afterward learned to be true, that she talked as the birds talk, only in
song. Whether she used her language or ours she would always sing or chant
her words, and every expression was perfect in rhythm and melody.

The doctor and I hesitated to say much to each other, out of deference to
the feelings of this fair lunarian, but he took occasion to remark to me
quietly that as she could not tell us her name just yet he proposed to
call her Mona [Footnote: _Mona_ is old Saxon for _moon_.] for the present.
I assented easily, as it made little difference to me what we called her,
if she would only remain with us.

It happened that the doctor, who knew everything, was well acquainted with
dactylology and the latest sign language, used in the instruction of deaf
mutes, and as it seemed likely that our stay in our present abode might be
a prolonged one, he told me he would try to teach Mona to converse with
us. I could not object, although I secretly wished I could have taken the
place of instructor. But it soon occurred to me that I must be a fellow
pupil, if we were all to talk in that way; and so, with this bond of
sympathy established between us, Mona and I began our lessons.

During the closing years of the century great progress had been made, on
the earth, in the method of talking by arbitrary signs and motions. The
movements of the body and limbs and the great variety of facial
expressions were all so well adapted to the ideas to be represented that
it was comparatively easy for an intelligent person to learn to make known
many of his thoughts. As our studies progressed day after day it began to
dawn on me that Mona, in spite of the disadvantage of not knowing our
spoken language, was learning faster than I was. I was somewhat chagrined
at this at first, but it finally turned out to my advantage, for the
doctor announced one day that Mona had acquired all he knew and could