The scrawl was intelligible only to the conjurer, but was said to contain infallible information about the future, and the little man offered to interpret the writing to each individual.

This trainer of hens was a clever dwarf, with very quick ears.  He had distinctly understood that, through Semestre, he was to lose a nice cheese, and, when the housekeeper returned, ordered a hen to tell each person present how many years he or she had lived in the world.

The snow-white bird, with the yellow head, scratched seventeen times before Xanthe, and, on reaching Mopsus, twenty-three times, which was perfectly correct.

“Now tell us this honorable lady’s age too,” said the conjurer to the hen.

Semestre told Chloris to repeat what the little man had said, and was already reflecting whether she should not let him have the second cheese, in consideration of the “honorable lady,” when the hen began to scratch again.

Up to sixty she nodded assent, as she watched the bird’s claw; at sixty-five she compressed her lips tightly, at seventy the lines on her brow announced a coming storm, at eighty she struck the ground violently with her myrtle-staff, and, as the hen, scratching faster and faster, approached ninety, and a hundred, and she saw that all the spectators were laughing, and her master was fairly holding his sides, rushed angrily into the house.

As soon as she had vanished behind the doors, Lysander threw the man half a drachm, and, clapping his hands, exclaimed: 

“Now, children, kick up your heels; we sha’n’t see Semestre again immediately.  You did your business well, friend:  but now come here and interpret your hen’s oracles.”

The conjurer bowed, by bending his big head and quickly raising it again, for his short back seemed to be immovable, approached the master of the house, and with his little round fingers grasped at the leaf in Lysander’s hand; but the latter hastily drew it back, saying: 

“First this girl, then I, for her future is long, while mine—­”

“Yours,” interrupted the dwarf, standing before Lysander—­“yours will be a pleasant one, for the hen has drawn for you a leaf that means peaceful happiness.”

“A violet-leaf!” exclaimed Xanthe.  “Yes, a violet-leaf,” repeated the conjurer.  “Put it in my hand.  There are—­just look here—­there are seven lines, and seven—­everybody knows that—­seven is the number of health.  Peaceful happiness in good health, that is what your oracle says.”  “The gods owe me that, after suffering so long,” sighed Lysander.  “At any rate, come back here in a year, and if your cackling Pythia and this little leaf tell the truth, and I am permitted to bring it to you without support or crutch, I’ll give you a stout piece of cloth for a new cloak; yet nay, better try your luck in six months, for your chiton looks sicker than I, and will hardly last a whole year.”

“Not half a one,” replied the conjurer, with a sly smile.  “Give me the piece of stuff to-day, that, when I come back in a month, I may have suitable garments when I amuse the guests at the feast given for your recovery.  I’m no giant, and shall not greatly impair your store.”