal measures such as DURATION and RATE. Interactions that do not improve model likelihood based on a series of likelihood ratio tests were eliminated. CONDITION was sum-coded and speaking rate centered and z-scored. Because of strong correlation between sibilant duration and utterancespecific speaking rate, sibilant duration was first residualized for the effect of speaking rate prior to being entered into the regression analysis. The model also included by-subject and by-word random intercepts as well as by-subject random slopes for RATE, residualized DURATION, and the interaction between ROUND and CONDITION, to allow for subject-specific variation with respect to these variables. The model formula in lme4 style is SPECTRAL MEAN ~ CONDITION ∗ ROUND+ DURATION ∗ ROUND + RATE + (1 + CONDITION ∗ ROUND + DURATION + RATE |SUBJECT) + (1|WORD). The regression model shows a significant effect of ROUND (β = –487.48, z = –6.853, p < 0.001), suggesting that, as a group, the mothers have significantly lower spectral mean when the following vowel is rounded. There is a significant effect of speaking rate (β = –192.15, z = –6.518, p < 0.001), suggesting that spectral mean is lower when speaking rate is faster. Sibilant duration, which is residualized for the effect of speaking rate, also shows a significant main effect (β = 748.3, z = 19.379, p < 0.001), suggesting that longer sibilants have higher spectral mean in general. Crucially, there is a significant interaction between ROUND and sibilant DURATION (β = –118.49, z = –6.107, p < 0.001). As illustrated in Figure 22.5, the longer the sibilant, the larger the difference between sibilants in rounded and

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unrounded vowel contexts. This finding is not consistent with a speaker-oriented, hypoarticulation, interpretation of the vocalic rounding since a longer sibilant duration should minimize the anticipatory rounding effect of the following vowel. On the other hand, if the vocalic rounding effect were controlled by the speaker and perhaps listener-oriented, the longer sibilant duration should allow the speaker to maximize the rounding difference on the sibilant. Duration-dependent sibilant variation

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Figure 22.5 Model predictions of sibilant spectral mean before rounded and unrounded vowels as modulated by the speaking-rate-residualized duration of the sibilant. Error bars indicate 95% confidence intervals.

Concerning any difference between ADS and CDS, the model shows a significant main effect of CONDITION (β = 216.61, z = 3.056, p < 0.01), indicating that the sibilant spectral mean is generally higher in ADS than in CDS. The lower spectral mean in CDS might be related to potential exaggerated lip movement in CDS relative to ADS (Green et al. 2010). Further articulatory investigation is needed to ascertain this point. Crucially, there is not a significant interaction between CONDITION and ROUND, suggesting that, as a group, the effect of vocalic rounding on the preceding sibilant does not vary between ADS and CDS. Thus, unlike the categorical sound changes in progress examined above, the HK Cantonese mothers do not show any general tendency to adjust the vocalic rounding effects in CDS. The ADS-CDS difference in how the mothers utilize categorical sound changes in progress and the controlled phonetic variation is noteworthy since it suggests that mothers make less use of sound change in progress if the variant is categorical and stigmatized (at least in terms of token frequency), but no such adjustment is observed when a sound change in progress is more gradient in nature and below the level of consciousness.

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Figure 22.6 “Caterpillar plots” for the conditional modes of the by-subject random slopes for the interaction between CONDITION and ROUND the 28 mothers. The participants are ordered by the conditional modes of the by-subject slope.

Notwithstanding the group-level results, it is worth noting that the inclusion of by-subject random slopes for the interaction between CONDITION and ROUND significantly improves model likelihood, suggesting that there is a great deal of variability across mothers in terms of how they vary the amount of vocalic rounding effect on the preceding sibilant across ADS and CDS conditions. The caterpillar plot in Figure 22.6 shows the conditional modes of the by-subject random slopes for the CONDITION: ROUND interaction in the 28 mothers. Individuals with error bars above or below zero can be interpreted as having CONDITION: ROUND differences that are significantly different from the group mean. Figure 22.6 suggests that there are mothers who exhibit extreme CONDITION: ROUND interaction even if the mothers, as a group, did not show a significant CONDITION: ROUND interaction. Figure 22.7 illustrates the specifics of the CONDITION:ROUND interaction for each mother. For example, participants 108, 116, 127, who have significantly lower by-subject random slopes for CONDITION:ROUND, show a larger vocalic rounding effect in ADS than in CDS. Of particular interest are mothers like participants 105, 125, and 117 who have high by-subject random slopes for CONDITION: ROUND. Figure 22.7 suggests that these mothers tend to show a larger vocalic rounding effect on the sibilant in the CDS than the ADS conditions. This exaggerated rounding effect in CDS is important as the pronunciations of these mothers ultimately serve as models for their children. The “exaggerated” production of these mothers might eventually influence their children to develop a vowel-dependent categorical allophonic difference.

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s101

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Figure 22.7 Each panel shows a mother’s the sibilant spectral means before rounded and unrounded in ADS and CDS conditions.

22.4 Discussion and conclusion In this study, we examined the production of a group of HKC-speaking mothers when speaking to their children and to another adult. Globally, we observed vowel space reduction, but tonal hyperarticulation in CDS. While the observed vowel space reduction may be attributed to the faster speaking rate observed in CDS than in ADS, tonal hyperarticulation is more consistent with the hypothesis that tonal hyperarticulation might serve as a bootstrapping mechanism in early language development in tone languages like Cantonese. We then examined the relative usage of conservative and innovative variants in ADS and CDS with respect to two sound changes in progress in HKC that involved categorical mergers and found that, in both n/l merger and labiovelar loss, there was a reduction in the attestation of the innovative variants, suggesting that the mothers use more standard, non-stigmatized, variants when speaking to their children, at least in terms of token frequency; the labiovelar loss pattern is complicated by

CDS

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lexical idiosyncratic behaviors. This “reversal to the standard” pattern might have contributed to the refusal of these sound changes to progress to completion, even though these changes have been in circulation for many decades. We then examined the variable realization of /s/ in different vocalic contexts. While the variable realization /s/ is gradient in nature, the fact that the vocalic effect is larger when the duration of /s/ is longer is consistent with previous claims that this is a part of the (controlled) phonological grammar of speakers of HKC. Of particular interest is the lack of interaction between speaking condition and vocalic contexts, suggesting that the amount of vocalic influence on /s/ does not differ across ADS and CDS significantly, even though, as recalled earlier, speaking rate is faster in CDS than ADS. This finding suggests that the mothers did not attempt to ameliorate the vowel-dependent variation in /s/ as they did with the more socially stigmatized variations like n/l merger and labiovelar loss. In fact, a closer look at the mothers’ production at the individual level, we found some who exhibit enhanced vowel-dependent sibilant spectral mean differences, suggesting that some children might be exposed to more exaggerated /s/ allophony. The existence of phonetic enhancement, at least in some mothers, with respect to /s/ allophony, a “phonetic precursor” to categorical change, suggests that CDS offers a possible pathway for controlled phonetic variation to progress in the direction of categorical allophony. This scenario seems particularly likely given that females are generally “leading” in /s/ variation (recall that females show stronger vowel-dependent variation than males; Yu 2016). To the extent that females are more likely to be the caregivers than males, the eventual emergence of voweldependent variation in /s/ as a full-blown categorical sound change in progress seems highly likely. To be sure, whether the observed differences between ADS and CDS affect sound change depends on whether the variation observed in the mothers’ CDS is reflected in the children’s production. While this study cannot settle this question, as already reviewed in the introduction, there are reasons to believe that the variation observed in CDS would be reflected in the children’s production (e.g. Foulkes et al. 2005; Roberts 2013; Smith et al. 2013). Further studies are needed to examine whether the same type of mirroring in the usage of innovative variants between the caregivers and the children extends to phonetic variation as well.

Acknowledgments This work is partially funded by an award to the “‘Speaking Your Language’– An Investigation of Cantonese Child Directed Speech by South Asian, Immigrant Chinese, and Local Hong Kong Mothers” project from the Standing Committee on Language Education and Research (SCOLAR) in Hong Kong and a grant from the Yuen Research Fund at the University of Chicago.

23 Paradigmatic heterogeneity and homogenization Probing Paul’s principle Chundra Cathcart

23.1 Introduction In the domain of analogical change, few linguists’ names adorn as many concepts as Hermann Paul’s, such as PAUL’S PROPORTION for four-part analogy (Palmer 1972) and PAUL’S DUALISM between proportional and non-proportional mechanisms in analogical change (Gaeta 2007). A third eponymous observation describes circumstances which lead—or rather fail to lead—to paradigm leveling, a type of morphological change that involves the elimination of irregularity within morphological paradigms: paradigms of high irregularity resist leveling, while less heterogeneous paradigms are prone to undergo even more simplification. This idea, termed PAUL’S PRINCIPLE, is not always central to discussions on analogical change, despite the interesting questions that it raises. For instance, while heterogeneous paradigms may resist leveling for a long duration of time, they often succumb nonetheless to processes of homogenization, and the circumstances under which such change takes place remain unclear. This chapter investigates the dynamics of paradigm leveling in certain Middle and Early New High German strong verbs, a process during which several inflectional classes saw a gradual loss of highly irregular allomorphy involving alternating consonants as well as vowels. I inspect variation among diachronic trajectories displayed by different analogical change types using a hierarchical regression model, with an eye to understanding whether the breakdown of regularity was an incremental process where vowel and consonantal allomorphy was neutralized in sequence, and whether change was constant across different parts of the paradigm. Some clear generalizations emerge from the results: it is not possible to date vowel and consonantal leveling changes in certain past tense forms with respect to each other, but these developments reliably precede certain leveling changes in the present system. I discuss the implications of this finding for our understanding of inter- and intra-paradigm relationships in language change, and outline directions for research further investigating this and related issues. Chundra Cathcart, Paradigmatic heterogeneity and homogenization. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Chundra Cathcart (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0023

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CHUNDRA CATHCART

23.2 Background and rationale 23.2.1 Analogical change, irregularity, and the status of leveling Analogical change encompasses a wide range of processes which involve the restructuring of morphological systems in languages. A common type (or consequence) of analogical change is intra-paradigm leveling, where speakers undo patterns of irregular (i.e., phonologically unpredictable) lexical allomorphy within paradigms, as shown in Table 23.1. A commonly held view is that language users possess a drive toward paradigm leveling, as the process of leveling achieves biuniqueness, phasing out many-to-one mappings between form and meaning (Wurzel 1984). The view that a preference for regularity shapes analogical change has been contested. Garrett (2008) argues that cases of analogical change traditionally viewed as intra-paradigm leveling are just as easily explained as proportional instances of inter-paradigm extension (namely of patterns from non-alternating paradigms to paradigms which previously contained alternating patterns), vitiating the notion of leveling as a non-proportional process requiring a special status in analogical change. Many concur with the idea that a drive toward level paradigms does not play a major role in analogical change, but question a consequence of this view, namely the implication that proportional processes are predominant in analogical change. Sims-Williams (2016) adduces examples of leveling in Ancient Greek that lack a proportional basis, and Fertig (2016) emphasizes the role of non-proportional mechanisms in analogical change more generally. Others argue not only that there is no drive toward level paradigms, but that allomorphy benefits language users, both from the standpoint of production and comprehension. For instance, phonologically and semantically unmotivated morphomic alternations are claimed to aid speakers in deducing inflectional realizations of verbs, account for their stability in Romance languages (Maiden 2004). Nu¨bling (2000) argues that irregular allomorphy is beneficial to listeners, as it aids in the recognition of frequent forms that may be uttered with shorter duration due to frequency effects. This view has support from the literature on Table 23.1 Leveling of stem alternation between aim- and am- in the Old French present paradigm of amer ‘love,’ adapted from Trask 1996, Garrett 2008. 1sg aim 2sg aimes 3sg aimet

1pl amons → Mod. French aimons 2pl amez → Mod. French aimez 3pl aiment

Source: adapted from Trask 1996; Garrett 2008.

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comprehension; allomorphy renders forms within a paradigm maximally discriminable from each other (Blevins et al. 2017). Baayen and del Prado Martı´n (2005) note that irregular verbs in Germanic languages tend to have more synonyms, populating denser semantic space, and that this property of irregular verbs facilitates the production and perception of the patterns of allomorphy they display. There is thus considerable support for the idea that language users benefit from maintaining complex patterns of allomorphy within paradigms. At the same time, the benefits of irregularity may be limited: De Smet and Van de Velde (2019) find that moderately irregular Dutch verbs are less likely to undergo regularization than highly irregular ones.

23.2.2 Paul’s principle: The allure of irregularity In his Prinzipien der Sprachgeschichte, Hermann Paul makes numerous observations regarding tendencies in analogical change, including the circumstances under which leveling (Ausgleichung) tends or tends not to occur (Paul 1880:161ff.). He states that leveling is inhibited in the presence of transparent, productive phonological alternations, but may occur when the original conditioning environments for such alternations are lost. At the same time, leveling is hindered by greater amounts of irregularity. This idea is illustrated using examples of the operation and non-operation of Verner’s Law (VL), whereby in most Germanic languages, the Proto-Germanic fricatives ∗ f, ∗ þ, ∗ x(w ), ∗ s underwent voicing to ∗ β, ∗ δ, ∗ γ, ∗ z (> r) when they directly followed unstressed syllables. This development resulted in considerable allomorphy in Germanic strong verb paradigms (a phenomenon termed Grammatischer Wechsel ‘grammatical alternation’), which ceased to be phonologically predictable once the original prosodic conditioning environments were no longer apparent to speakers. Accordingly, affected verb paradigms underwent extensive analogical restructuring. This breakdown started at an early date, and its effects are already visible in the oldest Germanic attestations. Paul states that VL alternations in stem-final consonants were likely to be leveled in Old High German past participles sharing their stem vowel with other principal parts (e.g. ∗ gileran ‘read’ → gilesan on the model of the infinitive lesan), but less so when there was a stem vowel alternation, and moreover, that leveling of joint alternations in stem vowels and stem-final consonants was unlikely to occur when it served to enhance semantic distinctions (e.g. in number, tense/aspect/mood [TAM] categories, cf. Bybee 1980). For Paul, this twofold marking imbues paradigms with a psychological salience, and the greater the difference between the original form and a potential analogical creation, the less likely the new form is to catch on.

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These observations regarding irregularity have not been fully integrated into later views of analogical change, with some exceptions (Garrett 2007; Weiss 2009; Fertig 2016), although Paul’s insights here are prominent enough to have been refashioned as an eponymous principle. This passage goes unmentioned by Kuryłowicz (1945), even though the author’s generalization that that bipartite morphological markers (as in German Buch ‘book,’ Bu¨cher ‘books,’ where plural number is marked by both suffixation and simulfixation via an alternating vowel) replace simple markers can be seen as a corollary to the message expressed by Paul: just as twofold markers are likely to replace simple ones in marking functional contrasts, they are unlikely to be replaced by simple markers via leveling. An exception is Garrett’s claim (Garrett apud Weiss 2009: 121–122, fn. 25) that heterogeneity within paradigms serves as a deterrent to analogical change, even when the locus of heterogeneity is outside of the area targeted by analogical change; it is argued that stems of Latin compound verbs, where regular sound change should result in vowel raising, tend not to restore their vocalism if their perfects are formed via relatively simple, affixal processes, even though on its surface, the formation of the perfect is independent of the vocalism in other TAM categories. The argument that apparently unconnected surface patterns occurring across different TAM categories within verbs have mutual predictive inference is relevant here (Herce 2020)—heterogeneity in one part of a paradigm may be predictive of ostensibly unrelated patterns of heterogeneity in the same paradigm. In what follows, I seek to shed further light on the diachronic dynamics of leveling. Of the major questions that emerge from Paul’s observations, I provide a preliminary attempt to understand why, if bipartite marking is so salient, it ultimately succumbs to analogical change. To accomplish this, I employ quantitative modeling in a quasi-exploratory fashion in order to establish a relative chronology between analogical change types affecting highly irregular verbal paradigms and uncover consistent pathways of change in the breakdown of irregular allomorphy.

23.3 Middle and Early New High German verbal morphology The High German verbal system was in considerable flux during its history. As mentioned by Paul, analogical changes started to operate by the time of Old High German; however, the developments that resulted in the verbal system observed today were far from complete, taking place gradually over a number of centuries through the Middle (MHG) and Early New High German (ENHG) periods (approximately 1050–1700 CE), and additional analogical changes are currently underway (Krause-Lerche 2019). These changes involved verb stems as well as verbal endings, and are described in detail in Fertig 1994, 2000; a comprehensive description of Middle High German verbal morphology can be found in Jones and Jones 2019.

