Toxoplasmosis R Us.

Dear Word Detective: We are just about to take on new responsibilities in the form of an eight-week-old Labrador puppy. It’s our first pet since our previous black lab died a few years ago (not like your household, which seems to be overrun with cats). While talking about it to someone, it occurred to me that “pet” was quite a strange word, and I couldn’t link it to any other words I could think of. Neither could my dictionary, but words don’t usually materialize out of thin air, so it must have a background of some kind. Any ideas? — David, Ripon, Yorkshire, UK.

One moment, please. Our household is not “overrun” with cats. We prefer to say that we are “enriched” with cats. Perhaps “richly endowed” with cats. “Cat-prosperous.” That we have “an embarrassment of cats” (certainly true in the Eyewitness News sense). Besides, somewhere in that crowd are two dogs whose destructive abilities are easily the match of their weight (which is considerable) in cats. I have yet to meet the cat capable of swallowing a sweat sock or chewing the leg off a coffee table. Then again, perhaps it’s just a matter of time.

“Pet” is an odd word. It first appeared in print in English in the 16th century, derived from the Scottish Gaelic word “paeta,” meaning “tame animal,” with two senses appearing nearly simultaneously. One was “a lamb or other domestic animal raised by hand,” while the other, possibly a derivative of the first, was “a pampered or favorite child.” The familiar modern sense of “pet” as “an animal kept for companionship” was a later development of the first sense, appearing in the early 18th century. About the same time, the second sense, “pampered child,” spawned a meaning of “Any person who is indulged, spoiled, or treated as a favorite, especially in a way that others regard with disapproval” (Oxford English Dictionary), which gave us everyone’s least favorite classmate, the “teacher’s pet.” Oddly enough, “pet” is unrelated to either “petite” or “petty,” both of which developed from the Old French “petit,” meaning “small.”

As an adjective, “pet” can be applied to domesticated animals (“pet wolverine”), to names expressing affection or familiarity (as “Betty” is a “pet name” for Elizabeth), or humorously to things particularly unloved (“Muzak is Bob’s pet hate”). “Pet” also crops up in a wide range of compounds, from “pet passport” (I kid you not) to “pet rock.”

The rubber ones don’t fly so good.

Dear Word Detective: I am wondering if you can help — I have asked many cockneys and have not gleaned any information. The English slang word “kite” refers to a bank check. But what are its origins? — Raj Oberoi.

Thanks for an interesting question. I see that you’re writing from a UK email address, which explains the “cockney” reference, but I’m wondering how literally you are using the term. Strictly speaking, “cockney” refers to those born in the East End of London, and comes from the Middle English “cokenei,” or “cock’s egg,” the runt of the nest (as if from an egg laid by a rooster, not a hen). The term was evidently used to mean “pampered child” by country folk and applied to city dwellers in general before being narrowed to mean one particular group of Londoners.

Most of us, hearing the word “kite,” think of the flying contraption traditionally made of light wood and paper. Although I haven’t flown one in years, I actually belong to the International Kitefliers Association, having been enrolled in the 1960s by the IKA’s founder, the late Will Yolen, a friend of my father. While Mr. Yolen is gone, I presume my membership is still valid, since the IKA charter stipulated ”No meetings, no dues, no publications, only kite flying.”

Interestingly, however, the familiar paper “kite” is a figurative use of the word. The real “kite” is a bird of prey, a species similar to the falcon, notable for its forked tail. The term “kite” can be traced back to the Old English “cyta,” but no further — no other language has a related word. The paper “kite” took its name in the mid-17th century because, like the bird, a paper kite appears to hover nearly motionless in the air.

That sense of “hovering” with no visible means of support led, in the early 19th century, to the use of “kite” in financial circles to mean bonds or promissory notes used to raise money on credit. Issuers of such “trust us” documents were said to be “flying a kite.” By the 1920s, “kite” was being used in slang, especially in the criminal underground, to mean a check, particularly one forged or written without sufficient funds in the issuing bank. As a verb, “to kite” today means to write a check without the funds to back it up.

It’s like jumping rope, but faster.

