text:
% Arqtiq
% Anna Adolph
% 1899

---
pagetitle: ArQtiQ
title:
- type: main
  text: ArQtiQ
- type: subtitle
  text: A Story of the Marvels at the North Pole
identifier:
- scheme: URN
  text: uuid:7122F9A6-3C7C-44F8-AF56-0A3622870BD9
date: 1899
rights: Public Domain
cover-image: cover.png
cover-credit: |
  [Liza Daly](https://lizadaly.com)
cover-source: |
  [Lover's Eyes](https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/16606), a miniature on ivory c. 1840,
  artist unknown, courtesy the [Metropolitan Museum of Art](https://www.metmuseum.org/).
  Background image from [the iceberg](https://www.flickr.com/photos/oliverdodd/8340214975/) by oliver.dodd.
epub-file: arqtiq.epub
description: |
  This puzzling novel, self-published in 1899, has an idiosyncratic, even ungrammatical
  writing style, but is deeply lyrical. A [biography](https://lizadaly.com/pages/arqtiq/) of the
  author (who stylized the novel as 'ArQtiQ' in her personal correspondance)
  has uncovered the many links between the novel and her life story.

---

# ArQtiQ
### A Story of the Marvels at the North Pole

> Saying ”I will go with thee \
> To yon isles of mystery.”

Always fond of the marvelous, I conceived a strong
desire to go to the North Pole.

To obviate the dangers of the trip I invented a
coach, that was also ship and balloon. Its silken canopy
is inflatable to strong wings or wide sails. Its wheels
are wide rimmed, to glide over snow, and paneled for
water paddles. When it is finished and stored I select
some friends to accompany me. My most personal loved
ones. A volatile fair-haired gent—my husband, and a
fair-haired little maiden friend, sit on the front seat. On
the back seat are sitting my aged father and myself, our
black eyes snapping with expectation.

Waving my hands to the few gathered to see us off, I
say: "This undertaking is of desire to gain knowledge.
Success, surmounting all obstacles will take us to the
summit of the round earth, where, ages past as ages
future will accord us first record.”

Charley turns levers to start, as little Mae’s mamma
says: “You will be the Mascot, Mae Searles. But I do
not think you will go very far,” dubiously.

"You will change your mind, mamma, when I
bring you home a little bear,” makes us laugh.

“I will be glad to get you for my little bear.”

“All the rest of us,” I answered, “will take care
of her.”

”No doubt,” she replies, “ as far as you go in your
odd rig,” facetiously.

Our wheels turn slowly and silently. Then with a
low tinkling of the strain, “Good Bye, Sweet Heart.”

Mae had slipped her music box in one, wound to that
harmony.

We are Californians and take the C. P. railroad for
our eastward route, our wheels being grooved to fit the
track. Speeding merrily, we give vent to our
versions of coming events.

“Will there really be a pole, Auntie?'

“That is for us to find out, dear. I sometimes
think there is a stem there covered with ice, that holds
the earth to an apple planet tree.”

“But the astronomers would have seen the tree,” argues my father.

“They could not look so far. Only as far as the
other star apples. May not the Milky Way be a
branch?” I suggest.

We now become aware that a train is approaching
on the single track that is hanging over the grade on the
canyon side. We have no choice but to unfurl our
wings and rise in the air, as the engineer wildly blows
his whistle. Brushing the pine tree tops, we cross over
the peak and seek the track on the other side of it,
selecting an opening in a thicket for that purpose.

Finding it occupied by miners digging away, we
hallo, when they look every way but up, as we land in
their midst as though dropped from the sky. Their
consternation is depicted in set jaws, as we give military
salute and roll off.

This feat, so skillfully accomplished, denotes an
expert hand in our motorman, who had been practicing
faithfully, as a bird to fly, a swimmer or cyclist. As
exhilarant to him as to us, and much lessened our
distance, causes Mae to clap her hands and ask, “Why not
fly all the time?”

“We want to save that force until we have more
serious need,” Charley replies. “I hope that poor boy
who fell over the log while eating his breakfast and ran
away, will recover and go back,” makes us all laugh
uproariously, when zipp! whir-r! over we go and lay
on our side, the wheels still revolving.

The grade just here, level from the ground excavated
by the miners, saved us from a serious mishap. To have
rolled to the Canyon River would have damaged us
greatly. As it is we cannot recover the track without
that descent. So we twist our car upright (we are
fastened in our seats), square it to the hill and down
we go, losing our breath as we plump splashing into the
water.

Our bonny wheels take paddle stroke and carry us,
laughing over, and up the opposite bank to the track
there, in its sinuous course.

“We laughed too quick,” says father. “That
friend at whom we laughed dropped that fork on the rail. I see him
behind that boulder.”

We leave the narrow-gauge track at its terminus
without stopping, and have no other special accident in
this vicinity.

The sun has chased frost and rose hues the higher
snow peaks. Sierra Nevada (snowy) in its most interesting
locality is around. Having come on the narrow-gauge
railroad that connects the two hugest and oldest of the
mining cities with the broad-gauge of the Central Pacific,
we are rounding out on the latter over the famous Cape
Horn. Spring is in her first freshness. We sniff its
fragrance, as we shall continue to do, following its
pioneer march until our arrival at our destination to
enjoy our summer at the pole, where it is most
enjoyable and the only tolerable season. From apparently
bare ground are flying the cyclamen banners of the
johnny-jump-up. The blue sage (sun dial) gives a lake
of national colors, interspersed with the scarlet of the
gorgeous fireweed, whose leaves and blossoms glow
alike. Mae gleefully reaches to a dogwood lily (artist’s
favorite) then snatches a tuft of pink primrose that
covers a bank and decorates its edge, while I cook the
breakfast upon our steam heater. It is so late I make it
serve for dinner also. Putting omelette and ripe
strawberries beside the spinach and wild duck. As I finish
Mae emits a long whistle, as a red-breasted linnet—the
first—flies close to us to get our sweet food company
then sings, to earn it and call its family.

The chapparal is faintly green. But the manzanita—sung of poets,
or ought to be—in its immaculate green leaves adorning
the winter, with red stems of eternal beauty, is covered with pink waxen sprays, as
fragrant, as it is like, the lily of the valley. A momentary
regret comes to leave in California this worshipped
shrub. Its blossoms develop to little green-apple fruit,
the size of peas, of edible flavor. Manzanita is the
Indian name for little apple.

Charley appreciates my feelings as he calls out,
“Take a last look,” when father, to turn the tide, passes
the muffins. Our glance down the mountain side falls
upon a ranch, tiny in the depths; a maid of midget size
throws invisible corn to mice-size chickens that flock
around; Charley hurls deftly a cracker toward them that
falls far short upon the mountain side. My spirits rise.
To be here sings a grateful paean in my breast. To
write it is not half the story.

I remember lovingly the sister cities left behind.
Mining born and golden reared, with their Californian
continual lawns, social halls and grand hotels for the
floating population, this last much improved by the
efforts of the Salvation Army, who have charmed the
crowd to good behavior as they enjoy appreciatively
their sweet-voiced pleadings.

I look out at the country, dotted with quartz-mill
chimneys, with their heavy roar, as the heavy stamp
crushes the granite to free the gold imprisoned in their
bastile. To all we bid good-bye, as we turn Cape Horn,
and though still among the clouds, we see and hear the
rushing river below. As all streams here are given to
chatty hilarity, I think once more of the one where oft I
have walked on trailed path.

I muse on until in time we salute the desert plain,
with its sage brush and dog cities. Stations are not
hailed by us (as in time a small crowd awaits us).
Silently we appear; like a shadow disappear.

Our seats are so constructed that we can stand and
exercise, rock or lie down at ease. Partaking our meals
without alighting, we have no occasion to lose time.
Our casing open, banners flying. I have brought
handwork and books. Father is carving on some queer rotary
wheel that gives three separate motions. Charley and
Mae, on the seat in front, amuse each other and call us
to the special sights.

Chicago! We leisurely arrive and traverse silently,
street after street, sadly impressed that the continuous
magnificence in equality of buildings, found nowhere
else, was dearly bought.

Citizens are crowding our path; obstructing our
progress by their progressive ardor, for some one has
telegraphed them of our intended exploration; to our
unexpected aspirations, unheeding our desires, they
hurrah lustily for our success.

Thanking them, we start on, grateful in our hearts
for their sympathy. We do not stop in any other city,
even passing over the suspension bridge quite silently,
though lost in ecstasy at its cataract view.

Evading detention in New York, we whirl over the
Brooklyn Bridge without minding the many curious
gazers.

Arriving at Coney Island beach, though a storm is
coming on, we light our interior and in the dusk are
about to drop into the sea. A shout goes up outside
and strong hands hold us. Near us is a carriage whose
horses we had frightened. In it is an aged man of
martial bearing, who recognizes my father.

“Oh, it is _you_, is it, meandering at night like a
firebug. Turn around now and go home with me,” he
said, cordially.

“Haven’t time; we are bound to the North Pole.”
Hurrying up so quickly, we break away and sink
beneath the toppling waves.

Pelted and tossed all night we welcome daylight;
but flash, crack, roar, we draw ourselves closer together,
and sink in the depths beneath the turmoil, to find other
disturbance. A massed army of swordfish hold
battlefront with glowing eyes to an opposing array of giant
whales, who ponderously coming, lash the sea into a
vortex.

The two columns colliding, the first leap in white
streaks, curl, and land on the latter’s backs, dip and dye
their swords. The whales shake them off and beat them
to death in myriads, to be followed by myriads more,
until the sea is red, when suddenly the cavalry swords
fly, disappearing in the distance.

The victorious artillery, the whales, blow
themselves, weariedly. We go closer to them—too close—as
they are a warrior band. A big general opens his
mouth towards us, disconcerting to our stomachs; we
beat a hasty retreat to a safe distance, where we watch
the camp followers, a jumbling mass of veritable sea monsters.

When all is quiet we rise to the surface, to find it
quiet there, too. The sun shining brightly on an
iceberg, whose edge, sending up a few whale spouts,
resolves it into a fountanious white island.

I muse aloud! “Does the under war cause the
upper war, or _vice versa_? What is war? Ocean’s
elements and life as restless as man. Plant-life and rocks,
also, struggle and upheave. Why is war? Resulting
only to change. God's evolution but a program of variety."
I study it thus, in inspiration, hoping it leads to fore-destined
improvement.

I am hearing the word Arbitration. "Oh yes, papa;
when arbitration stops men's wars, will the elements follow,
and what then?"

# * * * *

>  “Those starry choirs that watch around the pole. "
> --Casimir

The first iceberg is but the precursor of many that
block our way. Then block the land to perpetual
imprisonment. Giving us first taste of this specialty of
our trip. As we stop a few days in the last place of
civilization.

We find good entertainment with pleasant people
who are willing to aid us in our endeavor for knowledge,
yet solemnly warn us not to dare the dangers ahead.
They stock us with dried meat; supply us with double
sealskin outfits; in fact, sealskins line our sleigh to aid
in keeping us warm. They end by giving us their
most paths.