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In particular, strong verbs of inflectional classes I–III underwent a great deal of change in their stem vowel allomorphy between MHG and NHG, key points of which can be summarized as follows (these points are adapted from Fertig 1994, chapter 3): 1. In the preterite of Class I verbs, stems of 1/3sg indicative forms originally contained a diphthong while remaining forms contained a monophthong (e.g. MHG reit 3sg.pret.ind, riten 3pl.pret.ind ‘ride’). The diphthongs in the singular stems were eventually leveled in favor of the monophthongal variant (e.g. NHG ritte 3sg.pret.ind, ritten 3pl.pret.ind ‘ride’). 2. In the present of most Class II verbs, singular indicative and imperative forms originally contained a diphthong, usually written iu in MHG and eu in ENHG, while the remainder of present forms contained the monophthong ie (e.g. ENHG zeuhe 1sg.pres.ind, ziehen 1pl.pres.ind ‘pull’); the monophthong found in the plural was eventually generalized to singular forms. In the preterite, ô was originally found in the 1/3sg indicative and u in all other preterite indicative forms (e.g. ENHG zoch 1/3sg.pret.ind, zugen 1/3pl.pret.ind), but the singular variant eventually came to dominate the preterite in most verbs. 3. Class III verbs had a in 1st and 3rd person singular preterite indicative forms and u in all other preterite indicative forms. This allomorphy was eventually leveled in favor of a in most but not all verbs. In Classes IIIb–V, there was sporadic variation in the stem vowels of present forms, but the status of these changes as morphologically motivated is unclear, and they may be due to dialect admixture. Additionally, classes IV and V showed alternations in vowel length that are not consistently marked in written sources and cannot be analyzed systematically in the same way that the quality differences mentioned above can. In addition to the changes in vocalism outlined above, stem-final consonant alternations were in a state of great variability during this period. Most of this variation is attributable to VL and its gradual undoing. Under the traditional view, the preterite 2nd person singular, preterite indicative plural, preterite subjunctive, and preterite participle originally showed voiced reflexes of Proto-Germanic fricatives in West Germanic, while the remainder of the verbal paradigm was not affected by VL. However, voiced as well as voiceless fricatives are frequently found in environments where they are not expected, and in some verbs, a single reflex has been generalized to the entire verb paradigm (e.g. g in NHG fangen ‘catch’ < MHG vˆahen, schlagen ‘hit’ < MHG slahen). Table 23.2 provides examples of leveling developments that took place in three verbs from classes I–III in preterite indicative forms (as well as present indicative ones in class II, where present forms underwent considerable analogical change).

376

CHUNDRA CATHCART Table 23.2 Selected Middle and New High German Class I, II, and III preterite paradigms, displaying patterns found before and after the operation of leveling of allomorphy in stem vowels and stem-final consonants, with vowels and consonants affected by leveling shown in bold. Note that the t ~ d variation found in MHG vinden is unlikely to reflect variation brought about via VL (see Jones & Jones 2019:123ff.).

Proto-Germanic

inf. sg.pres.ind pl.pres.ind 1/3sg.pret.ind. 2sg/1–3pl.pret.ind

∗

Class I tīhan- ‘accuse’

∗

Class II fra-leusan- ‘lose’

∗

Class III finþan- ‘find’

MHG

NHG

MHG

NHG

MHG

NHG

zı̂ hen

zeihen

finden

ziehzieh-

verlieren verlierverlierverlorverlor-

vinden

zêchzig-

verlièsen verliusverliesverlôsverlur-

vantvund-

fandfand-

23.4 Data collection, coding, and visualization of change patterns To investigate these patterns on a large scale, I compiled a data set of attested verb forms from existing dialectally diverse diachronic German corpus resources, all freely available online. I augmented data from the Bonn corpus of Early New High German (Schmitz et al. 2013), a corpus of 40 dialectally diverse texts spanning from the fourteenth to seventeenth centuries, with data from the Anselm corpus (Dipper & Schultz-Balluff 2021), comprising 70 versions of the Interrogatio Sancti Anselmi de Passione Domini written between the fourteenth and sixteenth centuries; the Fu¨rstinnenkorrespondenz corpus (Lu¨hr et al. 2013), containing 600 letters written between members of the nobility between 1546 and 1756; and the Referenzkorpus Mittelhochdeutsch (Klein et al. 2016), containing 398 Middle High German records from the years 1050 to 1350. Document dialect affiliations were reconciled with the dialect schema found in the Bonn corpus and dates of transcription were extracted or approximated on the basis of document-level metadata. This yielded a data set of 331650 verb tokens, coded for DOCUMENT ID, YEAR, DIALECT, LEMMA ID, INFLECTIONAL CATEGORY, and VERB CLASS. In order to assemble a dossier of verbs affected by VL, I searched Kroonen 2013 for Proto-Germanic strong verbs with stem-final fricatives (and other relevant items, e.g. ∗ hafjan- ~ ∗ habjan- ‘raise, lift’) and reflexes in Middle and/or New High German, inspecting these entries with the aid of grammatical descriptions to establish evidence for Grammatischer Wechsel. I subdivided these verbs to the inflectional classes of their Middle and New High German descendant forms and reconciled etymologically related MHG and (E)NHG lemma IDs (e.g. MHG verlièsen, NHG verlieren < PGmc ∗ fra-leusan-). Of the original data set,

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a subset of 12270 tokens consisted of inflected forms of reflexes of Proto-Germanic verbs affected by VL. I coded forms according to whether their stem-final consonants and stem vowels were EXPECTED under regular sound change or analogically INNOVATED. This process was automated via a scripting procedure designed to glean these properties from orthographic patterns. The codings produced by the scripting procedure were inspected several times to assess overall accuracy. Examples from the resulting dataset can be seen in Table 23.3, and suffice to showcase the widely varying orthography encountered. While I tried to capture as much idiosyncratic orthographic variation as possible, some highly irregular transcriptions were not properly accounted for by the heuristics that I used, leading to instances of erroneous coding. Orthographic variation was not the only potential source of error, however. In many cases, it is difficult to tease apart analogical change (or lack thereof ) from dialect-specific phonological developments. For instance, many dialects merge t and d, making it impossible to determine whether a form reflects VL alternants ∗ ð or ∗ þ (Fertig 1994: 95, fn. 24). Additionally, some dialects display a sound change g > ch /kx/ (Fertig 1994: 89; Jones & Jones 2019: 59), making it difficult to determine whether orthographic ch represents a voiceless VL alternant (possibly archaic) or a secondary development from a voiced one. In order to mitigate error of this sort introduced into the statistical analyses carried out in this chapter, I chose to exclude reflexes of verbs with stem-final PGmc ∗ þ, and additionally excluded all Class III verbs, none of which showed unambiguous evidence of any analogical changes in progress due to older leveling changes (cf. Kienle 1969: 66–67); inclusion of Class III forms would thus increase the risk of introducing additional errors in the form of spurious archaisms. I excluded lemmata with fewer than ten attestations across the corpus. To better generalize about regions of verb paradigms targeted by specific analogical changes, I aggregated individual inflectional categories into inflectional macro-classes representing groups of cells in the paradigm that underwent the

Table 23.3 Reflexes of verlieren ‘lose,’ ziehen ‘pull,’ and frieren ‘freeze’ in Central Bavarian, East Franconian, and East Swabian dialects, coded according to expected (unbolded) or innovated (bolded) features that are displayed. Year

Dialect

Lemma

Inflection

Form

Coding

1190 1050 1300 1490

C.Bav. C.Bav. E.Fr. E.Swab.

verlieren verlieren ziehen frieren

2sg.pres.ind 1sg.pres.ind 3sg.pret.ind 3sg.pres.ind

verlivses fliese vberzohe freu¨rt

diphthong, s monophthong, s o, h diphthong, r

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same types of change. These classes include the 1/3sg preterite indicative, the 2sg and 1–3pl preterite indicative, the singular present indicative (which includes the 2sg imperative as well as 1–3sg.pres.ind forms), and the plural present indicative (which contains the 1/2pl imperative, present participle, and infinitive alongside 1–3pl.pres.ind forms). Subjunctive forms were excluded due to low attestation. Finally, in preparing the data for quantitative analysis, it was necessary to take into consideration only inflectional categories targeted by specific types of analogical change and disregard unaffected categories. Concretely, the stem vowel in the singular present indicative of ziehen underwent change from a diphthong (usually written iu or eu) to a monophthong generally written ie, but the stem vowel of the plural present indicative of ziehen was always a monophthong and never underwent any type of analogical change. Treating an analogically inert element like the stem vowel of the present plural indicative of ziehen as a potential locus of change by including it in certain statistical models (e.g. linear regression, with date as a predictor of change) implicitly carries with it the assumption that the category is expected to undergo change at some time in the however distant future. One means of achieving this goal is to include only change types discussed in the literature; however, this can potentially lead to the omission of interesting data points. As an example, the stem-final consonant of present forms of ziehen was never a major target of analogical change (Fertig 1994: 90), as the majority of forms in MHG as well as NHG show stem-final h. At the same time, the data set shows a number of examples of stem-final g in present forms that are unlikely to be errors.¹ To avoid further under-use of the data, I discarded change types only where there was no evidence of any innovation as indicated by the coding scheme I implemented. On the off-chance that this strategy inadvertently introduced data points erroneously coded as innovations, I employed a variety of statistical controls to ensure that these errors did not bias results. Following this procedure, my data set consisted of 9014 potential loci of analogical change in 6165 word forms. The fact that the size of the data set exceeds the number of unique corpus tokens on which it is based stems from the fact that certain individual forms can be targeted by analogical change affecting stem vowels as well as stem-final consonants.² This coding scheme allows us to track analogical changes over the timespan of the corpus and get a feeling as to whether certain change types precede others. As Figure 23.1 shows, vowel changes in 2sg and 1–3pl preterite indicative ziehen appear to precede s → r changes in 1/3sg.pret.ind forms, suggesting that in the preterite subparadigm, the erosion of vowel allomorphy may have done away with a barrier against leveling of consonantal patterns. Additionally, in preterite forms ¹ A 1546 letter in the Fu¨rstinnenkorrespondenz (SibJF115460929) reads das v g eygenner person zu velde nycht tzeyget (3sg.pres.ind) … ‘that your grace does not take (?) his own person to the field (i.e., engage in combat)’. Zu Felde ziehen ‘take to the field’ is idiomatic, but does not require a reflexive object as seen here, which may serve an emphatic role; alternatively, the possibility that zeigen ‘show’ was intended here cannot be ruled out. ² Data and code used in this chapter are found at https://github.com/chundrac/verning-man.

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of ziehen ‘pull,’ the replacement of original h by g in 1sg and 3sg past indicative forms begins to take place at a much later date that the leveling of the stem vowel from u to o in the rest of the preterite. However, in preterite forms of fliehen, the innovative variant h (original g) appears to have been leveled to 2sg and 1– 3pl indicative forms prior to changes to the 2sg/1–3pl stem vowel u (which was eventually leveled to o) detracting from the idea that change in vocalism preceded change in consonantism in the preterite of all relevant plural paradigms. Not only is the visual picture unclear, but it is dangerous to rely solely on visual inspection, as many of the patterns we see may be artifacts of dialect-level trends and other biases in the corpus. For this reason, rigorous statistical modeling is needed.

1.00

variant

0.75

0.50

0.25

0.00 1200

1400

1600

date change.type fliehen, PastPlInd+2PastSgInd, g->h fliehen, PastPlInd+2PastSgInd, u->o verlieren, 1+3PastSgInd, s->r verlieren, PastPlInd+2PastSgInd, u->o ziehen, 1+3PastSgInd, h->g ziehen, PastPlInd+2PastSgInd, u->o

Figure 23.1 Chronology of selected analogical changes represented by generalized additive model (GAM) smooth curves. Values of 1 correspond to the sound on the right-hand side of the arrow.

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23.5 Modeling the breakdown of the Grammatischer Wechsel I turn to quantitative methods for a better understanding of the relative chronology of analogical change types in the history of High German. If we can establish that certain changes precede other changes with some degree of credibility, it has the potential to shed important light on the nature of the decay of paradigmatic heterogeneity. I explore this issue using hierarchical regression modeling in a Bayesian framework, which provides a flexible means of allocating credibility to multiple hypotheses. Here, I am interested in identifying differences among diachronic trajectories of analogical change types. I fit a hierarchical logistic regression model which included DATE of attestation as a linear predictor of the PRESENCE OF AN ANALOGICAL INNOVATION, a binary outcome. Non-linear and non-monotonic temporal trends were captured by including quadratic and cubic terms for date as well.³ Along with these fixed effects, random effects were included in order to account for the large degree of non-independence in the sample, allowing the intercept and slopes for the linear, quadratic, and cubic terms to vary according to the following variables and interactions between variables: DIALECT, DIALECT×LEMMA, DIALECT×INFLECTIONAL CATEGORY, DIALECT×EXPECTED SOUND, and LEMMA×MACRO-INFLECTIONAL CLASS×CHANGE. The inclusion of the first three random effects ensured that overall dialect-level trends as well as those affecting individual lemmata and inflectional categories were not conflated with the effects of other variables of interest. DIALECT×EXPECTED SOUND served as a safeguard against confusing dialect-specific phonology with analogical change; if a sound undergoes change at unusually high rate in a particular dialect, this behavior should not impact what the model learns about temporal trends in analogical change. LEMMA×MACRO-INFLECTIONAL CLASS×CHANGE represents the scope of analogical changes affecting parts of the paradigms of different lemmata, e.g. eu → ie in stem vowel of ziehen sg.pres.ind. Inference was carried out in brms (Bu¨rkner 2018), an R-based front end for the Stan probabilistic programming language (Carpenter et al. 2017), over four chains of 2000 iterations of the No-U-turn Sampler (NUTS). The predictor DATE was centered around zero and divided by two standard deviations (Gelman & Hill 2007). Flat Normal(0, 5) priors were placed over the fixed effects, while Cauchy(0, 1) priors were placed over the random effects, encouraging values to cluster around zero. The inference procedure resulted in a collection of samples from the posterior distributions of the model parameters; for each sample, we can directly compare the parameters of interest while holding all other parameters constant. Model comparison via the approximate leave-one-out expected log pointwise ³ Generalized additive models (GAMs) provide an even more flexible means of dealing with nonlinearities, but can be computationally costly to fit in a Bayesian framework. On pros and cons of polynomial growth curves versus GAMs, see Winter and Wieling 2016.

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ˆ LOO ; Vehtari et al. 2017) justified the use of this model predictive density (ELPD over alternative models that excluded the quadratic and/or cubic term as well as LEMMA×MACRO-INFLECTIONAL CLASS×CHANGE. Inclusion of a term that aggregated LEMMA×MACRO-INFLECTIONAL CLASS×CHANGE according to verb class led to decreased model fit. It is worth noting that this model assumes that analogical changes affecting stem vowels and stem-final consonants are independent processes, even though they sometimes affect the same individual forms; however, the rich random effects structure of our models should accommodate any biases that this assumption might introduce. More complex diachronic models, such as continuous-time Markov chains (CTMC), can explicitly model transitions between more than two “states,” and could help us assess whether a trajectory of the type verliuse → verliese → verliere is more likely than some alternative. However, the application of CTMC to diachronic corpora as described by Van de Velde and De Smet (2021) involves underusing large portions of the data and does not seem to readily account for different sources of non-independence found in our data (e.g. dialect-level trends). The standard practice, not employed here, would be to treat LEMMA×MACROINFLECTIONAL CLASS×CHANGE, the main variable of interest, as a fixed rather than random effect, which in the Bayesian context would involve use of a prior distribution on coefficients that allocates more density to higher values rather than values close to zero. Gelman et al. (2012) argue that the PARTIAL POOLING strategy employed here allows practitioners to make reliable pairwise comparisons between different groups, since priors which shrink coefficients toward zero reduce the risk of inferring exaggerated between-group differences that lead to false positives. If this view is correct, it allows me to detect whether there are substantial differences in the trajectories of different types of analogical change (e.g. s → r in verlieren sg.pres.ind versus s → r in verlieren pl.pres.ind). Figure 23.2 shows a number of smooth curves representing the expected trend of each level of LEMMA×MACRO-INFLECTIONAL CLASS×CHANGE, along with 95% credible intervals representing the uncertainty of these estimates. In some cases, the trend remains close to zero, indicating that the entity in question either does not display any tendencies toward change whatsoever, or this behavior has been absorbed by the other predictors in the model (i.e., the appearance of change may be an artifact of dialect-level phonological idiosyncrasies). For some levels, credible intervals are quite wide, indicating high uncertainty regarding the shape of the curve. Comparing pairs of change types on a sample-by-sample basis allows for the exploration of differences in their trajectories. If one change type is more advanced than another in 95% of samples or more, this serves as strong evidence that the first change reached completion before the second one. However, assessing differences between smooths of this sort is not entirely straightforward. Certain conventions for interpreting polynomial terms in growth curves (cf. Mirman 2014) are not applicable here. Similarly, while it is possible to visually compare trends for

1.00 0.75 0.50 0.25 0.00 1.00 0.75 0.50 0.25 0.00

response

1.00 0.75 0.50 0.25 0.00 1.00 0.75 0.50 0.25 0.00 1.00 0.75 0.50 0.25 0.00

fliehen, PretSg, h->g

fliehen, PretSg, o->u

fliehen, PretPl, g->h

fliehen, PretPl, u->o

fliehen, ppl, g->h

fliehen, ppl, o->u

fliehen, PresSg, eu->ie

frieren, PretSg, s->r

frieren, PresSg, s->r

(kièsen), PretSg, s->r

(kièsen), PretSg, o->u

(kièsen), PretPl, r->s

(kièsen), PretPl, u->o

(kièsen), ppl, r->s

(kièsen), ppl, o->ie/u

(kièsen), PresPl, s->r

(kièsen), PresSg, s->r

(kièsen), PresSg, eu->ie

verlieren, PretSg, s->r

verlieren, PretSg, o->u

verlieren, PretPl, u->o

verlieren, ppl, o->?

verlieren, PresPl, s->r

verlieren, PresSg, s->r

verlieren, PresSg, eu->ie

leihen, PretSg, ei->ie

leihen, PretPl, g->h

leihen, ppl, g->h

leihen, ppl, ie->Vi

(rīsen), PretSg, ei->ie

(rīsen), PretPl, r->s

(rīsen), PretPl, ie->ei

ziehen, PretSg, h->g

ziehen, PretSg, o->u

ziehen, PretPl, g->h

ziehen, PretPl, u->o

ziehen, ppl, g->h

ziehen, ppl, o->?

ziehen, PresPl, h->g

ziehen, PresSg, h->g

ziehen, PresSg, eu->ie

zeihen, PretSg, h->g

zeihen, PretSg, e(i)->ie

zeihen, ppl, g->h

zeihen, ppl, ie->e(i)

1.00 0.75 0.50 0.25 0.00 1.00 0.75 0.50 0.25 0.00 1.00 0.75 0.50 0.25 0.00

–0.5

0.0

0.5

1.0

–0.5

0.0

0.5

1.0

–0.5

0.0

0.5

–0.5

0.0

0.5

1.0

–0.5

0.0

0.5

1.0

–0.5

0.0

0.5

1.0

1.0 date

Figure 23.2 Posterior estimates of trends for levels of LEMMA×MACRO-INFLECTIONAL CLASS×CHANGE. For readability, PretSg represents 1/3sg.pret.ind. and PretPl represents 2sg/1–3pl.pret.ind. Verbs that do not survive paste MHG are in parentheses.