Dear Word Detective: I was in a European meeting chaired by a Dutch person who spoke the English language with far greater facility than is commonly heard these days in the UK. He told the meeting that we needed to be careful not to “jump the gun,” and reiterated that “jumping the gun” would be something best avoided later on. Now, he used the phrase quite correctly in meaning that we should avoid taking precipitate action, and we needed better information upon which to base a decision, but I confess I had no real idea where the phrase came from (and found myself wondering what the interpreters made of it!). I suspect, because it tends to be a rich source, that the 18th or 19th century Royal Navy might have something to do with it, but thought I would seek the wisdom of our American friends. — Adrian.

Hmm. I hate to shoot down your hunch, because under the circumstances it was perfectly logical, but while the Royal Navy may be a rich source of many wonderful things, verifiable stories about word and phrase origins are not among them. In fact, given stories purporting to tie phrases such as “son of a gun,” “not enough room to swing a cat” and many others to life aboard British warships, the Royal Navy must be counted as one of the world’s leading sources of utter nonsense. Spurious etymologies involving Her Majesty’s naval forces are so common, in fact, that some wag (I wish I knew who) came up with an acronym for the purveyors of such tales — CANOE, the Committee to Ascribe a Naval Origin to Everything.

In the case of “jump the gun,” meaning “to act before the permitted or appropriate time,” the gun in question is about as far from one of the massive cannons of the 19th century Royal Navy as it is possible to get. It’s a starting pistol, a small revolver used to fire blanks to signal the start of a race, particularly a foot race. To “jump the gun” in this literal context means to step across the starting line, either accidentally or on purpose, before the gun actually fires, thereby gaining an advantage, even if literally only momentarily, over the other runners. “Jump the gun” first appeared in print (as far as we know) only in 1942, but a 1905 citation for another form, “beat the pistol (or gun),” illustrates the problem: “False starts were rarely penalized … and so shiftless were the starters and officials that ‘beating the pistol’ was one of the tricks which less sportsmanlike runners constantly practiced.” As a metaphor for making a premature or false start, “jump the gun” is hard to beat, and has the advantage (for me, at least) of being set on dry ground.

The long good riddance.

Dear Word Detective: Where did the phrase “Indian summer” come from? — Nancy Bernacet.

Good question, and an appropriate one given the season. “Indian summer” is, of course, the brief period of warm, dry weather often occurring in late autumn. Indian summer is often regarded as a temporary respite from the growing signs of winter, a last chance to enjoy outdoor activities and perhaps take a drive to enjoy the colorful fall foliage. Around here, it is also, unfortunately, regarded as the grand finale of the lawn mowing season, and participation seems to be mandatory. Since I was brought up to regard lawn mowing after Labor Day as barbaric, I just draw the curtains every year and hope for an early snow to render my indolence moot.

As I noted when I answered this question about eight years ago, there are several theories about the origin of “Indian summer,” but none considered the final word. The first occurrence of the phrase in print found so far is from a book written in 1778 by a French-American farmer, James Hector St. John de Crèvecoeur, describing late autumn in New York’s Hudson Valley: “… [the first snow] is often preceded by a short interval of smoke and mildness, called the Indian Summer.”

Several theories focus on that reference to smoke (which also occurs in other citations from the 18th and 19th centuries) explaining “Indian summer” as being the time when Indians were in the habit of setting fires to drive game out of hiding as part of one last big hunt before the arrival of the snow. Another theory ties the smoke to fires set by the Indians to clear fields for the next spring’s planting. It’s also said that Indians took advantage of that period of mild weather to move to their winter hunting grounds.

Some other explanations of the phrase are rooted in the less than idyllic relationship between European settlers and the Indians. One citation from 1824 explains that “The smokey time commenced and lasted for a considerable number of days. This was the Indian summer, because it afforded the Indians another opportunity of visiting the settlements with their destructive warfare.” The “Indian” in “Indian summer” may also be a derogatory use of “Indian” to mean “false or unreliable,” as found in the slur “Indian giver.”

Perhaps it’s better just to go with the explanation offered by the Indians themselves, recounted by a Boston clergyman in 1812: “This charming season is called the Indian Summer, a name which is derived from the natives, who believe that it is caused by a wind, which comes immediately from the court of their great and benevolent God Cautantowwit, or the south-western God.”

I’ll sneeze when I’m dead.

Dear Word Detective: I am an exchange student, living in the US right now. I’m from Germany, and when I felt sick today, my host brother and I wondered whether there is a connection between “German” and “germs.” I know that the name “Germany” and all its other forms are very old and go back to Latin “Germania” or something. But does “germ” come from there? Are all German people “germian”? — Katharina Holst.

