After they have planted their crops, the field is often protected against theft by charms which they buy. Pieces of string, either twisted from native cotton or made of the bark of a tree, are thus used. On one occasion Dr. Macklin was called to prescribe for a woman. He asked to see her tongue. His quick observation detected at the same time signs of excitement and temper about her, and he advised her to try to be agreeable with her husband and friends. It appears the woman was a great scold; and the natives were astonished to find that the Doctor could discover this by looking at her tongue! That he had a great “charm” was beyond all doubt. L.—TRADITIONAL LITERATURE. These people have, of course, no writing. We met with many that had never seen a book before. The sight of pictures impressed them so much that their first impulse was to run away supposing that the little painted lion or leopard was dangerous. By and by some one in the crowd discovers that this lion is quite thin! He has looked at the back of the paper and found that the body of the lion is not there! Some of the boldest, after we assure them of safety, will even put their hands upon him. The attitude of old and young is one of utter, speechless amazement. But these people are rich in a traditional literature. It meets us in at least four distinct forms. 1. Ndawi or conundrums. Some of them are quite short, as “the house without a door,” for an egg. An incredible number of these is in common circulation, and known to most boys and girls. I noted down over 150 of them. There are other conundrums in the form of a little story. 2. Ndano, or tales. These are also called ndawi, because many of them resemble the conundrums in having a double meaning. Some of these, we might almost say most of these, when complete have songs in them, which are repeated every now and then at each crisis in the tale. They are often recited in this form on public occasions. I got one old man that was as enthusiastic in his recitals as the old Homerids are said to have been. When I was writing to his dictation my private study became a small theatre. In vain I reminded him that the nursery was near! His voice was audible in the outside, scores of yards from the house. School children stopped their games, and came giggling about, and demure old natives would turn off the public highway and advance in amazement. Yet even so my old man was not satisfied—his enthusiasm, he thought, fell short of the occasion, and he introduced two young women to sing responses to the chants. The natives do not speak of “telling a tale,” but of “singing a tale” (kwimba ndawi).