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different GAM smooths (Rose et al. 2012), there is no agreement on how to carry out hypothesis testing via visual inspection (Sóskuthy 2017). Since the major research question here concerns whether certain changes reach completion before others, I chose to compare curves by determining the point at which they reach ceiling level, which I take to be an expected value of .99; this value can be approximated for every sample of every level of LEMMA×MACROINFLECTIONAL CLASS×CHANGE using grid approximation. For each posterior sample, one change type is more advanced than another if it reaches .99 before the other.⁴ For meaningful inference, I exclude change types where the expected probability of change never exceeds .5, as failing to do so would involve comparison between changes that took place and changes that never took place. Figure 23.3 provides a graphical representation of the results of this procedure. An arrow is drawn from one node to another with a solid line if the first change

ziehen, PretSg, h->g ziehen, PresSg, eu->ie ziehen, PretPl, u->o

leihen, ppl, g->h

leihen, PretSg, ei->ie

verlieren, PretSg, s->r

verlieren, PretPl, u->o

verlieren, PresPl, s->r

verlieren, PresSg, eu->ie

verlieren, PresSg, s->r fliehen, PretPl, u->o fliehen, PretPl, g->h

fliehen, PresSg, eu->ie

Figure 23.3 Relative chronologies of change types inferred from model results. For clarity, only intra-lemma chronologies are provided. Solid lines represent precedence relationships supported by 95% or more of samples (85% for dashed lines). For readability, PretSg represents 1/3sg.pret.ind. and PretPl represents 2sg/1–3pl.pret.ind. ⁴ It is worth noting that while this procedure is in the spirit of Gelman et al. 2012, the quantity being compared is different. Simulation studies are needed to assess the false discovery rate of this procedure.

384

CHUNDRA CATHCART

type reaches completion before the second in 95% of samples or more; dashed lines represent the same relationship, but at the 85% cutoff, for which there is only weak evidence. For visual clarity, I include only relationships between change types affecting the same lemmata. These results show that reliable inferences can be made about the relative chronology of only a fraction of the change types assembled in the corpus, but nonetheless a few interesting points emerge. First, it is not possible to establish a definitive chronology between changes affecting stem-final consonants and stem vowels in class II preterite forms. This is not to say that their trajectories are identical, but simply that there is a great deal of uncertainty as to whether leveling of stem-final consonants precedes leveling of stem vowels, or vice versa (the exception is fliehen, where a substantial proportion of posterior samples suggest that the leveling of the stem-final consonant preceded the that of the stem vowel in 2sg and 1–3pl preterite forms, if we allocate any credibility to the less conservative 85% cutoff; fliehen itself is exceptional in terms of the direction of leveling). This indicates that the breakdown of irregularity in the preterite was not a series of cascading changes that did away with enough irregularity to bring about wholesale leveling, but rather that analogical pressure was exerting itself on the paradigm even when it was highly irregular. It is not clear why this is the case, though it is reasonable to suspect the role of changing frequency distributions of lexical items and inflected forms. Secondly, leveling changes in past tense forms precede leveling changes affecting the stem vowel in present singular forms of class II verbs. In the case of verlieren, leveling of the stem-final consonant in present forms also appears to precede the leveling change eu → ie, indicating that a threshold of regularity was achieved throughout the paradigm prior to the leveling of the present singular stem vowel. This state of affairs is compatible with the view that the conditions needed for the maintenance of paradigmatic heterogeneity in subsets of paradigm cells involve the entire paradigm: homogeneization in the preterite appears to have led the way for loss of heterogeneity in present tense forms. At the same time, some wariness regarding a causal interpretation of this chronology is warranted.⁵ Middle High German saw an influx of Latin borrowings adapted to a specific morphological pattern (e.g. MHG absolvièren, jûbilièren, confirmièren, etc.) that would have formed a proportional basis for the eu → ie change (e.g. jubiliere 1sg.pres.ind : jubilieren 1pl.pres.ind :: X : verlieren, X=verliere), though in theory any non-alternating paradigm would serve as a viable proportion. It is therefore entirely possible that Class II singular present forms changed their vocalism solely on the basis of these patterns, independent of changes elsewhere in the verbal paradigm. A closer look at the chronology of Latin loans relative ⁵ On causal analysis in linguistic time-series data see del Prado Martín and Brendel 2016; Kanwal 2018; Rosemeyer and Van de Velde 2021.

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to changes affecting both tense systems of Class II verbs is needed to better understand this issue: if Latin loans were abundant prior to changes affecting preterite forms, it lends support to the notion that changes to the preterite were a prerequisite for changes in the sg.pres.ind vowel.

23.6 Conclusion This chapter investigated patterns of leveling of stem vowel alternations and stemfinal consonant alternations in verbal paradigms during the history of Middle and Early New High German. I used statistical modeling in an attempt to establish a reliable chronology between change types, while controlling for a number of confounding variables and sources of variation across the data set. At the moment, the exact nature of and reasons for the breakdown of bipartite analogical marking remain obscure, though the findings presented here suggest that the trajectory of change did not involve a cascading series of changes that incrementally brought about homogeneity in paradigms, but rather, that changes in type frequencies of paradigms in use by speakers opened the way to analogical change, most likely proportional. A logical next step will be to turn to the corpora on which this study is based in order to gain a better understanding of the implicational patterns available to speakers during this period (cf. Bonami & Beniamine 2016), a procedure that will be possible when the orthography in these resources is fully normalized. Additionally, more flexible applications of Bayesian modeling than the regression model employed here may shed additional light on this issue. Extending this approach to closely related languages will help us understand why different patterns of change took place in languages like Middle High German, and guard against extrapolating any single-language findings advanced here to analogical change construed more broadly.

24 Language change in small-scale multilingual societies Trees, waves, and magnets? Jeff Good

24.1 The forces involved in language change The tree and wave models of linguistic diversification represent the most longstanding approaches for understanding the ways in which linguistic subgroups develop. The tree model is most readily associated with a historical scenario involving the dispersal of an ancestral population sharing a common language into multiple descendent communities which have limited contact with each other, with the result that their speech varieties develop into distinct languages. The wave model is most readily associated with an ancestral population where contact among its members is maintained as it becomes geographically dispersed, resulting in a dialect continuum (see, e.g. Heggarty et al. 2010: 3829–3830). Such schematic scenarios, however, lack the sociolinguistic grounding that is needed to fully understand the range of historical processes that trigger the formation of new subgroups and languages. Partly in response to such concerns, Garrett (2000, 2006) proposes a sociohistorically elaborated approach to the development of Indo-European subgroups. A striking feature of his analysis is the treatment of the branching structure of the Indo-European family as resulting from a process other than dispersal and lack of contact. Rather, he suggests that certain Indo-European subgroups emerged from a more complex scenario involving: (i) the development of a large-scale dialect continuum via wave-like change followed by (ii) loss or “pruning” of intermediate dialects and (iii) localized convergence among dialects in specific regions, leveling out dialect variation. He links the latter two steps to historical events reconstructed from archaeological evidence that point to a period of large-scale social disruption leading to the formation of new, localized identities that we now associate with subgroups such as Greek, Italic, and Celtic (Garrett 2006: 142–143). What this analysis suggests is that tree-like comparative linguistic data may be associated with radically different underlying sociohistories, which raises the question of what other pathways there may be to the development of such patterns of Jeff Good, Language change in small-scale multilingual societies. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Jeff Good (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0024

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diversification. The goal of this chapter is to propose the possibility of an additional historical path to their development. This is through changes initiated and reinforced by what will be termed magnetic sociolinguistic dynamics. The choice of this term is intended to reflect the fact that these dynamics involve simultaneous pressure for linguistic convergence (i.e., attraction) among some varieties and divergence (i.e., repulsion) among other varieties. Its use here draws on the cultural analysis of the dynamics of Sub-Saharan African societies of Kopytoff (1987: 6–7), and, as will be clear from the discussion below, magnetic linguistic dynamics are viewed as deeply intertwined with magnetic social dynamics. The languages of focus are Bantoid languages of the Lower Fungom region of Cameroon (see Good et al. 2011). All of them are associated with small-scale societies that are characterized by high degrees of individual-level multilingualism where language is not closely tied to ethnic identity (Di Carlo and Good 2014: 251–252), a sociolinguistic context which has not received significant attention in the literature on linguistic diversification, even though it is likely historically typical for many parts of Africa and beyond (see, e.g. Di Carlo et al. 2019). The notion of magnetic dynamics should be distinguished from particular mechanisms of change (e.g. sound change, borrowing, analogy, etc.). Whether or not these mechanisms are actually instantiated in the history of a given language is assumed to be tied to specific sociohistorical forces, such as those associated with magnetic dynamics. The proposals here can thus be seen as an attempt to address the “actuation problem” of Weinreich et al. (1968: 102), i.e., the problem of understanding why specific changes take place. This is one of the most difficult questions in historical linguistics, and it would hardly be possible to definitively establish magnetic dynamics as a significant force in linguistic diversification within the scope of a chapter like this one. Nevertheless, it is hoped that the arguments below will establish that looking at linguistic change from the perspective of magnetic dynamics is a promising direction for further research and has clear advantages over explanations that appeal to vaguer and less socially embedded notions such as language contact or “drift.” In Section 24.2, relevant aspects of the linguistic and cultural background of Lower Fungom are introduced alongside three cases studies of linguistic differentiation in the region. The link between magnetic dynamics and multilingualism as well as their significance for understanding linguistic diversification in the Bantu area are briefly discussed in the conclusion of the chapter in Section 24.3.

24.2 Three cases of linguistic differentiation in Lower Fungom 24.2.1 The linguistic and cultural context of Lower Fungom Lower Fungom and its surrounding region within the Cameroonian Grassfields are presented in Figure 24.1. Its core inhabited area is encircled. Around eight

388

JEFF GOOD Mashi Overside

Lower Fungom

Mundabli

m Ye

Munken Missong Mashi

Biya

Small Mekaf

Buu

Yemgeh

Kung Ajumbu

Fang

Zhoa

m Wu To

Subum

M

Fungom

bu

m

Mekaf

Koshin

Abar

Ngun

i

Isu

Kimb

ne

Mufu

e

saj Mi To

Weh Nyos

10 km

LEGEND Motorable road River Footpath Ring Road Uninhabited Beboid Naki [mff ] Yemne-kimbi

N

N’Djamena NIGERIA Maroua

Jos

CHAD

Central Ring Kung[kfl] Mmen[bfm] Bum[bmv]

Mungbam[mij] Mufu-Mundabli [boe] Buu [no code] West Ring Fang [fak] Isu[isu] Ajumbu [muc] Weh[weh] Zhoa[zhw] Koshin [kid] Mixed community

CAMEROON Ring Road Bamenda Douala EQ. GUINEA

CENTRAL AFRICAN REPUBLIC

Yaoundé

GABON

CONGO

Figure 24.1 Lower Fungom and the surrounding region. Source: Map created by Pierpaolo Di Carlo.

distinct languages are associated with the region, all of which can be classified within the Bantoid subgroup of Niger-Congo, placing them among the closest relatives to the Bantu languages. However, the genealogical connections between most

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languages of Lower Fungom and the rest of Bantoid remain unclear. More detailed discussion can be found in Good et al. (2011). With the exception of Mashi, Small Mekaf, and Yemgeh, each village is associated with a distinct linguistic variety, and these varieties are categorized as separate languages in local terms. Lower Fungom is also relatively culturally diverse as discussed in Di Carlo (2011), and its villages are each politically autonomous. The notion of magnetic dynamics rests on the idea that certain sociolinguistic contexts simultaneously foster processes of linguistic convergence and divergence. In his discussion of the Bantu-speaking area, which shares many commonalities with the Bantoid area where Lower Fungom is found, Schadeberg (2003: 158– 159) characterizes the situation relatively clearly: “In sociolinguistic terms, Bantu speakers have long lived in a multilingual continuum, where many speakers master not just their own variety of speech but also those of their neighbors. Linguistic differentiation and convergence are actively pursued, one serving to establish group identities, the other to forge alliances and to foster good friendship.” Lower Fungom’s high level of linguistic and cultural diversity and compact geography allows for the high-level patterns described by Schadeberg (2003) to be examined at a comparatively granular level to help make clearer the particular dynamics involved, and three specific case studies from the region will be considered in the following sections. In Section 24.2.2, the formation of the Missong variety of the Mungbam language will be discussed as providing the strongest case for magnetic dynamics that has been reported in the region to date. In Section 24.2.3, the role of esoterogeny in the development of the Fang language will be introduced as an apparent instance of the repulsive aspect of magnetic dynamics. In Section 24.2.4, the relatively closely related varieties of Buu and Mundabli will be contrasted with each other to demonstrate how magnetic dynamics can pull genealogically connected varieties in different directions.