Had our home friends in California been more
solicitous, and amused themselves less at our expense,
at this juncture we would have returned to them, for our
hearts are dropping like lead. But our pride aids us, as
our eyes bravely scan the pole star ahead.

“Mae, do you want to go home?” as I see her wipe
the tears out of her big blue eyes.

“Not I; this is the best part of it. Only the frosty
air makes me cry.”

“Do you not want to see your mamma?”

“Yes, but I will have so much more to tell her,”
waking to enthusiasm and paramount faith.

Polished ice-glass in hand I firmly wave adieu.

In the last few days of our stay have been finished
preparations for what, to the nation, is a centennial
celebration. A barbecue is held on an ice glittering
plaza. Emerald ice tables, chamois-clothed, hold a
wondrous feast. Whole reindeer rigs, the sledge a pastry;
great Christmas trees are confections. This now engages
the crowds.

We rub our hands together, and, shall I say it, our
noses, in local fashion of “good bye,” as our prow
points north.

We have carefully selected this season of the year,
with intent to follow the continual dawn light—night
and day—of this region, which yet faint, is hardly
sufficient to keep us moving swiftly, when, lo, near us darts
up a bright glare, followed by others, around and ahead,
as far as we can see, illumining the air. They are
bonfires of the celebration. Heaps of cones, added to
yearly, surround a ring of pine trees, the center a tall,
hollow trunk as chimney. The gorgeous flickering of
glory, I feel to believe, is miles in extent.

Climbing miles up the heavy atmosphere, it is
advanced to iceberg peaks, beyond and below the horizon.
Visited thus only for ages, do they inclose the pole?
Are they the goal we seek? Springing up the crystal
shafts in warmth of welcome are reflected back again
and beckon us on.

Our minds in sublime mood, to silence, are
disturbed, as father suddenly jerks up his head. “It is
the red fire of the north.” The rare mystery the
superstitious ancients believed to be a sign of war is now
solved, and the simple in fact is most beautiful of sight.

Our path is strangely smooth, as though some
hitherto sea had congealed and left a frozen plain, which gives us
grateful relief until our direction ceases and the last
marked path stops, and an icy lobe rears high before us.

Clamp-spurring our wheels we climb its height, to
find a table formation, level graded, an unmistakable
sign of ice-locked land, as if an island included in the
cold grasp that holds the sea. We do not go far, when
a pile of ice rocks hem in a space. We proceed to
inspect. Hastily curving by, we are suddenly brushed by
a bush, and berries rattle lusciously on our window-pane.
Flinging it open a balmy air salutes us, forcing us out
upon a bright-hued snow-flower carpet.

“What, berries in spring! in Arctic forcing-houses!
no cold night to delay matters!” as Charley is about to
cram his mouth. But I, on closely examining, fail to
identify them, and jot in my book a new name,
Onigogies.” He looks over to read. “Gogies, gogies,
gorge us, please.”

“Tu whu a whu,” wavers our brains and quivers
our eyes, as we see a great white owl perched on our
banner, blinking. I see nearby an apple vine. I reach
out and take a most beautiful red specimen, before I
am aware that it is already in the mouth of a serpent,
coiled around the twig. Unconsciously an Eve, as
unconscious, also, is the reptile, who looks at me with
kind, appreciative eyes. But I drop the apple and get
into the sleigh, quite weak, unable to prevent Mae from
taking and eating another, giving one to father. Seeing
me in, Charley gets ready to enter, by loading the
bottom. The owl has gone, but approaching is a gorgeous
stork of orange plumage. Of camel size, it coolly steps
over us, as the rest quickly step in and we move forward.

Thinking this may be a lost Eden, I look curiously
to discover the life tree, to see Mae and father, who have
turned deathly pale, reel in their seats. Stopping
quickly, we put snow on their heads and bind it by leaves
of a high shrub we are under. Shuddering, they grasp
the leaves in their teeth and swallow the juice as their
breath revives. A red glow on their cheeks. Was it the
leaves of healing? Much trampled beneath had given
us roadway. As expected, we enter a herd of foxes, who
are barking in play and basking in the unusual light; as
all else, unnoticing us, we glide along quite securely.

Charley has studied the lesson of the apple, as he
audaciously reaches down and takes one, and calmly eats
it in conjunction with the leaves, to my perturbed
attention.

We reach the edge of the island and go down to the
sea plain again, which is here more rough in icy waves,
making the travel quite difficult. The waves grew
larger until mountains high, then lessen and gradually
disappear, having unfolded to us a frozen storm at sea.

The surface is smoother and smoother; so that we
start up swiftly. A gale scurries toward us from behind.
As it strikes us Charley opens valves and we all rise in
our seats, unable to contain our ardor, as miles are
covered in our exceeding speed, which continues as the
moments and hours pass, father's speed-measure marking
a mile a second. Hundreds of miles are covered and the
ice is still smooth. Knowing we are not so far away
from the peaks that point the pole. We hourly
anticipate a view as of masts arising at sea, but instead, we
are shocked to see the flame-hued settle densely in a
fog. So long our friend, its warmth had melted the
congealed air and now clouds our nautical bearings. Our
compass is our sole northly guide. But what—what is
the matter with it that it hangs its head and stops? We
are lost!

In frenzy, now, the hours go by as we circle blindly,
when a luminant point attracts us far away. Is it the
serried guide shaft? It is.

Famished and cold—our steam spent and wheels
broken—we make but slow speed toward the flickering
gleam. Attaining it, we have only left us our wings,
by which we rise up the cliff side of the topping pinnacle—to see others, massed in braided and arcaded confusion
before us. Weakening, while above their splintering
and crashing avalanches, we drop on the side of the
sheerest bayonet of all, as hundreds of hues are changing
and ranging in glistening sea waves in a deep, long
valley below us. Not long, but a round level plain, girdled
by this ring of bergs that hem it in.

Our pained eyes watch father stolidly take our local
bearings, then with him shout in audible voice: “The
North Pole!”

# * * * *

> “Lead, kindly, light! \
> Lead thou me on.”

The north star in the heavens, shining faintly
through the half-clear atmosphere, has decided us on
our locality at the dearly attained goal, costing us
friends, and country, and possibly our lives.

The sound of our voices falls dead around and echoes
into the deep valley below. No sign of the beautiful
city we had fancifully pictured. Thankful to die in the
light, with the stars to take our last breath, is only
left us.

Mae complainingly whimpers: “There isn’t a pole
at all!”

“Nor open sea,” growls Charley, hoarsely.

“The width of the valley determines the flattening
of the earth, though,” sighs father.

Fall dead around, did I say? our voice—I level the
glass down the berg side beneath me. I see at the
sound a snowy mass turn about, with a human face
lifted toward me.

So great the size and wondrous fair the countenance
I believed myself deceived, as it quickly turns back.
But I see two hands clasp together in signal. Then low
organ notes swell from below, which, when loudest
grown, suddenly stop.

When the sun in hailing gleam lights a tall spire,
supporting a ring of gold points arising from the valley
center, which I now trace for the first time. Fed to
examine the valley around it, I see shapes of domes and
wall-signs of a buried city. What are they doing?
Whirling and shaking? Presto! the snow canvas rolls
off, unveiling a full-fledged and much-alive city to my
amazed mind. From last extreme of despair my hopes
suddenly arise to so sudden height! I fall forward and
cover my eyes, to keep my brain intact. The city at
last. City of Zion! Sung of poets and portrayed of
artists inspired of its contour and elysian beauty. Hope
raises a hosanna in my breast that is chorused around
me, where I now give my attention.

The human presence below, with feather-plume
robes, so like snow, swaying back, is hastening up in
giant strides, anxious expectation on his face. As he
reaches the ledge on which we lodge the choral voices
around disclose a throng of people similar to him lining
all the mountain sides. Their paean of praise to their
city’s prowess ended, with shouts and conversation they
prepare to descend. Nearly running over us, babes to
them in size, they at last spy us, as the first kneels in
adoration, his hands over us in protection and token of
possession.

With tender emotion he essays to quiet our alarm,
managing at last to emit words that sounded like “Welcome, Unions!”
For a moment I wonder if other
Americans are here lost before us. Then we bow low in
reply. Assured of our trust in him he takes charge and
lilts us from our ruined vehicle to another, standing near,
which is no less than a great white albatross, one of
many now being mounted by the throng. Robes are
drawn about us, after we are presented to a lady, also in
his charge, who, with less success, attempts the words
he first used. Feeling quite among friends, as he lifts a
feather-tufted guiding wand resting on the bird’s head,
I turn to the lady by my side, whose first glance, as
though in bitterness, before our arrival, has changed to
liveliest sociability in gestures, nods and smiles upon
Mae, who is cuddled in her lap.

With womanly curiosity I essay to learn the city's
name. Understanding my desire she essayed to reply,
in cordial, harmonious tones, “Arc.” Farther inquiry
in my eyes, I get the farther delineation, “It circles
Aurora," meaning, no doubt, the electric centre.
Content with this, I scan the dimensions growing, as we
approach, and ride high above, the snowy pinions of the
bird throng clouding the air.

Courts are numerous, covered with great glass
domes and domes rolled back. As we turn down to one
of these I hear father whisper to our host, “How do you
know English?”

With effort he kindly gives the following: “My
father, when younger, explored a great deal upon the
iceberg sea around. Venturing too far one day, he
became lost in an island garden, to find camped there a
people like you, who fed and cared for him.” How
simple; his kindness is in gratitude.

“But where are the people?” father farther
inquired.

“I do not know. He became lost again from them
to find his own city."

Alighting, we are led through conservatory halls to
an apartment-like hall. Of great magnificence, it is yet
quite homelike, with great cushions strewn about that
are seats for the great people but beds in size for us. I
fall on one and am soon fast asleep. Awaking partially,
a melody is soothing my senses. Sitting up, I see a
fountain whence issues the sounds. In it I bathe face
and hands, when the water, acting medicinal, I feel
revived and buoyant, also quite hungry. Father and
Charley are talking, the latter ending with “It
suits me.”

Mae, still asleep, talks spasmodically. “Oh,
auntie! Oh, mamma!” At the last a pain enters my
heart, never more to leave. Opening her eyes, she
slowly takes in the situation. Seeing the pain in my
face, she throws her arms about my neck and says,
gently, “No matter, auntie; it is a sweet place here,
anyway.”

The rest now giving way to hunger, as our hosts
duly regard us with infantile solicitude, I put my hand
in my mouth, as in the latter’s fashion. Immediately
wheels of itself into the room a table laden with food.
Staring at its wizard-like action, we are seated to it.
No dish, knife or fork, or board. Probably not in the
land. An enameled lily leaf. The food, light and solid,
piled in little fruit cups. One is put in each our mouths,
cup and all. I taste and find it palatable. Our
appetites satisfied, out wheels the table, making Mae smile
and become merry. Seeing us still high perched, our
jolly friends rally around us, pull our toes and pinch our
cheeks, until I wish I had refrained in initiating this
program. Soon in comes a hassock and wheeling to us,
gives us an opportunity to alight. Mae down last,
remains seated on it, when it starts around the room with
her, pirouetting in mazy figures, giving its occupant
mazy face.