If by “germian” you mean “germy” in the sense of “carrying germs” or “infested with dangerous microbial organisms,” good heavens, no. You must be thinking of spinach. From what I’ve heard, Germany is one of the cleanest countries on earth, and most of the people of German descent I’ve known have been fastidiously neat and clean. Then again, I’m not sure that the current American craze for turning our homes (and hands) into germ-free zones with antimicrobial agents is such a good idea. The germs that eventually evolve to survive that stuff are going to be very hardy and in a very bad mood. I’d rather have the sniffles right now than face billions of tiny little ticked-off Rottweilers in a few years.

The root of “German” and “Germany” is the Latin “Germanus,” which was first (as far as we know) used in print by Julius Caesar for the peoples of central and northern Europe in his accounts of his conquests in the area. The root of “Germanus” is unknown, but it does not appear to have come from any Germanic language. One theory suggests that the word “German” was actually derived from a word in one of the languages of the neighboring Gauls, perhaps related to either the Old Irish “gair” (“neighbor”) or “gairim” (“to shout”).

The root of “germ,” on the other hand, is a different Latin word, “germen,” meaning the sprout or bud of a plant, which also gave us “germinate.” “Germ” first appeared in English in the 17th century with the sense of “sprout” or “seed.” A related Latin root, “germanus” (“akin” or “genuine”) gave us the modern English “germane,” in which the sense of “closely connected” was developed into its current meaning of “relevant.” Interestingly, the original form of “germane” in English was “german” (small “g”) which survives only in the fairly obscure forms “brother-german” and “sister-german,” meaning “full sibling.”

In any case, “germs” were good and positive things in English (a sense still found in “a germ of an idea” and “wheat germ”) until the 19th century, when the “germ theory of disease” took hold, leading to germicides, antibiotics and, recently, mass fear of shopping-cart handles.

Meat and bleat.

Dear Word Detective: I work in a PR agency where we have to come up with a lot of new ideas for our clients to keep paying us money. So we have a lot of brainstorms. And out of the brainstorms come a lot of ideas that we all need to go back to our desks and “flush out.” I have been working with the same person for ten years and we always argue about this, because I tell her we need to “flesh out” the ideas, not “flush them out.” Perhaps in the brainstorm, I can grant her, we are “flushing out” the ideas from deep within out brains (like flushing out a drain or a flock of geese from the woods), but the subsequent beefing up of these bare-bones ideas should be referred to as “fleshing them out.” Who is right? — Brad Kuerbis.

Whoa. You folks have been arguing about this for ten years? Sounds like you need to hire yourselves to brainstorm a new bone of contention. Your conciliatory attempt to parse “flush out” as akin to running a Roto-Rooter on one’s noggin is laudable, although it does imply that the deepest levels of our brains are clogged with marketing strategies. But the truth is simply that you are right and she is wrong.

The meaning of “to flush” when it first appeared as a verb in English around 1300 was “to fly up suddenly,” as a covey of quail will upon being startled in a field by hunters and their dogs. The transitive form of the verb, meaning “to drive into the open,” appeared around 1450, and the “sudden movement of liquid” sense appeared in the 16th century. “Flush” is thought to be echoic, imitating the sound of sudden flight, and both the “force out” and “water” senses may also be related to the word “flash.”

“Flesh” is, of course, what menus call “meat,” and the first use of “flesh” as a verb in the 16th century was to mean “reward a hawk or hound with part of the game killed as encouragement.” A wide range of meanings subsequently developed, including, in the 17th century, “to clothe a skeleton with flesh.” As a hobby this was apparently a non-starter, as most uses have been figurative with the sense of “to fill out, to make a rudimentary framework more substantial” (much as you use “beef up” in your question, “beef” having served as a synonym for both “strength” and “substance” since the 19th century). The process you describe of building substance on the foundation of an inspired idea thus clearly calls for “flesh out.”

And I used to be lots funnier.

Dear Word Detective: My friend drives a Mazda car. She thinks that the word “mazda” has some significant meaning, possibly in ancient Persian. Can you give me any information? –Peter Kerr.