24.2.2 The formation of a new political and linguistic identity in Missong Di Carlo and Good (2014: 243–246) discuss the history of the Missong variety of Mungbam in the context of a general consideration of the development of linguistic diversity in Lower Fungom. The Mungbam language cluster is comprised of five varieties associated with each of the five Mungbam-speaking villages, seen in Figure 24.1. Missong is clearly the most distinctive of these varieties, in both lexical and grammatical terms. For instance, while the other four Mungbam varieties show around 90 percent lexicostatistical correspondence with each other in a basic wordlist, the figures for Missong are only around 75 percent (see Good 2020: 52, citing data provided by Jesse Lovegren). Similarly, while all Mungbam varieties show alternations that code a Perfective/ Imperfective alternation in verb stems under specific phonological conditions,

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Missong exhibits idiosyncratic alternation patterns not found in the other varieties. For instance, it uniquely has monosyllabic Perfective stems with a vocalic nucleus of oa which changes to ɛŋ in the Imperfective forms, as seen in stem pairs such as foa vs. fɛŋ ‘sell,’ toa vs. tɛŋ ‘jump,’ and boa vs. bɛŋ ‘climb’ (Lovegren 2013: 191). In the other Mungbam varieties, this distinction is marked solely via vowel alternations where the Perfective form is associated with a front vowel and the Imperfective form is associated with a non-front vowel, as seen, for instance, in the Munken verb stem pairs ti vs. to ‘come,’ gbe vs. gbo ‘fall,’ and fɛ vs. fa ‘give.’ While Missong also shows Perfective/Imperfective verb stem pairs whose only formal difference involves a vowel change, their patterning is less predictable and can even reverse the front vowel vs. back vowel pattern, as seen in the verb forms to vs. ti ‘come,’ which “flips” the general pattern (Good 2020: 52). A final notable point of difference worth mentioning here involves the Missong pronominal system. Independent person pronouns across the five Mungbam varieties are provided in Table 24.1 (Lovegren 2013: 152). The systems are, on the whole, relatively similar, with the exception of the Missong second person singular pronoun, which has a form bì that clearly contrasts with the other four languages. Babaev (2010: 35) reconstructs the form ∗ (à)ue for the emphatic second person pronoun in Bantoid, which is clearly in line with the forms found in the other four varieties but not easily relatable to the Missong form bì. Given the idiosyncratic nature of these differences, it is difficult to see them as having developed due to regular processes of change. Moreover, Missong has been, and continues to be, in close contact with the other Mungbam varieties within the geographically compact and socially interconnected Lower Fungom region, which means that its distinctiveness also cannot be accounted for via a notion like historical drift resulting from partial isolation from the other Mungbam communities. The grammatical distinctiveness of Missong is paralleled by noteworthy aspects of cultural distinctiveness that suggest that (i) it formed as a distinct village more recently than other Mungbam-speaking villages and (ii) it is less politically cohesive than they are. For instance, many kin groups that comprise the village

Table 24.1 Independent pronouns across the five Mungbam varieties

1s 2s 3s 1p 2p 3p

Abar

Biya

Munken

Ngun

Missong

mɔˋ wɛˋ wù sɔˋ ba᷆n bwe̋

mə¯ ˋɔ wɩˋ sə¯ bə́n bwɩ̋

məˋ wɔˋ wù səˋ bà be̋

mə᷆ wɔˋ wè sə᷆ bɛ¯n bwe¯

məˋ bì wù səˋ ba᷆a bú

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claim to have independent provenances from outside of Missong, and, unusually for Lower Fungom, its quarters (the primary village-level subdivisions) are composed of two exogamous moieties. In the other villages, quarters are themselves exogamous units (see Di Carlo 2011: 84–85 for more detailed discussion). This suggests that the kin groups comprising the village of Missong have undergone a relatively recent process of small-scale synoecism. This is a notion originally used to characterize the formation of Greek city states, but which has also been applied in the African context (Fleisher 2010: 266), to characterize situations where a new settlement develops through the coming together of previously separate groups (as opposed to, for instance, purely internal growth). The historical interpretation of the development of the Missong variety assumed here, presented in fuller detail in Di Carlo and Good (2014: 243–246), relies both on the assumption that the village was relatively recently formed and on the observation that local language ideologies stress that a key feature of a politically independent village is its association with a single lexicogrammatical code that is distinct enough to be classified as a separate language in the local space.¹ This implies that the formation of the village involved two opposing linguistic forces. On the one hand, the diverse kin groups who would come to form the Missong village needed to adopt a common code to signal their participation in a new political alliance (i.e., magnetic attraction). On the other hand, their common code needed to be unambiguously distinct from those of the other villages of the region. This appears to have been achieved through the choice of some Mungbam variety as a lexicogrammatical “base” for the new code alongside the initiation of changes within that code to produce a variety with salient lexical and grammatical differences (i.e., magnetic repulsion). The precise historical mechanisms through which these changes were introduced are not entirely clear, but they likely involved deliberate change (Thomason 2007), which would have involved the mixture of elements from some of the other languages of the village’s founding kin groups, in particular lexical items, given Missong’s noteworthy divergence from other Mungbam varieties in this domain.

24.2.3 Esoterogeny and linguistic divergence in Fang Fang is a language associated with a single village in the southeast of Lower Fungom. As discussed in Mve et al. (2019), aspects of Fang morphology suggest that the language has been affected by esoterogeny. That is, it has undergone deliberate change to make it more difficult for outsiders to learn, for instance via a lack of morphological transparency (e.g. due to phonological processes or the presence ¹ Proposing the existence of this ideological pattern is not solely based on abstract analysis. It is also overtly expressed by residents of Lower Fungom (Di Carlo and Good 2014: 245).

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of suppletion) (see Thurston 1987: 38). In the present context, esoterogeny can be seen as a mechanism through which the repulsive aspect of magnetic diversification can be manifested. Available information on Fang grammar is still somewhat limited, and the data discussed in this section illustrates morphological patterns that are relatively straightforward to detect. It remains to be seen just how widespread esoterogenic patterns are in the language’s grammar and which domains may have been targeted by this process. The contrast between the noun class agreement forms for demonstratives and possessive pronouns in Table 24.2 and Table 24.3 are illustrative of the esoterogenic patterns found in Fang. The data in Table 24.2 is drawn from another Lower Fungom language, Mundabli (Voll 2017: 108, 111), which shows a relatively typical system of agreement for the area. The class numbering in Table 24.2 and Table 24.3 represents an attempt to link these noun classes to various reconstructed noun classes for Proto-Bantu (see Van de Velde 2019: 238–241), many of which lack reflexes in Mundabli and Fang, which is why the classes are not numbered consecutively. Nouns are lexically assigned either to a singular/plural class pair (e.g. Class 1/2) or, for nouns lacking a singular/plural distinction, a single class, and the forms in the table reflect the shape that the relevant form takes on when modifying a noun of that class. The classes are ordered in the tables to place common singular/plural pairings together. The Fang data in Table 24.3 includes an example noun for each class. While the Mundabli forms in Table 24.2 exhibit some irregularities, in particular in the first person singular possessive forms and the third person plural possessive forms (which lack agreement entirely), the system on the whole follows a relatively predictable pattern where each noun class is associated with a specific initial consonant in agreeing forms (e.g. a w for Class 1 and a b for Class 2). In that sense, the system does not show evidence of having been specifically influenced Table 24.2 Mundabli possessive pronouns and determiners DEMONSTRATIVES CL PROX DIST

1s

2s

1 2 3 7, 7a 8, 8a 9 10 19 18a, 6

ŋgᵼ¯ mᵼ̋ ŋ ŋgᵼ̋ ŋkᵼ̋ ŋ mᵼ̋ ŋ ŋgᵼ¯ ŋgᵼ̋ mfᵼ̋ ŋ mᵼ̋ ŋ

wā ba̋ wa̋ ka̋ ba̋ yā ya̋ fa̋ ma̋

wɛ¯n bɛ́ n wɛ́ n kɛ́ n bɛ́ n yɛ¯n yɛ́ n fɛ́ n mɛ́ n

wɔ¯ bɔ́ wɔ́ kɔ́ bɔ́ yɔ¯ yɔ́ fɔ́ mɔ́

POSSESSIVES 3s 1p 2p wū bɔ̋ wű kı̋ bı̋ yī yı̋ fı̋ mű

wɪ¯ bɪ̋ wɪ̋ kɪ̋ bɪ̋ yɪ¯ yɪ̋ fɪ̋ mɪ̋

wɛ¯n bɛ̋ n wɛ̋ n kɛ̋ n bɛ̋ n yɛ¯n yɛ̋ n fɛ̋ n mɛ̋ n

3p bɔˇ bɔˇ bɔˇ bɔˇ bɔˇ bɔˇ bɔˇ bɔˇ bɔˇ

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Table 24.3 Sample Fang noun class agreement patterns

CL

DEMONSTRATIVES NOUN GLOSS PROX MED

DIST

1s

2s

1 2 3 4 5 13 7 8 9 10 19 18a

ŋkʊ́ŋ bəˋŋkʊ́ŋ kpún kwún fı́ nə¯ təˋfı́ nəˋ kəˋmbaˋŋ bəˋmbaˋŋ sɔ¯ŋ sɔ̂ ŋ fə́nə᷇ːn mə́nə᷇ːn

yı¯ə¯ byə᷆ yı́ əˋ yı́ əˋ vyə̂ tyə᷆ kyə̂ bye¯ yıˋəˋ yı́ ə¯ fye¯ myeˋ

vuˋ kpú vuˋ vú vu᷇ tû kfɨ̂ kpû vú vû fú ŋmú

ŋgɛ¯ kpɛ́ ŋgɛ¯ ŋgɛ¯ wɛ᷇ tɛ᷇ kɛ᷆ kpɛ́ ŋgɛ́ ŋgɛ̂ fɛ́ ŋmɛ́

‘chief ’ ‘chiefs’ ‘tree’ ‘trees’ ‘rib’ ‘ribs’ ‘jaw’ ‘jaws’ ‘sheep’ ‘sheep’ ‘bird’ ‘birds’

wə̂n bûn wə̂n yɛ̂ n wə̂n tə̂n kə̂n bə̂n yə̂n yə̂n fə̂n mə̂n

wɔˋŋə̂ bɔ́ ŋə̂ wɔ́ ŋə̂ yɔ́ ŋə̂ wɔ́ ŋə̂ tɔ́ ŋə᷆ kɔˋŋə̂ bɔˋŋə̂ yɔ́ ŋə̂ yɔ́ ŋə̂ fɔˋŋə̂ mɔˋŋə̂

POSSESSIVES 3s 1p ŋgıˋ pı́ ŋgı̂ ŋgı́ vı́ tı᷇ kı̂ pı̂ ŋgı́ ŋgı᷇ fı́ mı́

ŋgəˋsə́ kpə́sə́ ŋgə́sə́ ŋgə́sə́ wə́sə¯ tə́sə¯ kə́sə́ kpə́sə́ ŋgə¯sə¯ ŋgə́sə¯ fə́sə́ ŋmə́sə́

2p

3p

ŋgəˋnə́ kpə́nə́ ŋgə¯nə¯ ŋgə́nə́ wə́nə¯ tə́nə¯ kə́nə́ kpə́nə́ ŋgə¯nə¯ ŋgə́nə¯ fə́nə́ ŋmə́nə́

bún bəˋbún bún bu¯n bún təˋbún kəˋbún bəˋbún bún bún fəˋbún məˋbún

by esoterogeny, especially from the perspective of a multilingual individual who already speaks a language with a comparable system. As seen in Table 24.3, the Fang demonstrative system follows a pattern comparable to what is seen for Mundabli. Agreement is coded on demonstratives, and each demonstrative within a class begins with the same consonant. The possessive agreement system, by contrast, is not nearly as transparent. While the possessive agreement patterns in some classes, such as Classes 7, 9, and 13, show regularity with respect to their initial consonants, the other classes do not show the same degree of consistency, and they also pattern distinctly from their demonstrative counterparts. For example, while Class 9 demonstratives begin with a y, this consonant is not found at the beginning of any of possessive forms, unlike what is seen for Mundabli Class 9 forms in Table 24.2, where a y is found in all demonstratives and most possessive forms. A particularly striking feature of the Fang possessive system are those forms which begin with labial-velar sequences, such as what is seen in some of the forms in Classes 2, 8, and 18a. Labial-velars in pronouns have not otherwise been found in the languages of Lower Fungom, and are quite unusual in Africa in general. Idiatov and Van de Velde (2021: 80) found that, in a sample of 178 African languages with labial-velars, only one of the 438 pronouns surveyed contained a labial-velar (though their study did not specifically look at possessive pronouns). Thus, these forms are not only unpredictable from the other parts of the Fang agreement paradigm (e.g. the demonstrative forms) but also begin with a consonant that would be unexpected in comparison with other local languages. Overall, what is noteworthy about this paradigm in the local context is the extent to which the possessive forms must be independently learned and cannot be guessed on the

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basis of other forms, such as the demonstrative, or knowledge of other local languages. In a region characterized by high degrees of individual multilingualism, this would prevent a clear barrier for an outsider who knows related languages to speak Fang fully proficiently and be recognized as a native Fang speaker. Esoterogenic linguistic patterns in Fang correlate with a pronounced social pattern of separation (Mve et al. 2019: 174–175). For instance, the core settled area of the village is spatially separated from the other villages of Lower Fungom due to the fact that it is surrounded by forest, which is atypical of the region. More striking is the system of handling matrimonial rights. The economic costs associated with a man (either from Fang or from another village) marrying a woman from Fang are very high. In addition to the payment of a bride price to the woman’s family, which is typical of the region, the man must make additional payments to attain rights to female children born through the marriage. He also has much stronger obligations to his father-in-law than in other villages. Taken together, these obligations discourage men from outside of Fang from marrying women from Fang. A man from Fang who marries a Fang woman will have the opportunity to gain from the marriages of his own daughters or other female relatives. A man who is from outside of Fang will have significant obligations to his wife’s family, without any opportunity to gain from the Fang system of matrimonial rights himself. The Fang case illustrates the potential of magnetic repulsion as an explanatory force in language change. Both spatially and in terms of its social structure, the village is organized in a way which separates it from the other Lower Fungom villages. The language has also developed in a way that signals separation from other Lower Fungom languages and inhibits outsiders from fully acquiring it. This also produces the kind of distinctive patterns of divergence associated with treelike change. Further work on Fang looking for other patterns of esoterogeny and exploring the language ideologies held by members of its community would help strengthen the case that it has been influenced by magnetic repulsion, as would being able to compare Fang grammar to the grammars of its closest Bantoid relatives, though, unfortunately, its precise genealogical relationships within Bantoid have yet to be determined, in part because it appears to be a recent entrant to Lower Fungom from a location that is not completely clear (Di Carlo 2011: 79–81).

24.2.4 Convergence and divergence in Buu and Mundabli The final case to be discussed here are the contrasting grammatical trajectories of Buu and Mundabli. The varieties of Mufu, Mundabli, and Buu form a small genealogical cluster. Mufu and Mundabli are very linguistically close to each other, and Buu is relatively distant from the other two (see, e.g. Voll 2017: 5–7). Buu is also spatially distant from Mufu and Mundabli and is more centrally located within Lower Fungom (see Figure 24.1). The data to be considered here are the noun class

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systems of Mundabli (see also Section 24.2.2), Buu, and a Mungbam variety, Abar, that Buu is in close contact with. A summary presentation of the Mundabli noun class system, based on Voll (2017: 81–96, 106), is provided in Table 24.4, the Buu noun class system, combining information presented in Ngako Yonga (2013: 21–35) and Hombert (1980: 87–88), is provided in Table 24.5, and the Abar system, based on the presentation in Good et al. (2017), with additional data drawn from Lovegren (2013), is provided in Table 24.6. In each table, the form of the class markers that appear on nouns is provided (including an indication of variation), along with additional information regarding the typical shape of agreeing forms (with pronominal forms used for Mundabli and the initial consonant of agreeing forms used for Buu and Abar). Some classes are coded via lower/higher stem tone alternations, as indicated with “floating” grave and acute accents. Classes appearing in the same row represent common singular/plural class pairings. Further discussion of the conventions for presenting noun class systems in this chapter can be found in Section 24.2.2. For present purposes, the critical point of comparison between Mundabli, Buu, and Abar is the contrast between the presence and absence of class prefixes on nouns themselves. While Mundabli has a relatively robust system of agreement, nouns themselves mostly lack class prefixes. Even where the presence of prefixes Table 24.4 Mundabli noun class system CL PFX

PRON

CL

PFX

PRON

EXAMPLE

GLOSS

1 3 7 9 19

wù wu¯ kı¯ yì fı¯

2 7a 8 10 18a

Ø-, bəˋØØ-, bī´Ø-, mù(N)-

bɔ̋ kı¯ bı¯ yı¯ mu¯

ŋkʊˇŋ/(bəˋ)ŋkʊˇŋ yɛ̋ n bɔˋ ywɔˇŋ/ywɔ̋ ŋ ntsɪ¯ fìntsɪ¯/mùntsɪ¯ ŋgı¯

‘chief ’/ ‘chiefs’ ‘tooth’ or ‘teeth’ ‘bag’ or ‘bag’ ‘snake’/ ‘snakes’ ‘louse’ or ‘lice’ ‘little louse’/ ‘little lice’ ‘water’

ØØØ-, kīˋØ-, fī-

6a N-

mu¯

Table 24.5 Buu noun class system CL

PFX

AGR

CL

PFX

AGR

EXAMPLE

GLOSS

1 3 7 9 19

ØØkəˋˋfəˋN-

wˋw´k´yˋf´-

2 7a 8 10 18a

bəˋ kəˋ-…-təˋ bəˋ´məˋN-

bʷ´k´bʸy´m´-

tá/bəˋtá nú/kəˋnútəˋ kəˋkáŋ/bəˋkáŋ dʒı᷅ /dʒí fəˋntʃáŋ/məˋntʃáŋ

6a

N-

m´-

‘father’/ ‘fathers’ ‘knee’/ ‘knees’ ‘bowl’/ ‘bowls’ ‘dog’/ ‘dogs’ ‘sweet banana’/ ‘sweet bananas’ ‘water’

ŋgıˇn

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JEFF GOOD

Table 24.6 Abar noun class system CL PFX

AGR

CL

PFX

AGR

EXAMPLE

GLOSS

1 3 5 5H 12 9 19 6a 14

wˋw´yy´k´yˋɕ´mw´bw´-

2 4 6 13 8 10 18a

bwe-/bə-/aímwe-/məN-/ai-/ki-…(-lɔ) bi-/ií͡ mN

bw´y´mw´ky´by´y´mw´-

m ˋ bʊˋŋ/bəˋmbɔ᷅ ŋ útőm/ígőho íde̋/mə́nde̋ ìyı᷆ /kı¯yı᷆ áɲű/íɲú ìbwe¯/íbwe̋ ɕíɕa̋/mu¯ntɕán áŋkwʊ́ útu᷆