When stopped, the host whistles, to bring from a
corner two great white mice, kitten size. As he twirls
his fingers, they fall to the floor, a green sward; folding
their four pink paws to their breasts, they become round
balls, thus roll about, greatly to our amusement.

This has suggested to the lady, who proposes to
“go out in town to an entertainment that is funny, oh,
so funny.”

The host, in gleesome impulse, elects to take me.
Raising me on his hand, he asks my name. Charley,
quite diverted, gives it, “Anna.”

“Ah, you are angel, Anna!” when Charley reads
the puzzle, remarking, “He means ‘English.’ Then he
kisses me squarely in the mouth, to my immediate
struggle to get down, which I succeed in doing while he
is taking Charley in his other hand, who now, unlike
other husbands, proceeds to lecture me. “Do not be
odd; you see it is all right. It is evening hour in
America (swallowing); we will enjoy this, our first
evening here.”

Mae, who has taken to the hand I have left, reaches
and pinches him; at which I laugh and spring into a
pocket in front of the lady, upon whose shoulder sits my
father, his hand holding her feather cap. So utterly
without matronly dignity am I, I am glad for once that
home friends cannot see my position.

Getting into the center of the street, she stops, (I
nearly fall) and sits upon a chair, raised from the
roadbed by the man, who takes another. The object is plain,
when we move swiftly along as on a track.

Mae asks ingenuously her bearer’s name; he gives
it in Arc language, what sounds to us like “Show Off,"
which we shall now call him. Then looking to my
bearer he says: “She is Aunt Robet, a dear old maid,
who is always taking care of us, papa and I, when
mother is away.” He goes over and squeezes her
shoulders. As father innocently sticks a pin into his
hand, he looks so queerly at the hurt, it is plain he does
not know the cause, or never felt the like before. In our
childish role we still question: “Where is your papa?“

"Oh, he is always in his house (room). You can live
with him,” looking at my father. Seeing us unwilling at
such an arrangement, his aunt explains: “He is a
student, a very great savant, who is always busy in his office
or study.” This alters the matter; father’s eyes glisten
with expectation.

Arrived at the hall I see a great space in the floor,
that is grooved in pattern. I look to see if a cable line
is drawing through, when I am deposited on a chair
directly above. The rest have chairs near by. Mae
retaining her place in Show Off’s lap. The other chairs
in the room are being rapidly filled. I cannot determine
the entertainment so wait developments. Not long. The
word is given, the chairs start off, getting a swift gait.

I suddenly remember Mae’s hassock, but she is watching
Charley, who takes a firm hold, as the important look,
assumed at our departure, goes slowly off his face,
ejaculating but once “Shake.” I think, too, shake, for
quiver, jerk, jump, all in rotation; music playing is the
order. Enjoying our mutual discomfiture, our chairs
opposite, we are treated at the last to a grand bounce,
that sends us into each other’s arms, so close. Had not
Mae been held firm, she would have fallen, in, her
convulsion of mirth.

We lose no time in getting down, and close to our
bearers. Aunt Robet, placid in demeanor, I calculate
how to get even with her. Though she had declared it
funny, I look at her viciously, when she condescends to
graciously explain: “This is our outing celebration;
the city shakes off its veil to greet the sun; shaking is,
therefore, the order of the day.” Hence this little
exercise. I was happy to have amused her.

We ride now leisurely home, viewing the heavy
buildings of great blocks of ice, shining in the sunlight.
Why they do not melt I cannot tell. Afterwards I learn
they are covered with an enamel that preserves them.
The picturing on their sides is done by fracturing; the
graceful cornices and other trimmings are in imitation of
snowflake crystals, relieving to beauty their solidity.
Quite exhausted on our return, we are given apartments
to ourselves, in which we prepare to rest.

Convinced that false positions are unfortunate, I
resolve to adopt a dignified bearing, suitable to my
maturity, my short experience in babyhood, however
remunerative, proving quite objectionable in excess of
bestowment.

Hearing father sigh, as he watches the dawn that
beckons to arise instead of sleep, I essay to comfort him.
“Dear father, has not God sent us here to convert
them?” "Too intelligent,” he mutters; “they will
convert us.” Science is his religion.

# * * * *

> “Know’st thou the house? \
> On columns rest its pile; \
> Its halls are gleaming \
> And its chambers smile. \
> \
> — Goethe.

Waking early, my prayer goes up to God, with
my whole consciousness borne intact. So when we miss
a link in our self-calculated program of events, we look
to Him, the holder of the links of us—his marionettes
below.

Charley rushes in with a bundle. I speak: “Are
you up, dear, and not sorry that we came?” “Haven’t
time. Get up and see your new dress.” I sit up.
“Invisible garments,” he explains. I hurry to him to
find only the usual feathered robes, that in tint and
style give ail an appearance of the feathered tribe.
Tufted cap and sweeping train; wing sleeves, with
which, could we fly, we would be the angels we are
called.

“But where is the invisible?” I inquire.

“Dressed like everybody else, not visible, because
not conspicuous,” settles that problem.

I take the hint and hastily get into the suit assigned
me, but not as quick as he, for he is dressed, and out,
and down the hall, while I admire myself in the
glittering ice-mirror walls, vanity for a moment overcoming
homesickness to forget that such an unhuman-like
attire, though beautiful in heaven’s songsters, is more
beautiful, even, in a civilized American.

In bounds Saucy—that is what we nickname Mae.
“Where is my dress?”

“Here.” She is soon in it, her flowing hair making
her a canary. Bowing to me in mockery, she says:

"We belong here now. Where is Charley,” looking
around.

"Gone out,” I reply.

“I am going to catch him.”

“So am I.”

She calls him Charley, because I do, and that he is
not her uncle; nor am I her aunt, which she uses in
lieu of Anna. Running out so hastily we run smack
into the arms of Show Off, which we immediately see is
not him, but probably his father, from the likeness who
grasps us in each hand, holding us out for inspection,
saying, “I have caught two little birds that have flown
to me." (Like pigeons, I wish we could fly home again.)
“We have no cage here, only freedom; so now I let you
go,” suiting the action to the word. Cordial as sedate,
I watch him as he walks down the hall and disappears.
In trying to find Charley, we find ourselves in the city
street.

"Mae, dear, to-day is Sunday; let us find a church,"
as we inspect the various houses. We select a large
domed enclosure as a temple to God. Stepping to its
crystal doors it opens itself to us. Within is a rest
scene. Standing or sitting, all look serene, as sacred
dreamy notes of melody fill the air, flower perfumed. A
soothing sense of peace takes possession of us. Instead
of high altar, Hebraic, or idol, or Hindoo custom, a lady
and gentlemen are passing among the people, speaking
kind admonitions, solemn adoration, or cheering
responses. I reflect; this may be their manner of service.

The lady passing us, (who I see is our hostess)
chucks us under the chin playfully, saying, “Sweets,
have you come to court?”

“Court? I thought it was a church,” I explain.

“What is a church?” she asks.

“Where we pray to God.”

"Oh, we should do that everywhere. The earth is
His court. This is only an Arc court,” as she passes on. I still think it a church.

“Auntie, some are dancing; do you see?” I did.
She tried the step in childish glee.

Is it a church dance? A worship mode suitable to
the Arctic locality. How the Unitarians and Catholics
would enjoy it. But I—my M. E. founder, Asbury, was
lame, so could not dance, therefore we preach it down.
Saucy, as Episcopal, sees no harm.

But now she pulls me out and waltzes me around.
(I had learned the art before I joined the M. E.’s.) The
glow of circulation raises my spirit to a desire to shout.
I do so in M. E. denominational style, solacing my
conscience thus far. Soon it pricks again.

When tired and resting I study out the scripture of
this new service. Would Jesus (if here) adapt a sermon
to its beneficial principles, as he had done to baptism
(bath) of the crowds drawn to the river side for that
purpose, obligatory in their sweltering climate? Are
not all church rites illustrative of adaptations of the
one worship—Spirit and Truth?

These thoughts adding so much of scriptural
interpretation of new modes, adding, therefore, new program
to my former stereotyped observances, I become at first
slightly confused, but reserve my settled decision, until
have farther and more deeply weighed the subject.
Until then, I wonder.

"What is best for us to do in such a church as this?”

I turn as I speak aloud, to see Charley by my side,
who has overheard all, and coaches me. “Do? Make
the earth a church, as do these people.” The noon hour
arrived. Refreshments of light and solid food are passed
to all.

Not having got over the impression of its being a
church, Mae, who has not heard the explanation turns
and says:

“Auntie, it is a sacrament! The little gum paste
cups hold drink. I do not think it will harm me.”

A sacrament! Would that all the churches would
give each Sunday as substantial a one to Jesus’ sheep
and lambs, which are the poor, who go poorly fed all the week.

Seeing how strangely people sit down, by some
contrivance or stiffness in their back drapery, I try my own
and being successful, am become quite at ease as I eat,
prayerfully, until satisfied. Then looking around at the
beaming, social faces, I suddenly take a great distrust
and grasp Mae's hand: "Child, this is a saloon!" in great
trepidation.

“No, auntie,” she replies firmly. "No one is
drunk or disorderly. It may be a hotel."

Show Off pulls my sleeve. I turn to him in benignnant,
grave demeanor, causing him to step back
in wonder and gracious deference.

"We are Americans, I want you to know. Have you a president?"

He looks wistfully at us, to brighten soon and ask:
“Do you mean your God? My mother is goddess this
year. Aunt Robet takes her place when she is away visiting."

I study out the whole problem. This wayside
sitting-room is a courthouse, a saloon-the latter purified-and a church in one. I am quite converted and wish
ours at home would become the same, but Charley, who
is still by my side, impatiently waiting to get my full
attention, remarks, jokingly: “Little folks should keep
out of the parlors!”

“Parlor? How do you know this is the parlor? I
am sure I walked some distance to get here,” I reply
evasively.

“But this palace occupies some distance; you will
have to look farther for a church, if there is one at all.
Wait until you are better acquainted, but to-night we
will attend the masque," meditatively.

“Masque? What can you imagine to be that home
dissipation in this cold and pure, and pure as cold city;
certainly less advanced, I hope, less perverted section of
the earth. But that it is Sunday I would accompany
you to investigate for missionary purposes," I reply
devoutly.

“Well, it will last a week; there is no hurry," as
he leaves me free to muse. So utterly definite in
dissimilarity are all things here—arts, amusements, devotions,
etc. I do not expect to encounter social dangers in
similar guise, but must guard as conscientiously from
evil under new guise. Show Off, our attending friend,
does make so remarkable blunders in his attempt to
apply our cultured phrases, I quite despair to get out of
him by question what I wish to know. I reflect deeply,
what can their church be? Can it be in happy unison,
as is this human social church—to wit, parlor?

Presently I recollect that here is but one city, one
people. Allowing one church to be feasible, what about
different races, who have different forms of devotion
that to them take the place of religion or its
comparative manifestation, though religion itself is solely an act
of the heart.