Drat. I was all set to cast light-hearted doubt on your friend’s sanity when a little voice in my head suggested that I check a book called From Altoids to Zima: The Surprising Stories Behind 125 Famous Brand Names (Simon & Schuster, 2004). Inasmuch as I actually wrote this book my very own self, you’d think I’d remember what it contains, but you’d be wrong. The truth about many writers is that once the research is done and the piece is written and published, we wipe the old memory slate clean to make room for shopping lists and dental appointments. Occasionally this “yesterday’s gone” approach proves awkward (as it almost just did), but the bright side is that I can amuse myself for hours reading things I wrote just a few months ago.

In any case, your friend is correct. The Mazda car, produced by the Mazda Motor Company of Japan, takes its name from Ahura Mazda, the central deity of Zoroastrianism, an ancient Persian religion. Zoroastrianism, one of the oldest monotheistic religions, is considered to have been a strong influence on the Abrahamic religions (including Christianity, Judaism and Islam), and was founded by the Persian philosopher Zoroaster, also known as Zarathustra. Evidently Zoroastrianism also strongly influenced Jujiro Matsuda, the founder of Mazda Motor Company. Matsuda, son of a fisherman, founded the company in 1920 under the name Toyo Cork Kogyo Co., Ltd., and, indeed, produced cork flooring until switching to motor vehicles in 1931. Oddly enough, the company’s name formally became Mazda Motor Company only in 1984, but every vehicle they have produced, including their 1931 Mazdago three-wheel pickup truck, has carried some variant of the “Mazda” name.

There is a theory that Jujiro Matsuda picked the name “Mazda” not only from an apparent respect for Zoroastrianism but also because it bore a strong phonetic resemblance to his own last name. If that’s true, Mazda is in good company — many automobile brands are based on personal names. The Oldsmobile, for instance, was named for Ransom E. Olds, a pioneer automobile engineer who established the first car company in Detroit, the Olds Motor Company, in 1890. Rolls-Royce was founded by Charles Stewart Rolls and Frederick Henry Royce in 1906, and Dodge honors John and Horace Dodge, brothers who started out making bicycles and eventually worked up to manufacturing cars. Honda and Toyota both reflect the names of their founders, although in the latter case “Toyota” was thought to have a “better sound” than Sakichi Toyoda’s last name. And while the French explorer Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac (1656-1750) never got around to building a car, his name is immortalized on those tacky hood ornaments today because he founded the city of Detroit.

Ook at its iddle PAWS!

Dear Word Detective: “Glaikit” is a word of Scottish origin, meaning a silly, sappy expression on one’s face. Where did it come from? — Tim.

Good question. “Glaikit” is a new one on me, but I certainly know the expression it apparently describes. It’s the look otherwise sane people get when they see the kittens our local pet store has up for adoption. I was in there the other day, buying a 20-pound bag of gourmet cat chow, and there were at least five full-grown customers peering into the cage, emitting the sort of cooing and kissing sounds that would get you arrested if you made them on the subway. I wouldn’t dream of discouraging anyone willing to adopt a cat, but I do wonder if they’ll still be cooing when the little critter mistakes their legs for the fancy-schmancy scratching post they bought it.

“Glaikit” is indeed mostly heard in Scotland and northern England, and according to the Oxford English Dictionary (OED), it’s an adjective originally, when it first appeared in the mid-15th century, meaning “senseless, foolish.” In later usage, it expanded a bit to include “thoughtless, flighty and giddy,” uses most frequently applied to women.

Tracing the origins of “glaikit” leads us into a bit of a maze. It is pretty certainly related to the noun “glaik,” also of Scots parentage, which means (according to the OED) “mocking deception,” most often used in phrases such as “to give one the glaiks,” meaning to cheat or swindle. “Glaik” as a noun has also been used to mean “a child’s puzzle,” “a flash of light” and as an expression of contempt for another person. There’s also a derivative verb, “to glaik,” meaning, variously, “to stare idly,” “to delude” and “to dazzle.” If this all seems a bit hazy and confusing, welcome to the club.

The probable root of “glaik” (and I’m glad there is one) is the only slightly less weird word “gleek,” which is now considered obsolete but in its day meant “a jibe or jest,” often in the phrase “to give someone the gleek,” meaning to trick or make fun of the person. Tracing “gleek” a bit further back, we find, at long last, a familiar word. The root of “gleek” turns out to be “glee,” which, although now most often used to mean “a feeling of delight,” originally meant “play or sport,” especially in the “mocking jest” sense.

So, to sum up, “glaikit” meaning basically “foolish” can be traced back to “glee” meaning “jest or trick.”