‘cow’/ ‘cows’ ‘village’/ ‘fires’ ‘bean’/ ‘beans’ ‘bee’/ ‘bees’ ‘thing’/ ‘things’ ‘goat’/ ‘goats’ ‘knife’/ ‘plantains’ ‘oil’ ‘day’

ù-/Øúiíkə-/aìɕi-/iməN-/aNbu-/u-

on the nouns is indicated in Table 24.4, they are not necessarily common. Class 2 nouns can take the prefix bəˋ-, but it is optional. Class 7 kī- is only found on one word, and Class 8 bī- is only found on two words, and these are optional as well. The only prefixes that are ever not optional on nouns are Class 19/18a fī-/mù(N)-, but this is only when they are used to derive diminutive nouns. All Class 6a nouns begin with a nasal, suggesting a possible nasal consonant prefix, as indicated in Table 24.4. However, since this class consists solely of mass nouns lacking plural forms, there are no contexts where its prefixal status can be verified (Voll 2017: 86–94). By contrast, as seen in Table 24.5, the presence of class prefixes on nouns is more robust in Buu. The prefixes are dropped under certain conditions, such as when the noun is immediately followed by an agreeing element like a demonstrative or a possessive pronoun. Thus, for instance, the word for ‘chiefs,’ which appears as bəˋŋkʊˇŋ in isolation, loses its prefix in the phrase ŋkʊˇŋ bɔˋ ‘these chiefs’ where bɔˋ is a Class 2 demonstrative form. Nevertheless, prefix marking on nouns plays a much greater role in Buu than in Mundabli. This difference between Buu and Mundabli is almost certainly connected to the close contact that inhabitants of Buu village have with inhabitants of the socioeconomically central village of Abar. As can be seen in Table 24.6, like all of the Mungbam varieties, Abar has an extensive system of class prefix marking on nouns. Except for some Class 1 nouns, all nouns show a class prefix. From the perspective of the notion of magnetic dynamics of change, the fact that Buu grammar parallels Abar grammar relatively closely in this domain suggests that it has been influenced by magnetic attraction. The Buu system may have changed to be more in line with the Abar system, or pre-existing Abar-like features may have been stabilized by contact with Abar. Admittedly, the outcome in this case is not obviously distinctive from what is associated with “classic” language contact phenomena of the sort expected from the wave model, but the notion of magnetic dynamics can help explain why this

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contact effect is actually observed in this language given that the linguistic patterns are, again, in line with the sociocultural ones. Despite their linguistic similarity, Buu and Mundabli speakers do not share a social identity and are associated with distinct oral traditions, with the Buu, like the Abar, reportedly being “indigenous” to Lower Fungom and the Mundabli reportedly having entered from elsewhere. While we have no reason to believe that Mundabli’s development was influenced by magnetic repulsion specifically with reference to Mungbam varieties like Abar, its closest linguistic and cultural connections are to the village of Mufu, and it otherwise shows cultural links to groups outside of Lower Fungom (Di Carlo 2011: 86–87). Magnetic dynamics would, as a result, predict some degree of grammatical divergence between a variety like Mundabli and the variety of a spatially, culturally, and economically central Lower Fungom village like Abar as a means of signaling social distance from the Lower Fungom “center.” Overall, the contrast between Buu and Mundabli, therefore, illustrates how the notion of magnetic dynamics can be seen as a potential explanatory force for understanding why two related varieties may develop in markedly different directions and for why a particular change may take place within a contact situation.

24.3 Magnetic dynamics and linguistic diversification Each of the above case studies has only been presented in relatively schematic terms. However, taken together, they point to the presence of magnetic dynamics as a significant force for linguistic diversification in Lower Fungom. While these case studies are at a relatively small geographic and historical scale, all of the changes described have the effect of creating tree-like patterns of diversification, whether this involves the creation of a clearly lexicogrammatically distinct variety of Mungbam (Section 24.2.2), striking morphological divergence in Fang (Section 24.2.3), or a salient split in the noun class systems of two closely related varieties (Section 24.2.4). A significant feature of each case study is the extent to which the linguistic patterns of attraction and repulsion are paralleled by social patterns of affinity and separation, lending support to the idea that the specific changes were, at least in part, triggered by society-level forces where linguistic convergence is used as a means for communities to express sociopolitical alliance and linguistic divergence to express sociopolitical distance. Proposing such a tight link between sociopolitical structures and linguistic structures represents a fairly different way of looking at language change from what is traditionally associated with the tree and wave models. However, it is important to emphasize that this is being made in a context where high levels of individual-level multilingualism are an important part of social life (see Esene Agwara 2020: 191–193). Widespread individual-level knowledge of many local languages provides the conditions under which linguistic change can be targeted

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specifically to achieve linguistic convergence and divergence in the regional space, for instance through processes associated with deliberate change and esoterogeny. As mentioned in the introduction, the limited scope of the present work means that its results can only be taken as suggestive of the possibility of magnetic dynamics as a significant force in language change, rather than offering definitive proof of this. An important open question is how such dynamics might play out over larger geographic spaces and greater time depths. It seems unlikely that they would produce “clean” tree or wave patterns, but, rather something more complex, especially given that, as sociopolitical alliances shift across communities for non-linguistic reasons, patterns of linguistic attraction and repulsion will shift as well. In this regard, it is striking that, despite extensive comparative research, it has proven quite difficult to produce a standard family tree for the Bantu languages, which are genealogically close to the languages of Lower Fungom and whose speakers are culturally similar. This indicates that the magnetic dynamics that can be observed at a small-scale in Lower Fungom may also be relevant for understanding the “the bewildering mosaic of isoglosses and linguistic networks we encounter today” among the Bantu languages (Schadeberg 2003: 159), highlighting a potential further application in examining patterns of change from this perspective.

Acknowledgments I would like to thank two anonymous reviewers for feedback on an earlier version of this chapter. Many of the arguments made in this chapter were developed in the context of a longstanding collaboration with Pierpaolo Di Carlo.

25 Gradualness and abruptness in linguistic split A Nyulnyulan case study Claire Bowern

25.1 Introduction 25.1.1 Background In this chapter I discuss a conundrum long noted in linguistics, frequently characterized as the competition of gradualist diffusionist models versus abrupt splits that are typically represented on linguistic trees. Such discussions have a long history in historical linguistics, reaching almost as far back as models of language change themselves. The impetus for the chapter came from Andrew Garrett’s work on language split and convergence (Garrett 2006; Babel et al. 2010); what we might call the “speciation problem” (e.g. Coyne & Orr 2004) in linguistics. Garrett (2006) is a proposal to explain the rake-like structure of the primary subgroups of the Indo-European family. Garrett argues that the primary IndoEuropean subgroup divisions arose primarily through convergence among related dialects, and this mutual convergence, “together with loss of intermediate dialects in the prehistoric continuum, has created the historical mirage of a branchy IE family with its many distinctive subgroups,” (Garrett 2006: 139). In contrast, Babel et al. (2010) describes a situation where internal diffusion patterns lead to linguistic differentiation. The speciation problem has been evident in work on cultural evolution, going back to the origins of comparisons between biological and cultural change (cf. Pitt Rivers (published as) Lane Fox 1875). Kroeber (1948) characterizes the problem in cultural change as the question of how much cultural material is inherited (that is, passed down through generations and lineages) and how much is borrowed from neighbors. Nonetheless, new, distinct languages do emerge over time. That is, there is a process of divergence which gives rise to new and distinct linguistic entities. That then raises the question of how such varieties arise. Looking into the more recent past, it is clear that both the diffusionist and inheritance views fit at least some of the

Claire Bowern, Gradualness and abruptness in linguistic split. In: The Life Cycle of Language. Edited by: Darya Kavitskaya and Alan C. L. Yu, Oxford University Press. © Claire Bowern (2023). DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192845818.003.0025

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facts, and to characterize change as simply “diffusion” or “inheritance” misses the complexity of linguistic and cultural evolution. Observations of change in progress make it clear that geographic isoglosses overlap and that many phenomena have a clear diffusional signal.¹ Community transmission of linguistic features also reveals that rates of change vary, and changes in progress do not affect all members of a speech community, generation, or linguistic group simultaneously. Language communities are not homogeneous. Communities interact with one another which also leads to innovation. That is, there are many types of non-treelike language splitting (and non-discrete splits) that give rise to language contact patterns. It is also clear, however, that at greater time scales, languages are distinct entities with reconstructible splits and shared innovations. While the micro-processes that give rise to new languages may be messy and varied, in the aggregate, for many linguistic families a tree model appropriately represents the data, even in areas where languages are also in contact (see discussion for Australia in Bowern & Atkinson 2012). In this chapter, I use historical reconstruction (along with anthropological and social evidence) to discuss some of these issues with respect to the Nyulnyulan languages of northwest Australia. These languages provide a good case study for how diffusion processes may end up with discrete splits (and conversely how discrete processes may nonetheless end up showing diffusion). In particular, I discuss Nimanburru and Ngumbarl, two languages which are clearly Nyulnyulan and which have been treated as variably “dialects” of other languages, part of a linguistic continuum, or simply variably classified.²

25.1.2 Branching configurations Language trees are the products of interactions between language speakers/signers and geography. Put simply, “language” is changing all the time; languages are differentiated when languages lose contact with one another, either through migration, creating physical barriers and boundaries, or through the creation or maintenance of social boundaries. Language resides in humans, who move, who interact with one another, and who innovate over time. Therefore to consider the range of possible types of language split, we cannot just look at connections between language and geography/physical space (or even just different languages in relation to one another); a full explanation only comes from looking at language users in space, languages in space, and how both of these things have changed over time. ¹ For Australian examples, see discussions in Hercus (1972, 1979, 1987), Heath (1978), Dench (2001), among others. ² The data portion of this chapter is adapted and expanded from an LSA extended abstract (Bowern 2010) but repeats some of the data and text.

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In advocating for the inclusion of social information in studying tree formation, I go against work such as Hale (2015), who argues that the only proper information to consider in linguistic trees is information in the linguistic signal itself. That is, because trees are constructed on the basis of correspondence sets, which are abstract linguistic features based on (abstract) phonological representations, they do not directly contain information about the linguistic communities who use those languages. While it is true that linguistic reconstruction typically involves abstractions of linguistic information, I disagree that the processes that produce trees are divorced from linguistic communities and their interaction. After all, language forms are transmitted through communication, and the reception and transmission of language forms—the input to the creation of abstract mental representations—is ultimately a result of who communicates with whom. One view of language modeling which attempts to capture social processes is Ross (1988: 7–8), a community-linkage model which includes both languages and speech communities in the same representation and distinguishes between languages families that have become differentiated through dialect chains and those that have become differentiated through separation (termed families by Ross). That is, in the linkages, languages become distinct by virtue of partially overlapping shared changes, while families are differentiated by their lack of shared changes. This model therefore embeds sociocultural aspects of language change within the model, distinguishing two types of process that lead to language change. However, unlike Ross, I do not embed reflections of social processes in the representational model itself. That is, Ross names two social processes—linkage formation and family-like split—and represents them distinctly. However, while I call for an examination of social processes, I prefer a model that does not pick just two processes to label, given that other processes may also leave traces in the structure of a linguistic tree. To take just one example, consider the trees in Figure 25.1.

Figure 25.1 Two types of tree topologies: rakes and consistent splits.

Both trees in Figure 25.1 are consistently binary branching. In the first case, one community bifurcates, while the other splits more slowly. This is consistent with hypotheses of island-hopping/migration, for example, where a group splits, leaving some members of the community behind and the others moving to a new

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location. If contact is minimal and the migration typically involves the splitting-off group, over time a rake will form. In the second case, each community bifurcates. This is consistent with a scenario where all communities are growing at the same rate; they split (with groups migrating) at roughly the same times. Consider a third type of tree, in Figure 25.2. This tree is consistent with a scenario where a group fragments and spreads in several directions at the same time. This is consistent with Ross’s “family” designation, but does not produce a clear set of binary splits. It is also the tree that might be produced from poor ancient data, or early language contact. Therefore, while I advocate for considering social information as well as geographical information in considering types of language split, one cannot simply label splits according to their type of branching.

Figure 25.2 Rapid multiple migrations.

All these hypothetical trees assume that the extant languages record the entire evolutionary history of the language family, and that every variety has a corresponding leaf in the contemporary tree. However, language lineages become extinct, and divergence is not the only process in evolutionary history. That is, languages can cease to be spoken, and varieties can converge as well as diverge. Finally, of course, languages can borrow features from one another after split (or can independently borrow common features from a third language), which can lead to contemporary languages being more similar to each other than they were in earlier stages of their history. With that background in mind, let us now consider the changes in Nyulnyulan in more detail.

25.1.3 Overview of Nyulnyulan The Nyulnyulan family is one of the Non-Pama-Nyungan language families of Northern Australia (Evans 2003; Bowern 2023). The languages are (and were) spoken in the Western Kimberley region, from the coast and islands off the Dampier Peninsula and inland along the Fitzroy River. There are ten named linguistic varieties, as given in (1) below.

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(1) Jawi Bardi Nyulnyul Jabirr-Jabirr Nimanburru Jukun Ngumbarl Yawuru Nyikina Warrwa In most classifications (O’Grady, Voegelin, & Voegelin 1966; Wurm 1971; Oates & Oates 1970, among others), Nyulnyulan has been divided into two branches, usually termed ‘Eastern’ and ‘Western.’ This division corresponds fairly closely to the Indigenous division of the cultures of the region as ‘saltwater’ (or Gularrabulu ‘westerners’) and ‘freshwater.’ Most of the named varieties include a number of dialects, some of which have different names (for example, Nyikina is recognized as having two dialects, terms “Big Nyikina” and “Small Nyikina” (Stokes 1982: 1). The classification of Stokes and McGregor (2003: 31) (hereafter S&McG) is given in (2) below.

(2)

Nyulnyulan

Western

Eastern Nykinic

Yawuric

Nyulnyulic

Bardic

Warrwa Nyikina Yawuru Jukun Ngumbarl Nimanburru Nyulnyul Jabirrjabirr Bardi Jawi

This classification is based on application of the comparative method and identification of shared innovations. These innovations include lexical material (see Stokes and McGregor (2003: Table 10), though the authors note that while the two branches are clearly distinct, it is difficult to identify innovations that mark one or the other at the right level. The differences are either shared retentions, or overlapping innovations that collectively define a grouping but individually do not. For example, the Nyulnyulan comitative is reconstructible as ∗ nyarri (reflexes are given in Stokes and McGregor (2003: 46, Table 1). These forms are found in the Western Nyulnyulan languages and Warrwa; Yawuru and Nyikina have unrelated suffixes. The presence of a reflex of ∗ nyarri in both Eastern and Western languages implies that it can be reconstructed to Proto-Nyulnyulan, but there is no single subgroup-defining innovation, since the only innovations seem to have

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occurred in single languages: the replacement of ∗ nyarri with a reflex of the ProtoNyulnyulan instrumental -ngany in Yawuru, and the use of -barri, of uncertain origin, in Warrwa and Nyikina. The languages in (1) are arranged roughly north to south-east, as shown in the map in Figure 25.3. Dixon (2002: 666–667) treats these languages as a dialect chain “which could conceivably be taken to be a dialect chain within one language.” Dixon recognizes two languages, which correspond to the Eastern and Western subgroup divisions given in S&McG and others (e.g. Bowern 2012a; Bowern 2012b). Other evidence of continua comes from the way speakers of Nyulnyulan languages describe the differences between varieties. For example, Bardi people describe the Pender Bay Bardi variety (historically spoken closest to Nyulnyul country) as “Bardi coming up Nyulnyul” (pers. comm., 2008). Sunday Island Bardi, in contrast, was described as a bit like Jawi. Tindale’s (1974) note for Nimanburu describes the speech as “heavy Warrwa.” Therefore the speakers of the languages of the region recognized similarities between the varieties and the languages they were adjacent to. Finally, there is some evidence from historical phonology. The loss of final vowels, for example, is found in Nyulnyul, Jabirr-Jabirr, and the dialects of Bardi which

N N Worrorra 0

Western Australia

100 km Yawijibaya

Mayala Sunday Is

Bardi Jawi Bard

Wotjalum Umiida Unggarranggu

Pender Bay Goodenough Bay Disaster Bay King Sound

Lacepede Is

Worrorran

Beagle Bay

Nyulnyul

Jabirr-Jabirr

Nimanburru

Western Nyulnyulan

Ngumbarl Jukun

Broome

Unggumi

Yawuru

Ngarinyin Derby

Warrwa

Bunuba

Eastern Nyulnyulan

Bunuban Fitzroy Crossing

Nyikina

Pama-Nyungan (Marrngu) Karajarri

Pama-Nyungan (Ngumpin Yapa)

Figure 25.3 Map of the Nyulnyulan languages. Source: Bowern (2012a).