I imagine present before me this heterogeneous
crowd. A Catholic crosses himself, a Shaker shakes, a
dervish howls; Buddhists, Mahometans, and Confucians
appear. Closing my eyes I wonder, could they not, one
and all, do their several forms in the same building? the
same “free for all” church in the same “free for all”
country. Trading and walking together with mutual
respect, why not worship also?

I look around and see Charley coming back. He
stops short at my expression. “What are you now
conjuring up?” he asks. I told, “a church, where all kinds
of people worship in one building.”

“Very good; when we go back home we will get
one up; call it a church fair, or carnival of churches.
Each and all sects to have a booth of their own. The
Hindoos would put up an ox as a symbol. The
Mahometans—what? a goat. The Jews a sheep. The
Christians a lamb. The Chinese a roast pig. Egyptians a
cat. Other pagans, somewhere—a snake. Taken
altogether, an animal fair, and as all have good points, even
a snake, Americans would accept all, and could, by
protecting each, make them a happy family. As a cat and
dog of one family live in peace under one roof, and the
church symbolic animals in one farmyard, so could the
principals they symbolize aid in its several good, in one
church building.”

I look prayerfully to him and say, regretfully, “But
you don’t believe Jesus is coming back.”

“Yes, I do,” he replies. "_Then_ is He coming. For
this is He waiting. Peace on earth, among the churches.
Upon the cross His arms were spread. To reach around
the earth, to join all churches in peace, which is
brotherhood; children of God—Father.”

“What would the Jew say to that?”

“They started it before Jesus. The Jewish High
Priest Hillel composed the prayer, ‘Our Father.’”

“Yes; but he meant it only for the Jews.”

“Well! he can still be a Jew, in the new world
church,” and walked briskly around.

I muse. Where would be my father’s place, as he
is an infidel, in this many-sected or membered church.
Would Jesus enfold him as a neighbor of kind heart? I
think so. Entirely rejoicing in this selection of God’s
following, I charmingly ask Show Off, who now appears,
“How long do these churches hold open?”

“Always, with Gods as relief.”

“You mean ministers—but does nobody work?”

“Yes; at the schools until noon.”

What! half of time for God, instead of seventh?
Can the millennium have come here? Has, most likely,
no one told them of the Sabbath? One day of seven?
Well, we can keep both—certainly our Sabbath, and
explain to these people why we do.

“One question more. Have you jails in this city?
What do you do to people vicious in hot anger!”

He turns partly to me to see what I am asking;
then, understanding me, he answers gravely: “Freeze
them.”

Aunt Robet, now off duty, takes charge of us,
conducting us to her sitting-room.

But two days pass, in which we endeavor to learn
the Arc language, as none except the three already
mentioned can converse with us, when Charley brings forth
the masque.

“Oh, yes; but it cannot be a ball nor a domino
party, I am curious at your idea. If it is beneficial and
delightful as what I have already seen, I will be pleased
to participate,” I reply, cautiously to my gentle mate,
who, devoted to social assembly, and believing ennobling
dancing as consistent as ennobling singing, he has no
patience with my doubts.

“What am I to do?” I ask in prayer. Silent a
gentle whisper breathes in answer, “It is one of the ten
talents; beware of letting it rust!” One of talents,
loaned us of God, and not a sin of the world? Or are
the sins of the world perverted use of honorable talents,
to be redeemed by us by honorable use? its omission, of
condemnation.

Can I burnish and enlarge my consecration to Thee,
oh God, in gay circle? Dost Thou truly love, also,
happy faces? At the hall we don our costumes and are
shown into a green bower, so banked with trees, shrubs,
and plants there seems no space for guests. These, I
soon discover, encostume everywhere about; I discover,
also, much relieved, that the object is educational, only—to
put us in touch with "the least of these” that God
noteth.

A huge butterfly lights in front of me, greeting
me cordially. So like a host I feel quite at home
as a concourse of bugs, bees, and insects arise
around, with waving wings, until I think I never
saw before so moving a sight. A bee hummed in
my ear—a sound like Charley; a mosquito sung in glee—a
note like Saucy; a wasp with saucy eyes—Show Off.
Moths in the windows, locusts in shady nooks, and a
cricket adds its refrain. Sitting upon a scarlet ottoman,
it moves off on its four feet—a live cochineal. Standing
under an umbrella tree I was "darned” by a "needle”
to a branch; a hopper hopped to a sheaf of wheat;
ladybugs minced; graybeards stalked around; a
blackcoated beetle handed me (as a weavil) a rose conserve,
saying: "A ‘flour’ for you.” I accepted it, making
room for him by my side. But soon the hostess, bringing
to me a "bigbug,” who asked a promenade. Replying
to him "May bee,” the beetle gets up and snaps
fully away.

I could see no harm, as the hours passed swiftly,
teaching us a social sympathy, with this (insect) realm
of the Creator, who now, as I apply my mind (talent?)
to them, have always, as us, displayed love to their kind,
dislike of pain, and gratefulness to benefactors. The
younger danced in buoyant evidence of youthful being,
the elder in touch with their delight. I saw no harm,
and wished that all dancing in America could be so
eminently cultivating in bodily exercise and polite
demeanor.

The rooms are not close. We did not stay late to
become weary.

Returning, I discover I have acquired a home
interest. I see an enclosed balcony greenhouse, that line
the fronts of the buildings, filled with ferns and foliage,
new to me, that the sun is marvelously unfolding. They
seem to grow up from the ground that must be far beneath
the snow, and clinging to the ice-block wall, do not
wither, for an enamel surface on the walls prevents. I
then perceive why the late deep snow has spared them,
snow that has been let below in covered trenches.
Charley is going to pompously interview me.

“You are not so dreadfully horrified, I see. There
are, you see, different grades of parties. At this you
were intellectually amused and society edified. I wonder
this people do not drink. I must teach them the
drinking of wine blood,” slightly wavering.

“Thickening of wine-tongue and brain; how did
any human being ever adopt it? I earnestly believe it
was water and not wine that Jesus recommended. (That
has been mistakenly translated.) That being plain
God’s design.” I speak prophetically.

“Dear,” he says, “you are right; I will let the
people here be temperate; thus, I believe, more
enjoyable.” Then coming close to me he says: “I was at
the party to protect you in safety of ease, you know, so
give me that due for your unrestrained mirth.”

He is so autocratic in his manly assertions I
become slightly overawed, when Show Off, who has had
no lesson of him to regard his dignity, comes up and
snaps his ear playfully. The fire darts from his eye, but
I quickly make peace, using his own words: “You see,
it is all right; do not be odd.”

Thus quickly, everywhere, wrath arises innocently,
to burn often in high flame—to indict some deed of evil
intent.

Seeing Charley still cross, I converse with Show Off—ask
him where my father is, that I have missed these
three days. “Has he found your father’s room? and is
he quite happy?”

“Quite. You will never get him again,” meaning
that I am substituted.

This talk, though rather un-English in phrase, is so
intentionally jolly, I become quite familiar, so ask:
“Dear Show Off, why did the sweet Aunt Robet never
get married?”

“She is going to be, when her lover comes down out
of the sky.”

This mysterious news sets Charley off into a roar of
laughter, so I proceed: “What does he do in the sky?
ride about on a star?”

“Yes; and fishes below with a line for pastime.”

I look warily each side of me. “When is he
coming down?"

"When the signs are right. We expected him at
the Outing; since then we are unhappy.”

In this lovable manner does he couple himself with
his relative’s heart, who now approaches, and his snap
is repeated upon her glowing cheek. But she, as
Charley, gets cross, and he comes back to me. I suddenly
miss Saucy, to see her flaxen hair dangling out of his
sleeve, and know that it is she, in childish fashion, who
had done the snapping to our disconcertment.

Laughing at the innocent cause of war I turn aside
to enter the court, which we are passing. Saucy
seeing, drops out of her nest and hugs close to my side; the
rest proceed in peace.

“Ain’t it nice, Auntie, to have a church to step into
all the week. You feel so safe to stop in such a place.
No one expects us to buy something, or read something,
or talk something. I wonder if they take up a
collection. If not, the tax supports it.”

“I do not believe they know what money is, though
certainly they do its equivalent-work. We must find
the shops and select some work ourselves.”

Then, as Saucy mutters to herself, “What a queer
people; no fire, no dishes, no money, no Sunday, no
schools.” I look around at the delightfully intelligent, as
delightfully happy countenances; though the majority
are lying comfortably back in their drapery supports and
fast asleep. This seems to be the rest hour, and I as
Saucy lays her head in my lap, also to go to dreamland.
In vision a mighty angel descends from God, down
through the open dome and takes us by our wing tips, to
carry us off. Hoping it is to America, I keep my eyes
closed in expectation, until an unusual jar involuntarily
opens them, showing the angel to be Show Off, who has
deposited us safely at home on a cushion by the side of
Robet.

Half uncertain, as half awake, I hum to myself the
tune of “Home, Sweet Home,” when Robet gets down
by me and swelling her throat, warbles forth, like a bird
of paradise, an entrancing melody, soothing me again to
slumbers.

I awake in high fever; at least so I am told, weeks
after, when I sit raised on a cushion and am able to talk.
“Yes, Auntie,” says Mae, “when you were in delirium
you talked such strange talk. You raised up once and
asked us ‘What is in heaven?’ I humored you and
said, ‘Golden streets,’ but you shook your head wildly
and waved your hand, saying, ‘No, no; golden ice, the
sun shines all night to make it.”

While all regard me, lovingly, a golden point of
light enters the room, _dropping at my feet_, causing
consternation in the rest. Show Off hurries out and brings
a tablet; reading it they point excitedly to me; the
sunburst growing, they gaze in stupor.

Not until it lessens and departs do they regain
composure, when I ask, “What is it?” Robet answering, “A prophecy.
This sign that has never been just this
way before, heralds a new era in Arc; a new people, a
new land. The latter a necessity, as Arc is just evenly
full.”

My overbalanced visionary tendency becomes
imbued with a new power. I rise in the air, spiritually,
out of the open dome. Ascend to the high-poised
golden points, still glowing, (my soul having left
material enclosure) in the center, and look down a cavity
miles wide in extent, whence drops the last golden ray;
a black cloud receives it. A glint of silver lining and
all is opaque.

I open my eyes to see Savant added to the circle, he
was called, may be, at my faint. But what is strange,
he seems to know where I had spiritually gone, and
more, is expecting some revelation from me. I only
slowly shake my head, when he abruptly turns away.

My new spiritual power says of him, "He is
greatest of living men.” I note where he disappears to
sometime search him out.

The new telepathic condition I had suddenly gone
into does not entirely leave me. But takes a new turn,
that of outwardly statue or marble state.

Seeming cold and rigid to others, I see intuitively
into their minds, read their thoughts and wishes. I am
conscious at times of miraculous ability, as though I
could put forth my hand, and command omniscient like.

As Robet tenderly teaches us Arc ways and
diversions, I see the adaptation in foreknowledge, and
surprise her and the rest, so that they are getting an awe of
me, and are carefully respectful of my person.