The better to bite you with, Sarge.

Dear Word Detective: At lunch today we were speaking of the draft (the military sort, not the wind sort) and my lunch buddy claimed that the designation “4-F” came from the Civil War when they used muskets (first hogwash point) and men had to use their front teeth to dislodge the plug in the powder container they carried. Doing this task required four teeth in front, both upper and lower, and if a chap were lacking in those natural dental implements he was called “4-F” (for “four front”). The whole thing sounded like utter folk etymological claptrap. What say you, oh wise and noble Word Maven of the Western World (WMWM)? — Swami Murugananda.

WMWM? Based on some of the irate email I get, I’ve always thought of myself as more of a YMMV (Your Mileage May Vary) kind of guy. Remember, kids, you can’t please all of the people all of the time, so make the Delete key your friend.

In any case, your nonsense detector seems to be working quite well. The story your buddy came up with is, as you suspect, utter claptrap. On your first hogwash point, however, I think your detector is set a bit too high. Muskets (smooth-bore shoulder-fired firearms) were indeed used in the American Civil War, along with rifles (spiral grooves in the barrel), carbines (short rifles), and a wide variety of revolvers and pistols.

The “show us your teeth” explanation of “4-F” founders on several points. Although there was military conscription during the Civil War, I can find no evidence that a detailed system of draft classification, let alone the label “4-F,” existed at that time. Even if such a system had been in effect, it’s very unlikely that a single criterion, inability to open a powder pouch, would have rated a special classification when so many other disabilities (blindness, deafness, etc.) would also have disqualified the draftee. And even if one needed, and lacked, front teeth to fire a musket, there were plenty of openings for mule drivers and clerks.

As to what “4-F” actually means, the answer is pretty much nothing. During and following World War I, there was a classification system that divided conscripts into Class I (qualified for military service) and Classes II through V (unqualified or exempt). A more detailed system during and after the Second World War included 52 separate classifications, from I-A (Welcome to the Army) to IV-A (Go home, Grandpa), including IV-F, “Rejected for military service for physical, mental, or moral reasons.” The same general categories were retained after WW II with some additions, such as the ever-popular “2-S” or “student” deferment. Although the “F” in “4-F” may have been partly inspired by “fail” (or the school grade “F”), it didn’t officially stand for anything.

Little nipper.

Dear Word Detective: Why is being in a cross or bad mood referred to as being “crabby”? Are crabs naturally irritable? Who makes this stuff up? — Charles.

Well, to answer your third question first, you do. More precisely, we all do. The English language, like all human languages, is a group effort, the product of a committee consisting of everyone who has ever spoken it (and a good number of folks who have spoken other languages as well). Call the process natural selection, peer review or just mob rule, we label a cranky person “crabby” today because it seemed apt to enough people. If you’re looking for a specific person who coined the term, you might as well hang it up. It was almost certainly “invented,” over and over again, by thousands of people.

Our English word “crab” comes from the Old English “crabba,” itself from a Germanic root meaning “to scratch or claw,” which is, after all, pretty much the crab’s entire repertoire right there. Our modern “crabby,” meaning “cross, irritable, cranky” is fairly recent (as such things are measured), dating to the late 18th century. “Crabby,” however, was a derivative of an earlier term, “crabbed,” which appeared with the same meaning back in the 14th century.

In both “crabby” and “crabbed,” the analogy is to a crab’s tendency to painfully nip with its claws and tenaciously hold on, as well as its tendency to walk backwards and sideways, making it an excellent metaphor for a difficult, uncooperative person. (This, of course, is not entirely fair to crabs, many of which probably have wonderful personalities and, should they one day take over the planet, will no doubt remember I said that.) One of the more popular uses of “crabby” in this sense in recent years was in the Peanuts comic strip, in which Lucy van Pelt was routinely described as “crabby.”

The peculiar locomotion of a crab actually contributed to another sense of “crabbed,” that of “crooked, knotted, complex, twisted,” which today is found mostly in descriptions of indecipherable handwriting, awkward or overly-complex prose (“Mr. Hume, who has translated so many of the dark and crabbed passages of Butler into his own transparent and beautiful language,” 1830), or the ravages of age and disease on the human body (e.g., “a crabbed old man”).