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are geographically closest to Nyulnyul. At One Arm Point, the variation is conditioned prosodically, while Sunday Island Bardi and Jawi (furthest from Nyulnyul) show no final vowel loss. Another change is the loss of phonemic vowel length, which appears to have occurred in the languages in the ‘middle’ of the family. Nyulnyul has prosodic (but not phonemic) length, and only the languages at the extreme north and east of the family (Bardi, Jawi, and Warrwa) have contrastive length.³

25.2 Materials 25.2.1 Ngumbarl Ngumbarl was thought to be all but unattested until recently. However, that relies on the identification of the materials set down by Billingee with Daisy Bates. Daisy Bates says that the materials are “Jukun or Ngumbarl nganga (speech).” Jukun is usually regarded as very close to Yawuru (cf. discussion in Hosokawa 1991); alternatively, Jukun could be another name for Ngumbarl and the similarity to Yawuru could be misleading. Although difficult to interpret in places, the Bates materials are not particularly close to the variety of Yawuru that Hosokawa recorded. For example, of the 413 words comparable between Yawuru and Ngumbarl in the Chirila database (Bowern 2016), only 21% are clearly cognate. A number of these words are shared by all Nyulnyulan languages, including kanji ‘bone’ (a ProtoNyulnyulan inheritance) and yaku ‘brother-in-law’ (a widespread loan from a Pama-Nyungan language). This number is probably artificially low, since there are clearly some mistranslations in the wordlist. The translations are also somewhat unreliable. For example, consider (3) below: (3) “Are you hunting kangaroo?” jooa inja pindana juwa inja bindana 2min go pindan⁴ ‘you’re going to the pindan (scrub)’ Nonetheless, it is likely that this list contains rather more Ngumbarl than was initially realized, and we can be more confident than in the past that the material in the Billingee/Bates vocabulary is predominantly Ngumbarl, and not Jukun, which we would expect to be much closer to Yawuru. Moreover, Ngumbarl language recorded from Lucy by Bronwyn Stokes matches the language recorded by Billingee. ³ Note that in this treatment I differ from McGregor’s (2012) Nyulnyul grammar, which suggests that length in Nyulnyul is also phonemic. However, long vowels appear to be entirely confined to monosyllabic roots with at most one coda consonant, where they are regular. ⁴ Pindan is a word in Australian English referring to scrubby bushland. It’s a borrowing in English from a language of the Dampier Peninsula.

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25.2.2 Nimanburru The main source for Nimanburru is a set of recordings made with a man called Christopher, by Anthony R. Peile. The Peile collection had numerous metadata errors (Bowern 2010) and so was not recognized as being Nimanburru until recently. There is also some Nimanburru material in Nekes and Worms (2006; reprinted with additions from 1953); this included some verb paradigms and other grammatical information. However, Nekes and Worms’s materials are heavily standardized toward Nyulnyul; their Bardi materials, for example, include numerous words that are clearly Nyulnyul and not Bardi because they do not show Bardi sound changes, because they show Nyulnyul sound changes, or because they refer to cultural systems which were not present in Bardi country. There are competing claims for the affiliation of Nimanburru. Early works regard the Nimanburru area of the Dampier Peninsula to be part of Nyulnyul (see McGregor 2004, 2012). A. P. Elkin’s fieldnotes (January–March 1928) record Nimanburru patrilineal estates in the relevant areas but the whole area is classified by Elkin as Nyulnyul, as least linguistically. More recent ethnographic work around Native Title places Nimanburru with Bardi. The Bardi-Jawi land claim treats the two groups as sharing sufficient culture, language, and ceremonies to constitute a single group for the purpose of land rights claims. Tindale’s (1974) classification of Australian languages, however, suggests that the closest language is Warrwa: “Their speech is described as ‘heavy War[r]wa’ and they are considered to be related to the War[r]wa people.”

25.3 Comparison of features In order to discover where Nimanburru and Ngumbarl should be classified within the Nyulnyulan family, I compare aspects of phonology, lexicon, case morphology, and verb morphology.

25.3.1 Phonology Nimanburru is very conservative in most respects, such as preserving ProtoNyulnyulan vowel length: (4)

∗

baaba ‘child’ > Nim. baaba (cf. Bardi baawa, Nyulnyul baab, Nyikina, Yawuru baba ∗ biindan ‘scrub, bushland’ > Nim. biindan (Bardi biindan(a), Yawuru bindana) ∗ ngiijil ‘clay’ > Nim. ngiijil, Bardi ngiiyil

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There is some evidence of a sound change in Nimanburru where ∗ ŋk > ŋ/_#, but there are only a few examples. (5)

PWN ∗ bardaŋka ‘tree’ > bardaŋ (Bardi bardaga, Nyulnyul bardangk)

It is difficult to infer much about the phonology of Ngumbarl because of the nature of the transcription system. I have phonologized forms in part based on my knowledge of the other languages; therefore inferences about phonology here run the risk of being circular. A few points can be noted, however. Initial ŋ is sometimes written as k but I assume this is not a sound change but a result of Bates’ difficulty with non-English phonotactics. I reconstruct a tentative sound change of i to a word finally (e.g. ∗ yaŋki ‘what’ > yaŋka). There are some words (described in the lexicon section below) which appear to have lost their final vowel. This is not, however, a regular sound change. The vast majority of words have their expected final vowel, and a few are given variably (e.g. nalma, nalm ‘head’). The ablative case is -kup; this form has to be reconstructed as ∗ -kapu (which gives Bardi -go). Such words may well be loans from Nyulnyul or Jabirr-Jabirr.

25.3.2 Lexicon Some lexical items are particularly associated with either Western or Eastern Nyulnyulan. They have different histories, however: some are likely to be loans into Proto-Eastern Nyulnyulan (or possibly independently into the daughter languages); others are of unknown origin but are good diagnostics for membership in the Western vs. Eastern group.

25.3.2.1 Nimanburru Diagnostic items that group Nimanburru with the Western languages include (among many) marrir ‘sister’ (not ŋurnu), yalurr ‘wife’s mother’ (not darlu), and bardaŋka ‘tree’ (not ba(a)lu). Evidence from all available reconstructions indicates that the Nimanburru lexicon is concordant with the other Western Nyulnyulan languages, in not only body parts but also flora and fauna and kinship terms. Currently there are no identifiable loans in the data (see Figure 25.4 for comparison with other Nyulnyulan languages), and the words shared with Eastern Nyulnyulan languages are only inheritances from Proto-Nyulnyulan. 25.3.2.2 Ngumbarl For Ngumbarl, reconstructions (where differentiated by subgroup) are mostly Eastern. Ngumbarl has considerable numbers of single attestations (18/204) and retentions from Proto-Nyulnyulan with semantic shift (15/204); some of these ‘shifts’ may be the result of errors by Bates, however. For example, the word for

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Missing Data Points Proto-Nyul′n Retentions Eastern Retentions Western Retentions Single Attestations Loans

75% 50% 25% Warrwa

Nyikina

Yawuru

Ngumbarl

Nimanburru

Jabirr-Jabirr

Bardi

Nyulnyul

0%

Figure 25.4 Cognate counts across Nyulnyulan languages.

‘dingo’ is given as yeela meeda, which is probably yiila ‘dog’ and miida ‘male’—that is, ‘male dog,’ not ‘dingo.’ There are also four words previously reconstructed to Proto-Western only. The word kunyul ‘star (also ‘moon’)’ appears as ‘moon’ in Western Nyulnyulan; therefore this could be a retention from Proto-Nyulnyulan with semantic shift in either Ngumbarl or Western Nyulnyulan.⁵ The fact that the word appears with a final vowel (goonyooloo) but without it in Ngumbarl suggests that it might be a loan from Nyulnyul and not a genuine retention. Mirrjil ‘moon’ is possibly cognate with a word for an esoteric ceremony name in some Western languages. If that connection is spurious, then it should be counted as a single attestation. Note that kunyul is also given in the wordlist as a word for ‘moon.’ Nyulnyulan languages do not normally have polysemy between ‘star’ and ‘moon,’ which points to an error in the list. The word jabulyu ‘old (person)’ is found in Western Nyulnyulan as the word for ‘gray hair.’ Other Eastern Nyulnyulan languages use the word yibala (PN ∗ yiibala ‘father’) in this meaning, and other Western languages use the word ∗ nyuŋurl (PWN ‘old, old person’). Therefore this is probably a further example of semantic shift or metaphoric usage. There is no trace of this word in Eastern Nyulnyulan languages, to my knowledge. Finally, there is marakub ‘far’ (probably mara-kup, i.e. far-ABL): All Western languages have a regular reflex of mara for this word. Of the other Eastern languages, Yawuru uses a loan from Karajarri (kajarri), and Nyikina and Warrwa both have otherwise untraceable words (kunabid/diyadiya and nyaarri respectively). Therefore, this could be a Proto-Nyulnyulan retention. Note that this form also has a loss of a final vowel and vowel harmony (∗ -kapu > -kup); this change is characteristic

⁵ The other Eastern languages have larn ‘star,’ which is not elsewhere recorded in Nyulnyulan, but is also not solidly identifiable as a loan from another family.

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of Nyulnyul, but not of other Nyulnyulan languages. The change is not attested in other Ngumbarl words, providing further evidence that this word may be a loan. In a larger sample, Ngumbarl shows more items which have been reconstructed previously to Proto-Western Nyulnyulan alone. However, many of these are flora and fauna terms. The Eastern Nyulnyulan languages have borrowed heavily from surrounding Marrngu and Ngumpin-Yapa (Pama-Nyungan) languages in this area of vocabulary (Bowern 2007; Bowern et al. 2014) and many items of Western flora and fauna were not reconstructed to Proto-Nyulnyulan simply because of lack of attestation in the available sources for Eastern Nyulnyulan. Therefore this should not be taken as evidence for grouping Ngumbarl with Western languages.

25.3.3 Case morphology Nyulnyulan languages have extensive morphology, including a system of nominal case marking. However, only certain cases (such as the proprietive) are informative for subgrouping, as many of the forms are reconstructible back to ProtoNyulnyulan. The core case system can be reconstructed to Proto-Nyulnyulan and developments are found in individual languages, not subgroups. Nimanburru shows the Western comitative -nyarr. The ergative case is -nim, from Proto-Nyulnyulan ∗ -ni(ma). This form is shared with Bardi and is a coalescence of the Proto-Nyulnyulan ergative ∗ ni and a focal ergative suffix, as reconstructed by McGregor (2006, 2007). This points to a shared innovation with Bardi, as Nyulnyul has -in for the ergative (regularly from ∗ -ni, not ∗ -nima). For Ngumbarl, the ergative is -na, which if from ∗ -ni shows the same apparent sound change of final i to a that is also seen in some other forms, as mentioned above. The locative is -kun (a reflex of Proto-Nyulnyuylan ∗ -kun). The ablative -kup was discussed above. No other case forms are given in the data.

25.3.4 Verb morphology 25.3.4.1 Nimanburru All Nyulnyulan languages have complex verb morphology. Verbs prefixes mark subject person, subject number, transitivity, and tense. There are further tense/aspect suffixes and agreement for other arguments, though the suffixes are less reconstructible than the prefixes. Most of the verb forms in the Nimanburru data are third person singular present and so not particularly informative for classification. However, there are forms such as darr unkara ‘he will go’ and ngan-k-ama-l ‘I’ll cook it’; this shows Western future (transitive) -n-k- prefix. The third person also shows an alternation between present i- and future u-, which is characteristic of Western languages, and possibly a shared innovation with Bardi.

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CL AIRE BOWERN

Therefore on this basis Nimanburru is clearly Western. The Eastern Nyulnyulan languages have a remodeled tense/aspect/mood system (as described in Bowern (2012a), and further discussed below in relation to Ngumbarl) which does not fit the Nimanburru translations.

25.3.4.2 Ngumbarl There are very few verb forms in the data and no full paradigms. However, there are some partial singular paradigms. Eastern Nyulnyulan has undergone a cluster of shared innovations in the verb prefix morphology (described in Bowern 2012a). The crucial changes are a merger of PN present and past (realis) prefix paradigms, as follows: (6)

PN singular intransitive past > Eastern intransitive non-future PN singular transitive present > Eastern transitive non-future PN plural present (transitive and intransitive) > Eastern plural non-future

That is, intransitive non-future singular verb forms in Eastern Nyulnyulan contain prefixes which historically (though not synchronically) marked past tense forms but are now used in past and present contexts. Attested forms in Ngumbarl are consistent with such a merger, assuming that the forms are given in the same tense: (7)

I steal: ngangalanybi; he steals: ingalanybi; they steal: yirrlanybi.

Here the singular forms continue earlier past forms but the third plural continues a present tense form (yirr-, not ∗ yingarr-). This is an excellent diagnostic for membership in the Eastern subgroup.

25.4 Discussion and conclusions This chapter used Nyulnyulan to examine some of the ways in which language splits occur. There are several types of change evident in the material discussed here: diffusion of features (e.g. final vowel loss, both as a regular change (Pender Bay Bardi) and as in evidence for individual lexical items (Ngumbarl)); shared retentions (e.g. within Western Nyulnyulan); differentiation through lexical borrowing (Eastern Nyulnyulan languages borrowing from Pama-Nyungan languages to the South); shared innovations (Eastern Nyulnyulan verb paradigms); and changes in individual languages. We saw that Eastern Nyulnyulan is supported by multiple shared innovations, while the situation is less clear for Western Nyulnyulan, where most of the common features are either shared retentions from Proto-Nyulnyulan, lexical items or otherwise unknown origin, or innovations shared by some, but not all, languages in the subgroup.

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An additional question was whether the distinction between Eastern and Western Nyulnyulan changed once data from Nimanburru and Ngumbarl were included. Though materials are not copious, the answer to that is clearly no: Ngumbarl shared Eastern features and falls clearly within the Eastern group, while Nimanburru is Western, but is conservative and reinforces the conclusions from the previous paragraph, that Western Nyulnyulan is only weakly supported by subgroup-level innovations. The data showed several ways that continua, or rather, messy splits, can develop: through many changes in different, individual languages, through loanwords and loan changes (either borrowing of lexical items showing sound change, as in Ngumbarl’s likely borrowing of Nyulnyul forms, or through the adoption of shared changes, such as Bardi dialects showing final vowel loss). But we also saw several ways in which clear boundaries emerge: for example, through changes which are confined to one group of languages (such as the verbal changes in Eastern Nyulnyulan): linked changes in paradigms that collectively lead to a coherent set of different forms. We also saw ways in which social differentiation or affiliation can lead to mergers: through Nimanburru merging with Nyulnyul speech varieties in Elkin’s records, for example. When faced with conflicting patterns of spread and boundaries, traditional historical linguistics has explained these patterns by two primary means: innovation and descent, causing language split; and borrowing between languages, causing spread of features over boundaries. However, the Nyulnyulan data described here also show some other likely patterns. This suggests that both tree and network models benefit from a consideration of both linguistic and social patterns, and that one cannot directly read social changes off language trees (or vice versa).

