was one of those instruments whose manipulation was simple enough for a novice like myself.
"But," I said, "I cannot write your stylic characters; and if I used the phonic letters, a message from me would be very likely to excite the curiosity of officials who would care about no other."
"May I," she suggested, "write your message for you, and put your purport in words that will be understood by my father alone?"
"Do," I rejoined, "but do it in my name, and I will sign it."
Under her direction, I took the stylus or pencil and the slip of tafroo she offered me, and wrote my name at the head. After eliciting the exact purport of the message I desired to send, and meditating for some moments, she wrote and read out to me words literally translated as follows:—
"The rich aviary my flower-bird thought over full. I would breathe home [air]. Health-speak." The sense of which, as I could already understand, was—
"A splendid mansion has been given us, but my flower-bird has found it too full. I wish for my native air. Prescribe."
The brevity of the message was very characteristic of the language. Equally characteristic of the stylography was the fact that the words occupied about an inch beyond the address. Following her pencil as she pointed to the ciphers, I said—
"Is not asny caré a false concord? And why have you used the past tense?"
This ill-timed pedantry, applying to Martial grammar the rules of that with which my boyhood had been