Interestingly, the “crab,” or wild, apple, takes its name from the probably unrelated Scandinavian word “scrab” rather than the crustacean. But the sourness of the “crabapple” probably reinforced several senses of “crab” as applied to humans, especially the use of “crab” to mean “complain bitterly.”

To trip, perchance to fly.

Dear Word Detective: It has been bothering me for days now — what is the origin of a “flight” of stairs? I asked a friend of mine, who was stumped, and suggested that I contact you. I really hope that you can tell me, so it will not keep me up at night. I know, I know, I have too much time on my hands. — Carrie Geiger.

Well there’s no accounting for what keeps people up at night, but you might want to pick a different obsession. As soon as you solve this “flight” question, you’ll think of another weird word usage, then another, and another after that, keeping you awake into the wee hours ad infinitum. Trust me — I’ve been doing this column for nearly 15 years and I pretty much stopped sleeping around year eight. Incidentally, there’s some really strange stuff on TV at 4:30 am. I don’t think I want to know who’s watching the Teletubbies at that hour.

For a word that describes something human beings can’t do without mechanical help, “flight” has developed a wide variety of meanings, from the literal act of flying to a collection of things that fly (e.g., a “flight” of geese) to a burst of mental activity (“flight of fancy”). The root of “flight” is the prehistoric Germanic “flukhtiz,” which also gave us the verb “to fly” as well as “fly,” the small annoying insect. (“Fly” was originally applied to any sort of flying insect, which explains its presence in, for instance, “butterfly.”)

In the case of a “flight of stairs” meaning a series of steps between landings, the usage dates back to the beginning of the 18th century, and may well have been a borrowing of the French phrase “volee d’escalier.” As defined in the Oxford English Dictionary, a “flight” in this sense is “a series of steps, terraces, etc., ascending without change of direction,” but in common usage today “flight” often simply means the stairs between two floors of a building.

“Flight” in the “stairs” sense is a metaphorical application of “flight” meaning “a journey through the air for a given distance” (as in “Bob slept through the flight to Boston”). After all, climbing a “flight” of stairs is flying in a certain sense — you are traveling through vertical space, perhaps not as gracefully as a swan, but getting there nonetheless.

Interestingly, “flight” meaning “the act of running away” (as in “flight or fight response”) is completely unrelated to “flight” in the flap-your-wings sense, and comes from the Old English “flyht,” closely related to “flee.”

Close enough.

Dear Word Detective: Please explain the term “half hazard” — or is it “haphazard”? — JD.

It’s “haphazard,” but I rather like “half hazard.” It sounds like something made dangerous by being done in a half-hearted (or half-witted) fashion. Take the wiring in our house, for instance. Please. The previous owner told us he had rewired the house, and because he was some sort of engineer, we trusted him. Unfortunately, I now suspect he must have been a poultry engineer, if such things exist, because he certainly didn’t know squat about electrical wiring. Let’s just say that it’s not a good idea for one person to be typing something important on the computer when someone else decides to enjoy a nice piece of toast. Heck, the lights dim if the dog sneezes.

“Haphazard” is a great word meaning, of course, “distinguished by the lack of a plan; random; dependent on chance,” as in “Bob’s job search was haphazard, consisting mainly of shoving his resume under his neighbors’ doors.” It’s a versatile word, too. “Haphazard” can be a noun meaning “chance or accident,” an adjective or an adverb. The noun form appeared first, appearing in English in the late 16th century (“It is hap hazard, if you escape undamnified,” 1576). (“Damnify,” by the way, is an archaic word meaning “to injure.”)

Poking into the ancestors of “haphazard” is where things get interesting. “Haphazard” was formed by combining “hazard,” meaning “danger or risk” (from the Old French “hasard,” a game of chance involving dice), with “hap,” an archaic word for luck or chance (from the Old Norse “happ,” luck). So the combined sense was “danger of chance,” i.e., the danger of a casual approach to something important causing an accident.

That archaic “hap” may seem a small relic of another time, but it actually plays several large roles in English today. It first appeared in the 13th century, and by the early 14th century the form “happenen” had begun to replace “befall” as the main verb meaning “to occur by chance.” A bit more evolution, and by the 15th century we had our modern verb “to happen” meaning “to take place, to occur.” It also gave us our modern “perhaps” (literally by or through (“per”) chance or luck (“haps”)). And during the same period we gained the word “happy,” which originally meant “lucky or fortunate” but eventually broadened to mean “pleased or contented.”