# “In the depths”

Mae goes out everywhere, often alone, finding the new
ways and amusements of the city.

When she finds one she thinks I will enjoy, she
hurries home all out of breath to take me or tell me.

She has been hunting around the halls to-day, as if
there were hidden mysteries close by. I do believe she
has found one. Her hair flying and eyes dancing, I go
to meet her, to see what it is; getting some emotion in
my own frame. “Come in here, Auntie.” In there I go,
like a lamb.

It is a glass entry of some sort. (I will stop to
explain what I call glass, as it is not exactly, but some
transparency quite serving the purpose.) Mae pulls
certain knobs and lets in what—water!

“Auntie, this is bath-day. We have on bath rigs.
Put on this helmet with its tubes above for breathing.”

I do so, as the water deepens. She opens a gate now,
and a flood rushes in, and takes us off our feet, which we
regain by use of our elastic breathing tubes.

We pass through the gate to all the glories of the sea.
A sea bath—sea mosses under our feet, shells piled in
heaps, fern trees waving.

Mae dashes out and hides from view. I discover her,
but cannot hold her with my wet hands.

We hear a song. In the door of a crystal grotto
stands a mermaid. “Come into my bower, and I will
give you amber. I am a sister of seven who combs her
long hair in the deep.”

Ascending steps of dainty harp-shell, we tread an
lone carpet where is a crowd of people.

Games are in order on rock ruby stands, in which I
become engrossed, as a “sister” plays a cameo-mandolin;
another singing a rollicking song of the sea, ending in
sobs, for those who come down in ships.

There is sea-dancing—liquid symphony. I see Charley
in his native element, precluding tears or weeping for joy.

We round out on a tower top, and board a nautilus
with unfurled sail. We ride over a gold fish
“gilt-edged" school, and a bank of red sea berries that holly-like
call up to us “Merry Christmas."

Furling our sail, we drop down into the entry, which
we empty, and strange, our garments are dry.

We emerge among our friends. A sweep of robes is
so close passing me, I look up at the colossal face. It is
Robet, but a strained, nervous look forbids me to follow.

Toppling upon the hem of her robe, I am carried
perforce in her company. She stops in a conservatory,
where one grand tree is growing, and bends down a
branch. I look to see it and all the tree transcribed with
names—a veritable family tree. More distraught, she
speaks in a loud-pitched voice, down into the face of
Charley, who has followed me (seeing him not), “Have
you a pedigree?" He colors up in wrath, then takes a
tablet from my chatelaine, and places it in her hand,
which awakes her. Smiling, she says, “I did not mean
you." Charley reacting from anger to hilarity, seizes a
twig, crying, “I will write a pedigree," as a red pollen
drops, touching up my cheeks. "They need it," he
says, and goes for Mae, who now comes, and soon she
glows like an Indian.

When he is gone, Mae, in order for ablution, opens
near by a door, that is outwardly a picture. (More
mystery).

Can it be the secret sanctum of Savant, that I have so
vainly hunted? Father sits in an easy chair deeply
engaged with a pictured script. I look around but see no
books or apparatus—a cheerful, cosy room only. I look
over father’s shoulder as he turns the papyrus leaf,
holding over it a microscope. I catch sight of the meaning.
Giving a sudden cry, he arouses to my presence. He
takes me on his knee, and we follow together the tiny
pictured lines of a story.

Anon a kitten purrs by me; I look up and see the host
intently reading my expression in his own absorbed,
telepathic style. Genially smiling, he takes my two
hands, and kneeling places them on his head, thus
confessing his service to my will. Though in my new normal
state, I feel to deprecate myself, and smile in humblest
mode, as he rises and sits next us in similar seat.

Before we turn to our occupation, an incandescent glow
falls upon the page, causing us to raise our eyes quite
wonderingly. The light emanates quite mysteriously from
Robet, whom I had not before observed as thus
illumined. I see in her hand a lighted lantern, which she is
studying, or the shining words upon it.

That these latter are possibly a code of rules is
determined by her action. Sinking down at Savant’s feet,
she asks, “Do give me some new plan for court to-day.”

“I will give you one,” speaks up father. She turns
full to him.

“It is lawyer, a word signifying welfare.”

I was aware my English language was prolific of
varied meanings. I am pleased to hear this
development. “Law,” he continues, “transposed is ‘well;’ 'yer'
is ‘fare.’”

Miss Robet has caught his idea, and elaborates it.
“When I go into court, the good word shall be welfare;
when I come out—farewell,” and is gone.

Dear Robet, what is her secret sorrow, that she hides
in her tender breast? Her genial soul should have no
rebuff. Why is her intended away, as I have heard?

Quite changeable in mood, as is Show Off, her great
chum, who gets it from his mother, the latter a triplet
sister with Robet, and now on a visit to the other triplet
sister.

We now give attention to the story before us, but so
loudly sounds a refrain in my ears, “Savant before you
is the greatest of living men,” until I become impatient,
and ask, “how great?” “Ask him hidden knowledge,”
refrains back to me.

What can it mean?

I will treat him to some unsettled points in spiritual
doctrine to test his lore.

# * * * *

> Immortality of the soul is an universal instinct. \
> -Phil. Schaff, D. D.

Looking to where he sits, I study one in my mind,
and observe father sees my abstraction. I can tell by a
wrinkling around his eyes, he is preparing himself for
enjoyment of the debate.

“What is the breath of life?” I at last ask ingenuously.

“Oh, I can answer that. I have found it out since I
have been here. That is an easy question. It is, my
dear, electricity, which we assimilate into spirit. Simple
in explanation. The electric soul batteries of our organism
thus supplied by God, the maker of souls, drawn in with
our breath.” Quite suavely preaches my father to me.

“Yes, but there are two electricities; how could we
take both and live?”

“There are two electricities, assuredly. They
assimilate; the assimilation is life.”

I feel dubious, but see clearer as he proceeds.

“The earth has negative electricity, the other positive,
or masculine, comes from the sun, uniting to life.”

Suddenly I burst out, “That makes the sun our father.
Pray, who is God, who made the sun?” The eye
wrinkle deepens. “In that case, our grandfather.”

I scorn to smile.

“Does this soul life have bodily sense after death?” I
again venture a second question.

“Yes, and bodily sustenance in the air, where is body
material, tho’ invisible.”

I clasp my hands to my head, and rush out of the
room. But close behind me is Savant, who is pleased to
wish more acquaintance.

I overcome my awe, but do not care to inquire on
abstruse subjects. We go out into the street, and traverse
its length before I am attracted by a special diversion.
Entering a hall to rest, we are witness, to me, of an utterly,
and at first inconceivable, exhibit, unheard of before
novelty. It is the paradoxic act of a Concert, or Opera,
without sound—seen and not heard. Upon the stage are
rows of lights (reflections) graded in size like the string
of a harp. Raising and lowering these in varying figure
by skillful players constituted the performance. The
changing (not unison) melodies in grave or gay parts, or
intermingling, swaying my emotions. I lean back in
rapture.

I am studied by my escort, who has been addicted
thus, since first he looked at me.

The green sward beneath our feet, as on all floors,
prevents the unpleasant custom of stamping. Soon the
walls moved in and out, portraying drama. A row of
graded boys and girls also, carrying dolls in wickers that
they stood up against the walls, bowed their heads and
waved their hands in pantomime melody. Marching
away, the boys carried the dolls.

We were quite diverted, laughed heartily, stamping
on the sward floor, that produced no sound.

"We will tell Mae about this,” I remarked. “Let’s
go home and send her here.”

We hurried to the palace to find her under a divan
with her head out though covered by the flowing robe
of a doll (mother bunch) into which her hands had been
made. Charley has to keep the people away who are
greatly mystified as interested, while he is asking questions,
answered by bowing or head shaking of the sorcerers.

Suddenly he answers for the doll in ventriloquism, from which they
back in amazement.

When it is over and Mae is released, so great is their awe of
us, I seek to enhance it. I take my watch and convince them it is
alive.

This quite overcomes them. I turn to see Charley,
slowly at first, then swifter nod his head up and down,
as tho' some unusual resolve was engrossing his calculations,
soon I find out. Coming around to me, he says:
“I feel a call in my soul to initiate this people to serve
our God. I will take this almighty dollar," suiting in
action, he goes through some wizard tricks.

We are tired before they. “Do tell us some more,” they ask.

The next day they are still curious, and keep us
engaged in exhibit.

We advert to our railroads, telephones, etc., to their
confusion, as we have no samples. Catching in their
perplexity some similarity to their own achievements,
they bring forward and strive to teach us how they move
articles by a _solution_. Chairs and street cars in
their wizard propulsion are solved.

“Is it a vegetable or mineral?”

"It is animal.”

Their explanation as greatly confounded us.

"We get it from a fish, which Savant found when he
was last over the ice. He saw the ice strangely cracking
to find the queer fish. Grasping it, there was an
explosion of sound. He brought some home, but they are
hard to raise.” Finding us continue in solicitude to
understand, they treat us in exchange of our revelations.
Our story reminds them of one to match it.

One day explaining to Robet how Unit ladies make
themselves young-looking by cosmetics and pencils, she
says briskly, "I will take you to-morrow where they
make themselves old and wise-looking. You will be
pleased; it is a fine city.”

After dinner we go. Arriving, I see the houses are
crackled in straight or curved lines of beautiful design.
Lines are the fashion.

The costume was striped in pattern. The sward
carpet was stems in graceful arrangement.

The table for light refreshments was a single piece,
curving in rings from top-case to cake and lower
fruit-trays down to numberless seats, all curls of its octopus
dimensions.

As Robet said, the special fad in face garniture of the
ladies, as well as the gents, was aged penciling in lines.
The marks of wisdom sit quaintly on young brows.
Drooping mouths are traced to upward curve. Sad eyes
smile; laughing are deepened in thought.

The ribbon-dressed babies are ribboned into similar
hammocks, to be swung back and forth.

Their mode of worship at court was to stand in
straight lines, like soldiers of God.

Their games are sticks (kindergarten) which they also
work into ingenious devises of cabinets and stands.
The arches of apartments decorated thus.

Their adieu was straightening of the fingers.

When on our way home, I kiss Robet. My statue
sense is wearing away. Still yet, I seem to see the past
and future. Interior of minds. An aura-cathode light
clarifys. I ask; to answer; my own questions.

“Are spirits before birth individuals?”

“No, only in bulk, combining chemically at birth.”

“Dangers in this life, are there dangers in the next?”

“There are.” I listen to myself statue like.

At last I ask Savant, “What is it?” He is puzzled as
I, and questions me on my church faith. I tell him
about Adam and Jesus; the latter to tell us all mysteries,
when he comes in the clouds. He is intensely interested.
I get my bible and read to him day after day.

Much affected one day, he looks up to ask: “May not
he the God have sent this upon you to make you his
second forerunner?”

Is the secret solved? Am I the herald-searchlight to
to His path?

(And is he—the Savant—my mission aid)? Near by
me, concealed by art-screen, I hear a sob, and see a
yellow gleam of hair drop on a loving shoulder. Saucy
sobs up to a face, thinking deeply. “Cholly,” coaxing,
“what shall we do—will she go up into the sky?”