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Language Index A

C

Abar, 390, 395–397 Abouré, 64 Abron, 64 Aeolic, 138 Akan, 51–53, 55–59, 61, 63, 65–67, 160 Albanian, 137 Algic, 280 Algonquian, 184, 269, 279–281, 283–284, 316 Altai, 24, 26 Amazonian, 295, 297, 299, 303, 305 American English, 302 Anatolian, 25, 93–94, 120, 136, 141 Ancient Greek, 372 Anyi, 57, 61, 65 Aquitanian, 142 Arabic, 165 Argentinian Spanish, 302 Armenian, 81, 139, 141, 149–150 Asante Twi, 51–52, 54, 56, 63, 65 A´soka Prakrit, 140 Attic Greek, 138, 141, 150 Australian English, 302, 405 Avestan, 95 Awutu, 52–54, 56–57, 59, 65 Aztecan, 90, 136, 198–199, 202–203, 210, 214

Cahto, 254–256, 260, 265–267 California, 214, 267 Cantonese, 347, 352, 354, 356–361, 365, 367, 369–370 Catalan, 74–76, 82, 88, 346, 350 Cayuga, 316–325, 330, 333 Celtic, 121–123, 137–138, 141, 386 Central Bavarian, 377 Central Numic, 215 Central Tano, 52–53, 65 Chaghatay, 24, 27 Cherepon, 52–53, 56–58, 65 Cherokee, 287–288, 317–319, 322, 325 Chichewa, 16 Chilula, 254–257 Chimahuta, 17 Chimaraba, 17 Chinebuah, 62–63 Chinese, 311, 343, 347, 358, 370 Chinnima, 17 Choguita Rarámuri, 198, 200, 202, 208, 210 Chorote, 99, 101, 104, 106–112, 114–115 Chumburung, 60 Classical Armenian, 139, 141, 149 classical Greek, 93–96 Coastal Shimakonde, 17–18 Coeur d’A lene, 184 Cokwe, 8 Columbian, 184 Colville-Okanagan, 175–176, 178, 181–186 Crimean Gothic, 138 Crimean Tatar, 23–24, 28–29, 31–32 Croatian, 90 Czech, 138

B Balsas Nahuatl, 210 Baltic, 93, 121, 137–138, 140 Bantoid, 387 Bantu, 3–9, 11–22, 387–389, 392, 398 Baoule, 57, 61–62 Bardi, 403–411 Bardic, 403 Basque, 137, 139, 141–151, 174 Bia, 53, 61 Big Nyikina, 403 Bininj Gun-Wok, 44 Biya, 388, 390 Boeotian, 138 Bosnian, 90 Breton, 138 Brong, 57, 64–66 Buu, 388–389, 394–397

D Deep Springs, 214–216, 220, 222–224, 228–231 Deep Springs/Fish Lake Valleys, 214–215, 223, 231 Degano Pashayi, 140 Delaware, 316, 322, 334–335 Dene, 254–257, 259–263, 265–267 Doric, 138–139, 141, 150

458

L ANGUAGE INDE X

E Early New High German, 371, 374, 376, 385 East Franconian, 377 East Swabian, 377 Eastern Nyulnyulan, 404, 407–411 Eastern Ojibwa, 89 English, 35, 44, 46, 49, 51, 53, 59, 62, 64, 74, 118–119, 123–124, 138, 141, 174, 181, 256–258, 262, 264, 269, 280, 282–286, 289, 302–304, 311, 315, 319, 340–341, 343, 345–348, 351–352, 355–356, 366, 405, 407

F Fang, 255, 264, 388–389, 391–394, 397 Fante, 57, 63–64 Finnish, 69, 76–77 Fish Lake Valleys, 214–215, 223, 228, 230–231 Foodo, 57, 60 French, 64, 81–84, 87–89, 92, 303–304, 316, 372

G Galician, 77–79 Gaulish, 138 German, 138, 141, 199, 203–205, 211, 304, 322, 371, 373–374, 376, 380, 384–385 Germanic, 373 Giryama, 3, 19, 21 Gothic, 93, 138, 141 Greek, 69–70, 72–74, 80, 82, 84, 93–96, 118–123, 137–141, 149, 161, 283, 372, 386, 391 Gua, 57, 59–60 Guacurúan, 115 Guang, 52–53, 57–60, 65–66

H Hattic, 138 Haya, 19–21, 259, 261, 266 Hebrew, 283–284 High German, 138, 141, 371, 373–374, 376, 380, 384–385 Hindi, 358 Hittite, 93, 122, 125–139, 141–142, 149–150 Homeric Greek, 139–141 Hopi, 199, 210, 287 Hupa, 254–260, 262–266, 288

I Ibero-Romance, 79 Ikalanga, 16 Ili Turki, 25, 32 Indic, 93, 95, 140, 156 Indo-European, 69, 72, 93, 150, 169 Indo-Iranian, 121–122, 140 Ionic, 138 Iranian, 93, 95, 121–122, 138, 140 Iroquois, 315–323, 325–326, 333

Iroquois Proper, 317, 319–320, 323, 325–326 Italian, 80–84, 88, 92 Italo-Romance, 88–89

J Jabirr-Jabirr, 403–404, 407–408 Japanese, 347, 356 Jawi, 403–406 Jukun, 403–405

K Kadiweu, 115 Karakalpak, 25, 27, 32 Karuk, 233–241, 243, 245, 247, 249–253, 288, 350 Kashmiri, 140 Kawaiisu, 218 Kazakh, 27–28, 32 Khakas, 24–25 Kifuliiru, 11 Kilega, 4 Kimatuumbi, 9, 11, 20 Kinande, 16, 19, 171 Komo, 19–20 Krobu, 53 Kuuk Thaayorre, 34–35, 37, 39, 41, 43–45, 47–50 Kwa, 52–53, 66 Kwakiutl, 286 Kyrgyz, 26–27

L Ladin, 88 Lake Iroquoian, 317 Lassik, 255–256, 259 Latgalian, 138 Latin, 69, 72, 75, 77–78, 81–84, 87, 89–95, 97, 121–123, 125, 137, 139–141, 145, 150–151, 165, 283, 374, 384–385 Latvian, 138 Laurentian, 317–319 Leggbó, 22 Lillooet, 184, 196 Lithuanian, 138–139 Luganda, 4 Lulamogi, 6–8, 21 Lunda, 9 Lusoga, 4 Lydian, 139

M Máı´jı̵ı̵̀ ̀ kì, 295, 297–298 Maká, 99, 101, 104–111, 115 Makonde, 17, 20 Makwe, 17 Marrngu, 404, 409

L ANGUAGE INDE X Matacoan, 99, 101, 104–109, 112, 114 Medieval Basque, 137, 146 Meskwaki, 184, 268–271, 273, 275–279 Middle High German, 374, 376, 384–385 Middle Hittite, 126 Middle Indic, 140 Middle Irish, 138 Middle Welsh, 141 Missong, 388–391 Miwok, 218 Mocovı´, 115 Mohawk, 315–325, 329–330, 333–334 Mohican, 280, 284 Mono, 156, 158, 170, 214–221, 223–232 Mufu, 388, 394, 397 Mundabli, 388–389, 392–397 Mungbam, 388–391, 395–397 Munken, 388, 390 Myene, 13

459

Old English, 138 Old French, 87–89, 92, 372 Old High German, 138, 141, 373–374 Old Hittite, 139, 141–142, 149–150 Old Irish, 138, 141 Old Occitan, 88 Old Prussian, 93, 138–139 Old Spanish, 82 Old Turkic, 24–26, 32 Oneida, 280, 317–320, 322–325, 329–330, 333 Onondaga, 317–320, 322–325, 330–331, 333 Osh, 27 Ottoman Turkish, 25

P

Nahuatl, 203, 210 Nawuri, 60–61 Ndebele, 16 New Hittite, 125 Nez Perce, 185 Ngangela, 12, 22 Ngumbarl, 400, 403–411 Ngumpin-Yapa, 409 Ngun, 390 Nimanburru, 400, 403–404, 406–411 Nivaclé, 99–117 Noghay, 27 Nongatl, 255–256, 266 Noni, 4 Norogachi Rarámuri, 210 North Guang, 57, 60, 66 Northern Iroquoian, 317–318, 325, 332 Northern Owens Valley, 214–215, 219, 223–224, 226, 228–231 Northern Paiute, 215, 218, 288 Northern Tepehuan, 199, 203, 210 Nottoway, 317–319, 322–323, 325, 330 Nueva Vida, 293–294, 296, 298, 301, 306 Nyikina, 403–404, 406, 408 Nykinic, 403 Nyulnyul, 403–409, 411 Nyulnyulan, 400, 403–405, 407–410 Nyulnyulic, 403 Nzema, 57, 62–63, 65

Pahlavi, 146 Pāli, 140 Pama-Nyungan, 402, 404–405, 409–410 Pashto, 139 Persian, 26 Peruvian Spanish, 302 Pilagá, 115 Pima Bajo, 90 Plateau Shimakonde, 17 Polish, 139 Pomo, 185, 255 Portuguese, 75, 77–82, 84, 88 Potou, 53 Potou-Tano, 53 Proto-Anatolian, 94 Proto-Bantu, 5, 20, 392 Proto-Basque, 137, 139, 141–145, 147, 149–151 Proto-Celtic, 141 Proto-Dardic, 140 Proto-Dene, 259 Proto-East Baltic, 138 Proto-Eastern Nyulnyulan, 407 Proto-Germanic, 141, 373, 375–377 Proto-indo-european, 94, 137, 142–144, 151 Proto-Iroquoian, 317, 320, 325, 330 Proto-Iroquois Proper, 319–320, 323 Proto-Matacoan, 99, 101, 104–106, 109, 112 Proto-Northern-Iroquoian, 319–320, 324 Proto-Numic, 221–232 Proto-Nyulnyulan, 403, 407–410 Proto-Western Nyulnyulan, 409 Puerto Huamán, 293–294, 296, 298 Punjabi, 358 Punu, 9 Putonghua, 358

O

R

Old Breton, 138 Old Church Slavic, 93 Old Church Slavonic, 138–139 Old Czech, 138

River Guarijı´o, 211 Romance, 75, 79–82, 84, 87–88, 92, 372 Romanian, 81–82, 88, 92, 165 Russian, 69, 72, 74, 76–77, 139, 303

N

460

L ANGUAGE INDE X

S Safwa, 11 Salinan, 218 Salishan, 173, 175, 179, 183–185, 235 San Joaquin River, 214–215, 219, 221–222, 224, 226–230 Sanskrit, 93–94, 120, 125–126, 138–141, 155–159, 161–165, 167–171 Sardinian, 90 Séliš-Ql’ispé, 173, 175–176, 179, 182–185 Seneca, 316–325, 330, 332–333 Serbian, 90 Sesotho, 16 Shekgalagari, 13–16, 19–21 Shona, 13 Shor, 24–25 Shoshoni, 215, 218, 231 Shughni, 139 Simakonde, 16–18, 20 Slavic, 74 Small Nyikina, 403 South Guang, 52, 58–59, 65 Southern Iroquoian, 317–318 Southern Owens Valley, 214–215, 223–224, 226–232 Spanish, 68–72, 74–75, 77–84, 88, 221, 227–228, 295–298, 300, 302–304, 306, 311, 340, 345–348, 350 Spokane, 173, 175–178, 180–197 Sucusari, 293–294, 296, 298 Susquehannock, 315–327, 329–335 Swedish, 316, 319

T Tan, 108 Tano, 52–53, 57–58, 64–67 Taracahitan, 198, 211 Tepiman, 203, 210 Tewa, 236 Thompson River Salish, 184 Tiene, 21, 111 Timbisha, 215, 218, 231 Tiwa, 236 Toba, 115 Tocharian, 93–95, 121 Tocharian A, 93–95 Tocharian B, 93–95 Totoya, 293–294, 296 Tubatalabal, 218 Tukanoan, 294

Tunica, 286, 289 Turkic, 23–27, 29, 32–33 Turkish, 23, 25–27, 29 Tuscarora, 316–320, 322, 325, 330

U Upper Tanana, 256, 258 Urdu, 358 Uto-Aztecan, 90, 136, 198–199, 202, 214 Uyghur, 32 Uzbek, 24, 26–27

V Vedic, 93, 95, 121–122, 140, 147, 163 Vedic Sanskrit, 93 Vulgar Latin, 87, 90

W Wailaki, 254–256, 260, 262–267 Walmatjari, 44 Warrwa, 403–406, 408 Welsh, 122, 138, 141 Wendat, 316–319, 322, 325, 330–331, 333 West Germanic, 122, 375 West Rumelian Turkish, 26 West Tano, 53, 64 Western Apache, 260 Western Numic, 214–215 Western Nyulnyulan, 403–404, 407–411 Whilkut, 254 Wichı´, 99, 101, 104, 107 Wiyot, 280, 350 Wôpanˆaak, 280–281, 284, 289 Wyandot, 317–319, 325, 331, 333

Y Yakut, 26 Yana, 285–286, 294 Yawuric, 403 Yawuru, 403–406, 408 Yiddish, 165 Yidgha, 139 Yir-Yoront, 184 Yokuts, 218, 225–226 Young Avestan, 95 Yucatec Maya, 95 Yuki, 255, 265, 267 Yurok, 249, 258, 262, 280, 288, 350

Z Zanzibar Simakonde, 17

Subject Index A ablative, 407, 409 ablaut, 21, 155–156, 164, 166–167, 172 abruptness, 399, 401, 403, 405, 407, 409, 411 abstractness, 119 accent, 4, 51, 64, 140, 155–156, 211, 234, 236–252, 305, 324, 344, 349, 395 accentuation, 234, 247, 249–252 actuation, 387 additive focus, 128, 134 adult-directed speech, 355 adverb, 4, 35, 38, 46, 86–87, 90, 104, 106, 109–112, 128–129, 132 affirmative, 51–52, 54–60, 62, 64, 66–67 agreement, 10, 22, 127, 133, 140, 309–310, 359, 383, 392–393, 395, 409 allomorph, 161, 163–164, 166, 168–169, 171, 205 allomorphy, 293, 371–376, 378 analogical change, 118, 371–375, 377–381, 385 analogy, 118–119, 123, 139, 172, 302, 340, 371, 387 anaphoric pronoun, 89 animacy, 284 aorist, 72, 119, 121–124, 156–157, 164, 170–171 applicative, 8, 10, 13, 21, 103–105, 327 arbitrariness, 174 aspect, 52, 54, 57–58, 62–64, 66–75, 77, 80, 82, 98, 140, 144, 146, 155–156, 160, 169, 201, 209–210, 213, 218, 234, 255–259, 269, 272, 284, 289, 291–293, 299, 301, 311, 315, 326–327, 330, 341–342, 348, 354–355, 373, 387, 389–392, 401, 406, 409–410 aspirate, 156 associated motion, 36–39, 46–48 augment, 119–120, 124

B backformation, 147 Bates, Daisy, 405 Batwi, Sam, 285–286, 289 benefactive, 103, 327 Bible, 280–285, 289. See also New Testament bilingualism, 201, 339, 341–342, 344, 350 Billingee, 405 bimoraic, 157–158, 203

Boas, Franz, 286 Bonn Corpus of Early New High German, 376 borrowing, 114, 116, 118, 137–138, 151, 183, 215, 221, 225, 227–228, 340, 384, 387, 405, 410–411 boundary tone, 5, 19–20, 207, 211, 237, 245, 249 Breath of Life, 288 bridging context, 36, 40 Bright, William, 236 Brown, Betty, 285–286, 289 Buckie, 356

C Campanius, Johan, 316 case system, 409 category assimilation, 344, 350, 353 causal, 125, 128, 134, 384 change-by-accommodation, 344 Chapin, Alfred Clark, 283 child-directed speech (CDS), 354–356, 358–370. See also Infant-directed Speech (IDS) Chomsky and Halle 1968, 119 Christianity, 282–283 chronology, 147, 374, 379–380, 383–385 circumflex, 237–239, 242, 248, 250–251 cislocative, 327, 329 coarticulation, 23, 32–33, 365–366 Cockenoe, 283 cognate, 52, 93–94, 101, 104, 106–108, 110–111, 114–115, 137, 140–142, 144, 147, 149, 151, 165, 175, 180, 182–187, 191, 210–211, 221, 254, 263, 316, 318, 322, 325, 329–331, 334, 346–348, 405, 408 collaboration, 233, 254, 291–293, 298, 300, 309, 312, 352, 398 collaborative orthography design, 292 colonialism, 281–282 comitative, 403, 409 community linguist, 300, 311 community norms, 339 community-participatory orthography development, 291–293, 295, 297, 299, 301, 303, 305, 307–309, 311, 313 comparative method, 142, 403 compensatory lengthening (CL), 8, 202, 300–308, 310–314, 392–393, 395–396

462

SUBJECT INDE X

complementizer, 125–126 completive, 56–57, 60–62, 64, 66 comunidad nativa, 296 conditional, 68, 70–71, 73, 75, 78–83, 107–109, 204, 207, 368 conjugation, 122–123, 284 conjunction, 40, 85, 97, 106–108, 110–111, 125–126 contact-induced change, 27, 339–340, 348 contrast, 4–9, 12–13, 17, 20, 27, 32, 34–35, 47, 51, 68, 70, 72–73, 77, 80, 82, 95, 100–101, 105, 112, 131–132, 135, 145, 147, 150, 155, 161, 167, 184, 199, 201–210, 212–213, 219, 221, 224–227, 229, 231, 239, 248, 250, 252–253, 256, 259, 261, 275, 284, 291, 303, 305, 343, 354–357, 364–365, 374, 390, 392–393, 395–397, 399, 404 contrastive, 9, 13, 16, 128–136, 145, 203–204, 234, 237, 304, 312, 327, 333, 405 contrastive focus, 128–136 conventionalization, 34–35, 41, 44–47, 49–50, 175, 182 conversational implicature, 34, 44, 47–48 corpora, 200, 213, 288, 349, 351–352, 381, 385 correspondence, 101, 104, 125, 142–144, 150, 156, 166–169, 171–172, 226, 234, 252, 259, 389, 401 cross-language activation, 345–346, 349 cultural stereotyping, 41