A jerk of the shoulder straightens up the head, and
sobers the grotesque grief of its face. “No, you do not
know her. She is smart, I allow, but not so smart as
she thinks.” (I feel so funny as I listen). “She is weak
yet from her illness is all.”

“O!” ejaculates Saucy as she relapses to her usual
self.

Something rustles under my feet. I pick up a piece
of American newspaper. Saucy says behind me, “That
was around my lunch mamma put up. She is still
looking, I suppose,” deeply sighing.

I carefully read each precious word. A short but
torn excerpt on science contains this: “I said one good
thing of the soul. That it was electrified after death.”

I am at sea. It was not Savant’s lore, but my father’s,
who had deceived me. I go to him with the scrap. He
reads and smiles, then takes up a leaf near him.
Holding over it a microscope, I see on it a picture of cloud
lightening taking a spirit to the sky. A wielder of that
lightening concealed afar off. I am at sea again.

I take to studying the leaves myself, seeing how
less to question Savant.

Charley and Mae too study with me. Still, the latter
jealously watches Savant. Whose modes and agencies are
new. Though I see magnetism appear at times, I
cannot tell how produced (he works in an alcove one side).

Every morning I am a fixture here, studying,
marking a place on the register to visit in the afternoon. So
safe am I, now a citizen, I often go alone. Charmed as
"Van Winkle,” stay long away.

I am surprised they show no solicitude. Mae one time
is absent a week. Alarmed I go to Savant. He takes
the register telephones of her position. Then in a
shining leaf shows me in picture what has passed to her. I
feel to get up and hug him. But hug Charley who is
come. “You had better go after her,” he says. “Why,
I know all she does.” “Yes, but you should direct what
she does,” wisely.

I look to the leaf. A new impress is coming. Behind
her as she is backing unconsciously toward it, is an open
crevasse trench in use by a workman. I startle the air
with a scream to Savant, “Call me,” says Charley
authoritatively, who looks on the plate, to call Savant
himself. The latter seeing the dilemma, without
leaving his laboratory, touches a button that closes the
crevasse behind Mae, as she steps on it safely. I hug
Charley convulsively.

> “Logic is logic. That’s what _I_ say.” \
> — O. W. H.

My husband, always so loving so bonny and practical,
has become sober and long-faced, no shadow of a smile.
No hop, skip and jump, like Saucy Mae. Even she he
passes absent-minded. If she pulls his sleeve, he does
not heed, so she follows him around to find what the
matter is. As she makes a body-guard, I leave her to
watch him.

He has just come out of Savant’s room, absorbed in
some papers, he carefully carries in his hand, assorting
them as he noiselessly walks along, the genius behind
failing to get a peep at their contents. Hearing me
approach, he hastens to conceal them in the shrubbery,
disappearing himself.

Saucy having lost him, takes up with me, and we
run out and up the street, looking in at various places.
Seeing familiar faces in a crowd at an opera house, we
join them.

Seeing us, the crowd gives way, and gets up in front,
where we become the cynosure of the audience (the
performance not having commenced), who look from us to
the stage, as if in connection, enigmatical to us.

Puzzled no longer, we see Charley come out and take
position as speaker.

Our mouths as well as eyes open in wonder. What
will happen next?

With preoccupied bearing, he explains our discovery
of iron, that raised man from savagery to civilization,
builds ships and houses. It was well we were before
him and appreciated his discourse (the home reminiscence
starts the old pain) for the audience do not understand a
word he says, but connecting his gestures, they oddly
imitate the latter.

He turns to us and changes to an abstruse subject, not
at all congenial to him.

“Americans concede three natures to man and five
senses. I will show him to possess seven natures, each
represented by a sense.” We are quite attentive,
“Touch, first, by his palm, denoting his acquiring
nature,” I clap my hands. “Taste, second, by his
tongue, denoting his sustenance nature.” I muse to
myself, do we kiss because we are cannibals, and would
like to eat the one we kiss?

“Social, third, by his lips, denoting his impress
nature.” O yes, that is why we kiss. “Vibrative, fourth,
his ear, denoting his emotional nature.” I think him
quite a phrenologist. Mae is some dazed.
“Atmospheric, fifth, by his nose, denoting his steam nature.”
Mae sends up a prolonged shout.

“Solar, sixth, by his eyes, denoting his mental
nature.” I shake my finger at him.

“Soul, by his hair, denoting electric spirit nature.” I
come to my feet, raising both hands, as he proceeds.

“The hair as covering or ornament of the head has
not received sufficient dignity. As telegraph lines of
divine construction communes with God, raises its
value.” I place my hands on each of his shoulders, as
be finishes impressively.

“Above the mind, summit of senses, its own power
only has revealed it even to sight.”

Remembering him coming out of Savant’s studio, I
am not surprised.

But I continue the thread. Does this theory
contravene the immortality of the soul, teach dissolution with
the body? O, no.

The operator back of the telegraph machine does not
integrate with the machine. The telegraph wires down
do not signify the operator to be in the same condition.

# * * * *

> My spirit lies, with dreamful eyes,
> Beneath the walls of Paradise.

I catch sight of Show Off coming leisurely toward us.
Has he caught the last part of the lecture, and is he,
too, of a studious disposition. For raising his eyes
intelligently, he continues the discourse. “Still we are
made of dust!” (What can _he_ know of dust?) “Birds,”
going on, “are made of trees, for their feathers are
little branches. Fishes are of water-birth—their scales
little drops. Beasts of grass, with coats of grass fur.
Sheep of snow wool.” I am wool gathering. “Reptiles
have clod skins. We are only of the dust—marble,
granite or otherwise.” I decide to read him Genesis
some day.

But now he speaks up more blithe. “We are going
to-morrow to Aunt Rohan’s house, where my mother
Roba is, to get her,” winking his eye at Saucy.

We are delighted as we return, all together. I look
at the streets and people, not knowing I shall see them
no more forever.

The next morning, that is getting very late, we are
placed in an open sleigh, to try the new snow, in
making the trip. As it is a gala day, called Inning Day, so
everybody is out. “Will everybody be at Roban’s?” I
ask Show Off, who is holding Saucy by my side.

“Yes, and more too, for the Traveler will be there,"
he replies moodily.

“Who is he, and where does he travel?”

“Up in the sky on his air star.”

“And what does he do up there?” I smile.

“He fishes below with a line.”

I look warily each side of me.

“Do you like him?”

“Yes, but he wants me to marry his daughter.”

“Well?”

“She wont have me, as she loves my cousin, Aunt
Roban’s son. Her father expects our betrothal at this
time.” He stops a moment, then resumes. “He is
engaged, himself, to be married to Aunt Robet, who does
not dare to tell him of his coming disappointment.”

“How did she, so gentle, ever fancy so douty a man?”

“It was at a ride. The cavalry were going by so
swift she became dizzy and was falling, when he by a
deft move put her back. When he appears, ever since,
she is like affected. He is coming now.”

With a start, I look up to the sky, which is clear.
Then I look about at the celebrators, thinking he may
be come to earth, and be among them. And though I
see a strange mist in the distance, I become occupied in
studying the various modes of conveyance close around.
Of every odd design, one vehicle is oddest. It is a
round glass globe that rolls over and over, bearing its
inmates upright, ballasted in the interior. It has only
ladies, so I look ahead.

Ahead is a bridge, shaped like a flight of stairs (rests
for the horses). Around the farther tower arches—strong supports of
the suspended ends—a mist is twining
and winding, glistening peculiarly. Show Off seeing
my intent gaze looks there, and hastily takes from his
father's pocket a glass and absorbedly scans the mist. I
had forgotten the Traveler’s approach, of shock to
Robet who leans back her head gasping faintly. But
directly over us is the shocking man, on a high seat,
over high runners, between which glides our humble sleigh.
At Show Off's shout, he looks down, his stern face relaxing genially,
recovering Robet.

Thus disturbed, Show Off drops the glass, which I pick up, wonderingly.

One look, and I am curious too. For deep within the luminous
vapor are human beings, lace seated and draped. They are singing,
their countenances reflecting the inspiring symphony. Studying
closely, I detect a peculiarity of expression, as if masculine and
feminine are combined, both strong and tender. Coming swiftly,
and bending low, they must brush us as they pass. A child in front of
adult, eyes exhiliarantly my exotic bouquet. I select a dainty bud,
and raise it over my head. The gust shuts my eyes. But I feel a tiny touch
that wisps away my bud. From our slow journeying,
we are too late to make our address at Roban's, before
the election, which occurs to-day. So proceed to that
function. Seated comfortably upon the Central Plaza,
a nice esplanade covered with rugs, we are scarcely
seated when two ladies and a gent approach us, who by
their family resemblance are no doubt sisters of Robet.
One hugs her tremblingly. The other is hugged
vigorously by Savant, his wife Roba. She is, though of
exact likeness, still of different temperament from the
others. More sedate, quite stately, though none the less
lovable. When Savant puts my father with his silver
hair and shining black eyes on her lap, she is quite
awe struck. When my father reaches up and kisses her
reverently on the cheek; she is more nonplussed still,
and takes her muff to sit him on.

The gent is no doubt the husband of the other sister,
who snaps his fingers at Charley, when he wishes he did
not, for the latter bites if viciously; then rubbing the
bite over, he lays his cheek on it, in penitence. He is
forgiven, but not taken up on his lap, but I am instead,
and smile profusely to keep the peace. Saucy is on
Roban’s shoulder, and chatting like a parrot into her
ear, which just suits this lady, she answering as glibly.

“O, how late you are! We could not wait for you,
but left the castle open and came on. Has the Traveler
come?” That individual passes without seeing us.
Before we hail him, we hear music of a band approach.
The melody is whistling as will Boreas shortly whistle
over the land.

Conducting two lines in grand march, in election
mode, headed by the chosen Mayor and Mayoress,
respectively, or as they call them, god and goddess.

The evolutions ended, the two lines join, and the crowd
standing, all sing:

> E’er the sun our father leaves us \
> He, as a parent, leads us \
> To the indoor mother’s side \
> To spend the winter tide.

The candidates, now in full view, are recognized by
Robet with consternation. “Rohan’s son, and his
daughter,” are her startling words.

We all turn silently toward Rohan’s home. The
ceremonies now ended. The new city officers, receiving
congratulations around, also join our party, staying in
our rear.

The castle supposed to be open is not so now, but is
double barred inside against us, as we arrive.

Through the crystal portal, we see in the center court,
sitting nonchalantly as revengefully, the man who rode
over us. We are out in the cold, and what is worse,
quite hungry.

Savant calls out, “Hello, neighbor.” He arises and is
about to come forward, when his daughter laughs out,
“Now papa, good papa,” which stops him, and he turns
square his back to us.

Beyond and near to him is a revolving plant stand,
reaching high above his head. A plant is moving
mysteriously. I see my father under a leaf (I had not
missed him). He is arranging something under a
blossom. I cannot tell what.

Now before us and at our feet down drops the nervous
Robet, who cannot keep her dignity longer.

Around goes the plant stand and sounds out this
word, which is from a phonograph (placed by father) in
Arc, “Look ye.” Around again, it is above him.
“Looky,” now one side, now behind. Mystified, the
stolid man looks around as directed, not at our faces,
where he will see the mirthful countenance of his
daughter, but at our feet where he sees a countenance
pale and in tears. The spell is broken, and as father
leaps on bis shoulder like a good fairy, he lets us in.

A castle band now starts up to a tune resembling the
snapping of a fire, reminding us of the day of the
Inning Fireside. Now crackling forth with renewed zest,
the people arrange themselves in cavalcade, and slowly
march, with spiral inclination, around the hall, towards
its center.

Robet, supported by her lover, pulls me out of her
bag to amuse him, much to my ill-will. But father
winks to me over his head, and pulls his hair. Nearing
the center of the room, the Traveler firmly and (I see
his daughter grimacing close by) turning from the
pleading Robet goes out of the room, and out of the house,
disappearing down the street.

Wondering at this action, I look for information, to
the center gathering, I see a crystal floor in circle
shape, with round divans in its center. I am mystified
as we are seated on this divan, and look down at the
crystal floor. I get a great start, for my feet seem to be
standing up in the sky, so far down is the crevasse
below, whence comes up a brilliant glow, the only light in
the apartment now, as blinds and shades are placed to
protect it. Whence this light arises, I cannot imagine,
as the sun is not in focus, or other light.

I take a great like to Rohan, who is as friendly as
vivacious. I get upon her lap to hear her chat.

“Good-bye,” she says, “my upper sky home, for the
winter. My plant stand you may rest until spring" (outing
as she calls it).

I am mystified why the people stop to sit here, as there
is no table.

With a slight jar, the crystal floor now loosens, and
more surprise, descends. Now beneath the floor, the
light is increasing, and a warmth also, at which we cast
off our wraps, displaying evening costume of home.
The car, I now see it to be, is in triplet decoration.
Triplet bell clusters favor us with melodies. I wonder
how long we are descending, when jar, sway, float, as in
water. I look about. “Where, oh where is this?”

We are on the bosom of a broad river in a scene of
tropical beauty and grandeur.

Mae and Charley, as I, are as completely surprised,
the others enjoying its fulness.

“Eden, Eden, garden paradise, whence came you
here?” I weep beside myself in joy. Is this what
explorers seek? But they will never get here. It is hemmed
in by the iceberg, two-edged swords, as effectually as
the other one of our first parents.

Roban asks, “What is Eden?” I told her of Adam’s,
and the one to come down to us from the sky. “No,”
she says gravely, “the city will grow up to God.”

Is San Francisco (San-Zion) thus growing?

I see that Show Off, unlike all the others, is in a
growing state of excitement. I jump down quickly and
climb to his side, where he is leaning on the railing of
the barge, looking expectantly into the water. I punch
him vigorously. “Tell me, tell me, how came this river
down here, and its vicinity?” He answers vaguely, not
looking up, “By the melting of the under ice.”

“Yes, but to be a flowing river?”

“We confined it for safety, by dykes and jetties,”
coming quite distraught at some inward thought. Does
he mourn the Traveler’s daughter?

Roban has followed me, and now explains to me more
fully.

“When the river got to going good, it melted the ice
above clear through to the sky.” I look up at the
away opening.

“The sky opening,” she continues, "vegetation started."
I look now eagerly at the nearby banks in begonia
bloom, and crowned with palms. Long aisles of verdure
penetrate the vista, closed by green sheen. One
specialty of form is general, that of vine-climbing and
up-looking.

Returning my attention to Roban, she resumes her
coaching. “Cities too sprang up. We will stop now
and get some of the luscious fruit,” as the car-barge
slows and draws up to an orchard station.

We who have listened spellbound to explanation are
getting over our paralysis, and are the first to jump on
land. Saucy running crazy is soon lost to view. We
dart hither and thither with delight, pulling mangoes
decking ourselves with orchids, mimicking songsters. I
wonder no more where they get their conservatory
plants. When a bell calls us to dinner.

In a bower, vine surrounded and bird enlivened, we
draw up to board, not a board, either—none, or saws to
make them are in the land, it is a great lily leaf,
blackened and enameled.

Indentations serve for places. The food, on small leaf
trays, arises from the table center dummy-like. It is in
mouthful-size pastry cups (that makes me think of home
tarts), blending grain food with other kinds. Raised
with the fingers, nothing can be neater.

The seats are leaves. Springs raise us smaller people
to a level with the rest.

I observe greatly rejuvenated looks in us and say to
Charley: “Do you see we are getting younger?” He
stops picking a pomegranate. “Certainly. It is the
purity of the atmosphere. Have you noticed, my dear,
that there has been no dust since our arrival? And,
tho’ the sun is constantly shining, no one carries a
shade or is overheated. Ah, this is the Country to live
in!” Smacking his lips before starting in again on the
fruit.

“Glorious Arc!” I can not say it enough! None
other place like thee on earth in gorgeous marvels!
Nearest to God above! I could climb a Pole to see Him,
hadst thou one! I look around to see the climatic effect
upon my aged father; but he is not here. I remember
he may be yet on the Traveler’s shoulder for farther
travel. This somewhat modifies my charm—for a short
time only, then I give way like the rest to the fulness of
this Inning Reception. As bright tints float around in
the air, on the water, and foliage, I wonder what pencil
but God’s could put them there.

As we return to the barge Saucy at my elbow grasps
my sleeve, saying, “Auntie, did you see the team that
draws the barge? If you did not, look this time, now.”

What?—what? Crocodiles?

I stagger back, then renerve myself, reassured that
what I had always supposed so hideously untameable
could be well broke, kept well in hand, presenting an
innocent pair of open countenances.

“How odd the water is Auntie,” says Mae, when we
are calmly seated. She is looking over the side, then
rises and crosses to the other. “It is high up on one
side and low down on the other.”

Robet speaks without looking up, her eyes intent on
her nephew, leaning moodily on the railing. “The river
flows sideways.”

“How—how can it?”

“It melts on its inward side, freezing on its outward
again. ”

“Making ice for cool drinks,” says the child.

While dropping in the incline I commenced a study of
the triplet sisters. Observing them distinct in style with
the river people (of whom they are, and are now to visit
their parents, Robet has said), I will describe them.

Tall and sinuous from a constant looking up to the
sky. A changeable coloring or iridescence enhances
their supple attenuation. Robet, when musing, as I
have related in the arbor above, was sober gray eyed;
when demanding so proudly Charley’s pedigree, intensely
black-eyed; then, in tears recovering him, her eyes were
blue, vapor-covered lakes. Seeing this variableness
repeated in her sisters I decided it to be constitutional; I
looked to see if it was a water reflection. No, for it is
not on us others.

Rohan and Roba are on each side getting acquainted.

To start conversation instructive to myself I ask the
gracious ladies; “How was it before the country was
dyked into a river?”

“We were not born then. Our father was contractor
and has told us how unpleasant were the freshets and
disasters yearly.”

“Whole nations were swept away. Did you not find
any down there?” Roba relates.

“I never heard, though Adam, the father of all
mankind, was very large in size, the people became smaller
afterwards.”

Looking earnestly at me I see them change slowly
from blonde to a gray tint, bending their heads in
reflection, (I see with great surprise.)

“We have always been large. I think it is the cold
zone; its slow revolution causing it. The torrid, as
Charley says, with its far revolution is very hot." A
flush on her face as she raises her serpentine head.

"It gets more sun and the people there are larger, too,” I correct.

Their eyes, my surprise increasing, turn brown as she
steadfastly gazes.

"Then it is not the cold that makes us grow, but
preserves us, giving us great age. We are milenniums old,”
she breathes gently, chestnut-haired.

I am transfixed. When able to look up I see a halo
around her head; a slight toss and it is dislodged in a ring
leaving her in violet.

Going on with her deductions a dawn color follows
her words.

"Our great size is due to our daylight.”

"But we have as much as you, tho more subdivided,” I correct again.

"You have not counted our winter daylight,” she
persists.

"Winter daylight? What is that?” I inquired.

"From the center of Arc is always arising, from a deep
cavity there, a constant glow, Aurora! In summer it is
not seen, but all winter we bask in its light.”

"How is that? I supposed Aurora only sent up fitful
lights.”

"Instead, this constant, interspersed with fitful
sputterings, that send the flame so high, lower zones do gaze
upon it.” Closing a phosphor color enfolds us, then
rises above. Notes in the waves—trumpet notes
conducted toward us till they sound all about us.
A mist-like spray is rising around. Looking out I am startled
to see a large company of people standing on the water
in the center of the river playing lily-tube trumpets as in
graceful ease they dance a stately minuet.

Raising aloft their tubes they spray the air with
perfumed drops, which, catching the rays of the sun through
the ice-cleft, a glorious rainbow arch settles above as we
draw to shore and alight upon a wharf of lily pads.

The sun passes on ahead having kept such even pace
with us all day that it had appeared to be standing still
in the sky. The heat had called for our light dress,
morrow it will be in lower horizon.

We have arrived in a city that is like the people, tall
and pointing high—a city of slim, needle-like towers.

Passing toward a mansion I turn to tell Show Off to
pattern after the young man with the river dancers,
looking so like him who was gay, when lo! he is not
with us.

“It was Show Off himself, Auntie, I saw him put on
the funny boat-shoes and drop overboard.”

"Who is the young lady he was bending over," I
inquire.

"I do not know, some more complications I expect,”
inimicably.

"Saucy," I say comically, “he is not for you.”

"I know it," sighing, “I will never have him to carry
me around on his shoulder.”

What are Savant and Roba doing ahead, walking up
the outside of a tower residence? Truly they are and
our turn come we see plenty of steps and walk up too.

Arrived at the second story we enter a low gate into
a circular room the size of the tower. Around the
outside is a row of seats which we proceed to occupy. In
front of us are promenading round and round the river
dancers, buoyant in youth.

From these Show Off leads a lustrous river maid and
presents as betrothed to his family, who can but smile
upon them, except Robet who gets quite pale. Whispering
to her, "Cheer up, Auntie, love is might," he draws her to
her feet and waltzes her around until she is hopeful again.
We all get up and dance in honor of the betrothal.

When we sit again the others wait upon us from the center of the room,
which is a mass of flowers, fruit and pastry.

The dance starting on, Robet says to me, "Let's go out."

“All right.”

She touches a button and we elevate to the top of the
tower. A branch of clove-scented vine brushes my cheek.
Seeing me peer down Robet hands a glass to see into
the shade of the tropical park beneath.

Seeing me occupied she bends down her head in
meditation. Then sighs and sighs to herself, bravely
struggling with these breakers in her love stream.

I am examining each detail in the grounds beneath.
From the palm leaf that is so strong Saucy runs up and
slides down it. Tired of this she picks an odd blossom
in shape of a tiny cupid with drawn bow. At her touch
shoots the tiny arrow and to break in fragrance. Would
that all Love’s arrows were so sweet. I suddenly realize
where the verdure of Upper Arc is produced, as familiar
forms greet me, faithfully growing up as to the summer
day. Where are they now? Glass protected in upper
arbor.