D debuccalization, 147 declension, 284 definite article, 86–92, 94, 97 definiteness cycle, 87–90, 92, 94, 97. See also DP-cycle deglottalization, 179–180 deictic, 87–89, 95–96, 110, 256 delabialization, 364 demonstrative, 17–18, 85–97, 105–112, 174, 176, 181, 259, 392–394, 396 demonstrative reinforcement, 85–95, 97 deontic, 36, 38 desiderative, 34–43, 45–50, 107–108, 156, 159, 161, 168–171 determiner, 9, 89–91, 93, 392 devoicing, 15, 356 diachrony, 85, 118 diacritics, 233–234, 237–238, 246, 251–252 dialect diversity, 214–215, 217, 219, 221, 223, 225, 227, 229, 231–232 dictionary, 174, 176, 217, 240, 255, 259, 281, 286–289, 293, 295, 298, 300, 302, 306–307, 313, 322, 325, 359, 361

diffusion, 24, 26–27, 115, 137, 215, 221, 225, 227–228, 399–400, 410 diminutive, 173–174, 186, 193, 195, 259, 396 directional, 112–113, 164 discourse markers, 250–251 ditransitive, 102–105 documentation, 41, 84, 101, 116, 185, 198, 200, 202–203, 214, 255, 257, 260, 280–283, 285–291, 293, 298, 300–301, 315, 335 dominant language, 340–341, 348, 350 DP-cycle, 87. See also definiteness cycle duplicative, 327, 330 durative, 177, 181

E Edwards, Jonathan Jr., 283 elicitation, 36–39, 45, 49, 173, 183, 199, 201–202, 211, 217–218, 259 Eliot, John, 282–283 enhancement, 354–355, 357, 359, 361, 363, 365, 367, 369–370 ergative, 409 esoterogeny, 389, 391–394, 398 essentializing, 41 etymology, 46, 93, 124, 141, 145, 151 evidentiality, 112 exclusive, 107, 111, 256, 327, 335 exemplar, 256, 281, 287, 354 exophoric, 91, 96 exponent, 156, 158, 205, 211, 256, 262–263 extraction, 107

F f0, 199, 203, 207, 209, 351, 356, 360–361. See also fundamental frequency faithfulness, 159, 161, 166, 169 family tree, 99, 318, 398 Five Nations Iroquois Confederacy, 318 floating tone, 65 FocusP, 136 forced alignment, 358–359 fortition, 221–222, 224 frequency effect, 363, 372 frustrative, 107–108 full grade, 149, 155–156, 162, 166–169 function words, 250–251 functional convergence, 256, 267 fundamental frequency, 199, 356. See also f0

G Garrett, Andrew, 136, 151, 172, 185, 279–280, 336, 353, 399 Generalized Template Theory (GTT), 158 genitive, 16, 24, 32, 114–115

SUBJECT INDE X

463

glide vocalization, 161 glottalization, 173, 179–180, 190, 193, 239, 247, 249 Goddard, Pliny Earle, 254 gradualness, 399, 401, 403, 405, 407, 409, 411 grammatical tone, 198–200, 203–213 grammaticalization, 35, 47, 49–50, 86–88, 90, 92, 97, 106, 111–112, 116, 125 Grassmann’s Law, 120 Gritts, Anna, 287. See also Kilpatrick, Anna group identity, 42, 389

International Phonetic Alphabet, 285 interrogative-relative, 125 intonation, 15, 21–22, 198–200, 202–203, 207, 209–210, 213, 234, 250–253 intransitive, 102, 104–105, 122–123, 410 irrealis, 107–109, 327 isogloss, 223–224, 227–228, 232, 398, 400 isolate, 142, 352 iterative, 22–23, 26–27, 32–35, 41, 44, 47, 49–50, 107, 109–110 iterative harmony, 23, 27, 32

H

J

Haas, Mary, 217, 286, 289 habitual, 54, 70, 82, 107, 109–110, 327, 330–331 harmony decay, 25 Harrington, J. P., 233, 350 height, 21, 156–162, 164–167, 169–171, 276, 356 heritage speaker, 341, 350 historical reconstruction, 400 Holland, Gary, 125 Holm, Thomas Campanius, 316 Homer, 119, 122 homogenization, 371, 373, 375, 377, 379, 381, 383, 385 homophony, 55–56, 83, 88–89 hortative, 15–16, 36, 38 hyperarticulation, 360, 369 hyperspeech, 354–355

Jespersen, Otto, 45, 86 jussive, 36, 38 Jyutping, 358

I iconicity, 174 ideophone, 15–16, 174 imperative, 4–5, 15–16, 19, 42–43, 61, 71, 73, 83, 91, 204–205, 207, 211–212, 311, 375, 378 imperfective, 60, 66, 68–70, 72–74, 80, 82–83, 107, 133, 205–207, 210–211, 389–390 inchoative, 123, 327 individual difference, 341–342, 344 Infant-directed Speech (IDS), 355–356, 360, 376 inheritance, 24, 137, 144, 399–400, 405, 407 innovation, 32, 65, 86, 94, 119, 122, 124, 126, 140, 183, 210–211, 213, 215, 221, 224, 229–231, 318, 325, 355, 378, 380, 400, 403, 409–411 instrumental, 103–105, 199, 203, 280, 327, 404 insubordinate, 37, 45 insubordination, 36, 47 intensifier, 36, 38, 46, 90, 104 intensive, 156–161, 164, 167, 170, 298, 311, 313 inter-speaker variation, 201–202, 210–211, 213 intergenerational transmission, 198

K Kilpatrick, Anna, 287. See also Gritts, Anna Kilpatrick, Jack, 287 Kiparsky, Paul, 119 Krauss, Michael, 287 Kroeber, Alfred, 262

L language contact, 114, 225, 232, 255, 339–353, 387, 396, 400, 402 language convergence, 345 language decline, 198 language ideology, 301, 304, 310–311, 391, 394 language revitalization, 280, 288, 300, 315, 336 language shift, 233, 296, 341 language transmission, 297 laryngeals, 137, 319–320, 322 lateral, 99–101, 180, 186, 322 lexeme-specificity, 27 lexical borrowing, 340, 410 lexical diffusion, 24, 26–27, 225 lexical tone, 4, 198, 200, 202–204, 206–213, 357 lexically specific harmony, 24, 32 linguistic diversification, 386–387, 397 linguistic diversity, 82, 216, 232, 311, 313, 389 linguistic ecology, 350 linguistic minorities, 340 linguistic split, 399, 401, 403, 405, 407, 409, 411 linguistic transfer, 344–345 loanword, 411 locatival phrase, 128–129 locative, 78, 107, 110, 112–113, 178, 274, 409

M Maddux, Phoebe, 233–234, 236, 240–251, 253 magnetic dynamics, 387, 389, 396–398 magnetic repulsion, 391, 394, 397

464

SUBJECT INDE X

manner adverb, 128 markedness, 157, 172 Massachusetts, 282–283 Mediterranean, 139 metalinguistic label, 256–258, 262 metathesis, 140, 354 Mills Society, 282 Minimalist Program, 86 minimality, 19, 158, 210 Minquas, 316 mirative, 107, 111 missionary, 281–285, 288, 296, 322 missionization, 296 mora, 4, 11, 13, 19, 21, 54–56, 63–65, 158, 170–171, 237 morphological tone, 54 morphomic, 206, 372 morphophonemic analogy, 340 Multi-ethnic Hong Kong Cantonese Corpus, 357 multilingualism, 311, 339, 350, 352, 387, 394, 397 Myaamia Center, 288 myths, 201, 256–258

N nasal harmony, 294 National Anthropological Archive, 233, 269, 271 negation, 54, 57, 60, 63, 67, 132–133, 333–335 negative construction, 333, 335 negative particle, 40, 333 negative past, 52–59, 61–62, 64–67 negative perfect, 51–59, 61–62, 64–67 negative prefix, 51–52, 55–56, 58, 60, 62, 64–66, 333 Nesuton, Job, 283 neutralization, 67, 205, 208, 212, 222 New Testament, 295 nominal subject, 129–130 non-iterative harmony, 27, 32 nonpast, 36, 38–39, 43, 47–48 noun class, 392–397 noun classifier, 114–115, 307 nucleus, 155–158, 162–163, 165, 169, 171, 390

O o-grade, 147–149 oblique, 34, 44, 50, 104, 112–113 obstruentization, 221–225, 228 onomatopoeia, 174–175 optative, 36, 38, 168, 259 Optimal Paradigm, 164, 171 Optimality Theory, 120 optionality, 25–27, 32

orthography, 56, 234, 237, 239–241, 245, 247, 254, 291–314, 377, 385

P paradigm, 124, 155, 157, 159, 161, 163–167, 169, 171–172, 199, 204, 206–208, 213, 218, 307, 335, 346–347, 349, 371–377, 379–380, 384–385, 393, 406, 410–411 paradigm leveling, 371–372 paradigm uniformity, 165 paradigmatic heterogeneity, 371, 373, 375, 377, 379–381, 383–385 partitive, 77, 327, 330 past, 10, 21, 39, 51–77, 80–81, 83–84, 106–111, 168, 204–207, 258, 327, 371, 373, 379, 384, 399, 405, 410 Paul’s principle, 371, 373 Paul, Hermann, 371, 373 Peile, Anthony R., 406 perfect, 51–67, 71–74, 77–78, 81–83, 118–124, 155–157, 161–172, 233, 235, 286, 314, 329, 374 perfective, 10, 53, 57, 59–60, 65–66, 68–76, 80, 82–84, 259, 327, 389–390 Peruvian Amazonia, 291–293, 297–298 phonaesthesia, 174 phoneme, 142, 145, 176, 179–180, 235, 259, 295, 303–305, 312, 359 phonetic drift, 348 phonetic naturalness, 140 phonetic precursor, 340, 354–355, 357, 359, 361, 363, 365, 367, 369–370 phonological phrase, 4, 13, 16–19, 21, 126, 128 phonological word, 11, 111, 126, 128 phonologization, 23, 340, 354 phonotactic, 120, 155, 407 phrasal shortening, 9, 11 phytonym, 137, 139, 142, 144, 151 Pindar, 119 pitch perturbation, 356 place assimilation, 61 plural, 4, 71, 100, 105, 111, 118, 132, 177, 192, 204, 263, 293, 327–328, 335, 374–375, 378–379, 392, 395–396, 410 plurality, 176–177 possessive, 9, 12, 16–17, 20, 26, 31, 114, 218, 262, 392–393, 396 postpositional phrase, 127–128 Praat, 359, 366 pragmaticalization, 44 pragmatics, 41 prayer, 129, 132, 201, 256, 258–262, 265 predicate, 37, 40, 102–104, 127–130, 136, 326 prenasalized consonant, 224

SUBJECT INDE X Printer, James, 280, 283–284, 289. See also Wawaus productivity, 103, 175, 182 progressive, 44, 55–56, 63, 66–67, 205–206, 210–211, 327 prominence, 4, 12, 19, 22, 134, 157, 237, 244–245 pronominal subject, 128–129, 131 pronoun, 9, 16–17, 22, 40, 89, 97, 104, 125, 133–134, 218, 332, 390, 392–393, 396 prosody, 3, 5, 202, 209–211, 213, 233–237, 239, 241, 243, 245–247, 249, 251–253, 324, 332 prospective, 107–108, 277 Proto-Indo-European-Euskarian Hypothesis, 144 proto-language, 138, 144, 147, 151 proximal demonstrative, 96 psycholinguistics, 339, 341–343, 345, 347, 349, 351, 353 purposive, 36–37, 39, 45–47

R read speech, 356 realizational morphology, 205 recipient, 103–104, 285 reclamation, 201, 213, 280–281, 288–290 reconstruction, 5, 53, 65, 67, 94, 99, 137, 140–142, 144–146, 148, 150–151, 221, 320, 400–401, 407 reduction, 25, 85–86, 157, 201–202, 346, 360, 366, 369 reduplicant, 155–169, 171 reduplication, 119–120, 123–124, 156, 158–159, 163, 167–168, 173–179, 181, 184–186, 192, 195 reference grammar, 198, 200–202, 208–210, 212–213 regressive harmony, 161 relative clause, 9, 126 remote past, 107, 109–111 repetitive, 327, 329–330 reportative, 106–107, 110 resultative, 123 retention, 122, 221, 225–227, 229–230, 403, 407–408, 410 retroflexion, 147 rhetorical, 133–135, 285 root, 4–9, 11–13, 20–22, 25, 31, 37, 51, 54–56, 59, 66, 92, 103, 109, 113, 119–124, 137–142, 144–151, 155–159, 161–172, 174, 176, 179–182, 187, 189, 192–195, 203–207, 209–210, 212, 243–244, 275, 295, 305–307, 326–327, 329, 405 rounding harmony, 23–29, 31–33

465

S Sapir, Edward, 285 Sawali, Uwedasat, 287 Schleicher, August, 355 second language acquisition, 343–344, 352 singular, 4, 19, 40, 73, 77, 113, 118–119, 125, 127, 132–133, 192, 195, 205–206, 211–212, 327–328, 332, 375, 378, 384, 390, 392, 395, 409–410 Solé, Maria-Josep, 365 sonority, 121 sound change, 102, 118–119, 121, 123, 147–148, 183, 215, 224, 294, 335, 339–341, 343, 345, 350, 354–355, 357, 361–365, 367, 369–370, 374, 377, 387, 406–407, 409, 411 sound change in progress, 350, 364, 367, 370 sound symbolism, 173–175, 179, 183–185 Southern Vowel Shift, 355 spatial deixis, 87, 93–95, 97 speciation problem, 399 speech act, 41, 43, 46, 49 speech community, 44, 200, 209, 226, 255–256, 267, 284, 341, 344, 349, 352–353, 400–401 spreading, 21, 188, 241, 245, 365 standardization, 302, 307 stative, 64, 122–123, 174, 181, 315, 321, 327, 330–331 stative-intransitive system, 122–123 Stokes, Bronwyn, 405 storytelling, 255, 260 stress, 19, 22, 125, 128, 181, 198, 202–213, 237–242, 244–247, 249, 252, 324, 346, 391 stylistic differentiation, 254–259, 261, 263, 265, 267 stylistic feature, 255–256, 265, 267 subgrouping, 409 subjunctive, 36, 38–39, 45–47, 68–72, 75–84, 375, 378 subordinate, 36–37, 45, 47, 68, 82, 125–126, 130, 134–135 subordinate clause, 37, 45, 47, 68, 82, 126, 134 subordinating conjunction, 125–126 Summer Institute of Linguistics (SIL), 295–296 Survey of California and Other Indian Languages, 201, 214, 217–218 syllable, 7–10, 12, 20–21, 23, 25–31, 55, 120, 145, 155–156, 158–161, 169–171, 175, 179, 181, 184, 202–204, 207–208, 210–212, 236–243, 245–250, 252, 261, 320, 324, 347, 357, 359, 361, 363, 366, 373 syllable structure, 25, 175, 247 synchrony, 118

466

SUBJECT INDE X

T

V

taboo, 34, 42–44 TAM, 8, 106, 259–260, 373–374 temporal adverb, 104, 109, 111, 128–129 temporal realignment, 354 tense, 4, 18, 21, 39, 47–48, 51–55, 57–58, 60–64, 66–71, 73–75, 77, 80–82, 105–112, 122, 259, 326, 371, 373, 384–385, 409–410 The Emergence of the Unmarked (TETU), 158 tone, 3–5, 13, 15, 17–22, 51–52, 54, 56–59, 63–67, 198–213, 236–238, 240–242, 244–247, 249, 251–252, 294–295, 298, 301, 303, 305–307, 356–357, 359–361, 369, 395 topicalization, 129–130, 134–135 TopicP, 130, 136 toponym, 137, 146, 151 transcription, 54, 202, 221, 233–236, 238–239, 245, 251–255, 257, 260–261, 319–323, 325, 335, 358, 376–377, 407 transitive, 102–105, 113, 328–329, 409–410 transitivity, 112–113, 409 tree model, 386, 400 Tyneside, England, 355, 364

valency, 102–105, 109–111 valency-changing, 103 valency-increasing, 102–104, 109–111 Velie orthography, 294–295, 299, 305, 307 verbal paradigm, 199, 204, 206, 213, 374–375, 384–385 Verner’s Law, 373 visiting linguist, 300, 309 Voice Onset Time (VOT), 347–348, 356 voiceless lateral, 101, 186 vowel harmony, 21, 23–24, 26–27, 32, 58, 408 vowel length, 3, 5–9, 11–13, 15, 17, 19–22, 140, 210, 324, 375, 405–406 vowel reduction, 202 vowel space reduction, 360, 369

U unbounded, 22 underlying, 4, 15, 21, 51, 54, 56, 58, 119, 155–156, 160, 176, 189, 204, 206, 212, 235, 238, 242, 244, 247, 250–251, 343, 386 Uniform Exponence, 171 University of California, 22, 214, 218, 285–288

W wave model, 386, 396–397 Wawaus, 280, 283, 289. See also Printer, James weight, 55, 156–157, 159–161, 169–170, 272, 285, 287 Williams College, 280, 282–283 Wôpanˆaak Language Reclamation Project, 280, 289 word-prosody, 202, 211 writing system, 291, 313

Y Youchigant, Sesostrie, 286, 289 Young, Sam, 286, 289

Z zero grade, 155–157, 161–169, 172