Tired of the Cupids, Mae now rolls over and over in
the grass with abandon of childish glee until she
suddenly comes upon two lovers-Show Off and Serpenta (I
have named) which latter smiles her a welcome,
stooping down to raise her to where they sit, a long, slim,
rope-looking swing or hammock. But Mae starts back
with a scream, which makes me look close. O, dear, it
is the live folds of a boa constrictor.

I get faint as Robet looks up and takes in the situation.

“Do not fear,” she says, “it does not eat children, it
is better fed.”

Imagining she is laughing at me I brace up to great
bravery, asking, “Can I ride, too?”

“Yes, we will go down, look out;” the latter in
reference to the chair upon which I sit—one of a row of seats
around the tower edge, facing outward. I look quite
curiously and assure myself its rails are in front as on
each side of me, inclosing me quite secure. Connecting
it to her own, she presses on them heavily downward.
Feeling warned, as curious I feel the top bend over
forwards, still more. I hold quite fast. My head is now
where my heels have been. This is not all; increasing
the velocity we complete the revolution, and repeat it to
the foot of the tower, where I come standing, red with
vexation (the idea of a lady of my age rolling down the
side of a house), my temperate zone stomach quite upset.

But “click” at the top. There is Roba in similar
chair, who signifying that she will join us is about to
round the edge. I recover my temper in anticipation of
being witness to her acrobatic descent—stateliness
combined. But no; she slowly goes over, smoothly, down
to the bottom dignifiedly—right side up with care. I
turn reproachfully to Robet.

“I thought you were in for a frolic,” she says
innocently.

This restores my gaiety and we return to the arbor
with zest and join the jolly crowd who are making the
warden ring. They make room for me on the boa, where
I ride, the danger enhancing the delight. I regret to get
down for others. As I do so, the great graceful head of
the boa swings close to me, the mouth opens, the eyes
dart fire; then next I discover it is an art manufacture.

“There are real ones, Auntie, but they do not let
strangers ride."

A storm is brewing, as I hear a thunder peal; no
clouds above-some are in the vista, rapidly drawing
near close to the ground. What an odd hurricane! No;
with bounds and roars a herd of white lions rush into
near precinct and wait, low crouched. Their long pink-tinted
manes make them so handsome I forget they are
fierce. Some are grand and nervous looking, others
young and playful. Calling one of the latter by name,
it wriggles from the rest to go to Show Off. Saucy
stepping up too frightens it back; but trying again he coaxes
it to him, where Saucy also strokes it, saying: "You must
give it to me to take to America," bless her.

A shout and he strides its back, then with merry bounds, race and
glee, they give us quite a circus.

My attention is called to my side by a mysterious self-satisfied
lisp. I turn to see Charley who is taking notes for future lectures. I
look over to get the train of ideas. What do I see--"How lions dance
in our country; machines put in their mouths, they sing."

"O Charley, what a drop. I had counted on your wonderful conversion,
and here you are improvising wonders."

Roban is getting social. “There are not many lions
now. They were dangerous; the city filling up has
thinned them out. Do you want one?”

I am still in chagrin, so answer crossly the
sweet-tempered lady, “What for? Will it take me home on its
back?”

She eyes me sideways, still serene. "Do you want to go
home?” I choke up in golden silence. “When you want
to go the Traveler will take you.” complacently.

Roused to ire at my earnestness being taken for jest,
I launch out disrespectfully, “That crusty man would
drop me over an iceberg and think his duty done.”

She does not heed me as her sister Robet is now
approaching quite rosy cheeked, and is about to dance me
up and down, which I never allow, when I can help
myself.

Roban says to her sorrowfully, “The little dear is
going home with the Traveler.”

I smile, then say to Robet, “When he and you are
married I will go.” Then I eye her sideways.

O what a drop! My Charley untruthful! When he
says my church raises money untruthfully in its fairs and
suppers.

I was about to have him teach this people how Christ
incarnated is to come on the earth from the clouds. Shall
I now do so instead? Yes. I select the Traveler’s
daughter as one quite wayward, and say: “Dear lady, an
American (oh no!) a man like us little folks is in the
sky, some day he will come down and make us golden
streets,” smiling broadly.

“What is gold?” she inquires.

“Something harder than rock.”

“’Twill hurt your feet; grass is better.”

"Glass houses,” I continue. “That is fine.”

"No one will marry,” O what a face she makes.

"No dear little children?” she pleads.

"No one dies,” I continue.

“O how nice and old.”

“Always fruit and flowers." I feel I am getting along nicely. When she asks:

“How is that? they being the children of tree and plant marriage.”

“I never thought of that,” but continue:

“All dead will come to life.”

“Where is the room for them?”

“All bad men will be killed off.”

“Who will kill them off?”

“He that comes out of the sky.”

“Their spirits would haunt him.”

“He would kill their spirits, too.”

“None but God can do that.”

“He is the Son of God.”

“O, is God married?” so impiously, I lose heart. But Roban comes to my
aid. With shining expectant eyes she now interrogates me.

“When will He come?” I shake my head.

“_Who_ will He bring to life?” persisting.

“Those who love Him. O dear, dear Roban, do you
love God?” I am pleading for a soul.

“That I do,” is her positive confession.

“Do you love His Son?” my hands clasped toward her.

“Anything that belongs to Him,” so beatifies me I
spring to my feet to declare:

“Then _you_ will be saved, for love is the fulfilling of
the law.”

Drops sprinkle all about. I look back of me to see
Saucy with inspired face who has been listening. Thus
bestowing this rite upon this new convert, who strangely
takes on a serious look.

“I know whom you mean,” she says. “He does like
this,” pointing her hands as in prayer. What can she
mean?

“He comes here to teach us.”

“Who, who? It cannot be He, the Son. Does the
spirit of an apostle transfigured appear in this city—this
city of love? I am astounded.”

“He says that in a century hence electricity will create
a human being.”

What can she mean? Is the camera-eye, telephone-ear to be supplemented by a
dynamo head, put on locomotive lungs and stood on wheel feet?

Truly here is sympathy in Arc for such invention.

Twenty-four hours without sleep. I yawn so terribly.
Robet anxiously straightens me out on a chair for repose.

I dream in shadow of friends and home. Saucy’s mother hugs her close.

Next my chair is moved easily along and I open my
eyes in an ice grotto, where a large company is assembled,
whom I imagine are the many relatives.

As older people, like them in feature are occupying
special chairs of state—the parents?

The change to cool arbor from summer heat is so
greatly refreshing I regain animation.

At the parents’ request, we are placed on pedestals for
exhibition.

“Are all so small?” they inquire.

"We are medium. There are midgets and giants,” we reply.

"How greatly you have multiplied. How great the
size of the earth in comparison with Arc. You do more
wonderful acts in proportion as you have more land to
work upon."

They place their hands upon our heads in token of
membership in their family.

# “There is magic in the air.”

Another pedestal is being occupied by Show Off and
Serpenta, who are dancing a betrothal. In graceful
pose and gesture, his movements are an epic poem in
majesty and solid grandeur, her’s the duplicate shadow
of his, with interlacing quicksteps. An ice dance on
the ice, the feet not raised off. The complication of
steps is insidious to the eye in their noiseless turns.
Noiseless? rising on the air is a melody, that grows and
lessens, produced by the swift slipping. Ending in smooth
tone as true love ought.

When it is over, and the company dispersed, I wander
around by myself to soon get lost in the tangle of halls,
which labyrinth every way. Just here are niches in the
walls with statues of people and animals like life. Here
is a family group. The host is deep in Arc news ball
(writing rolled up) his wife is crossing the floor toward
the grandma, asleep in her arm chair, a kitten rolled
up beside it. A child is playing on the floor. I touch
its soft hair. It is cold. An idea enters my mind.
Have not all these been once alive, and now ice
embalmed? I intrude no farther. None look up to ask me
to stay. A charm comes over me driving all uncanny
sense away. How pleasant to have our dead welcome
among us, as though not lost.

Now I come to rooms of birds and other pets. A boa
that swung Robet in olden time. What is this, an
elephant like the mammoth, ice-locked in southern zone.
Washed away?

“O auntie!"

I turn nervously around. It is not Miss Mae but
Miss Serpenta. Show Off’s betrothed, who has mistaken
my name.

"Miss Robet is in the great hall, where Charley
(mistake) is going to lecture. It is superbly decorated, a
great globe of the earth in the center, colored. He will
tell all about it. He has counted out a thousand and
one inventions never seen here. He says he will
lionize the natives. She told me to find you, for though
any can enter an open archway, none can open a closed
door.”

I begin to feel as if Blue Beard lived here. The open
rooms are so magnificent and shining one need not hunt
him up.

“The cue in the halls,” goes on the friendly girl, “is
to keep on the smooth path. The lecture will soon
begin. She is afraid you will take cold or something and
wants you by to watch you.”

“To watch me!” I muse maliciously. “Did I come,
clear to Arc to be watched by an old maid, an old one
truly?”

_I turn to the rough path_. What is that under that
chair? I do believe it is a paper. Charley has dropped
some of his notes. I am so tired. I will sit down while
I pick them up. Why don’t they come out? I get up
and perceive the chair is an open work door, solid built.

“O,” says Serpenta, trembling, as I hurry to undo the
bar. She is paralyzed. As I open the door a little way,
I see in the jar a Blue Beard. I said the lions are pink,
this one is blue. His paw on the paper, his breath on
me. No art manufacture now.

I dream in shadow. I see Show Off, who has followed
his girl, with one tremendous blow put us two around an
archway. The lions are in the room. They mind him
not. When did a king mind? They see me not. I see
them from reflections on the ice mirror walls.

He leans against a column and plays. (He has in his
mouth a harmonica, Saucy’s property.) Plaintive at
first, then shrill, one note touches a chord in the lions’
ears. They shake their heads. It comes again. They
snort. A mother back of them calls to a lost babe; three
heroes go to her aid flying. The door is shut. Tableau.

The lecture is very good. When it comes to lions I
am surprised to see in the archway behind Charley, no
less than Show Off astride his young thoroughbred, who,
when lions are said to dance and play music in America,
this one dances and plays behind the speaker, who looks
back wild eyed. The harmonica in its mouth, Show Off
chokes out the strains with his hands. So apt and
comical is it, the speaker himself breaks out laughing.
Show Off has learned to read Unit writing. He got the
paper under the door. Did not get left by a Unit scion.

I am sitting by the girl, who says:

“I could listen all day about the marvelous people
when Aunt Robet takes you home I will go along. ”

“O say no more," I implore. "I feel so lost when I think
of home.”

“To-morrow,” I see she is going to make me happy
again, “I will take you over the city. It is one of many
that occur every ten miles. This side the river is our
summer home, the other is our winter.”

The next morning I take to the tower top and delight
myself by discovering another motion still of the chairs.
It is a circle whirl which I practice until I feel I am
seasoned to any mode of motion sprung on me.

Serpenta seeks me out, and asks me sweetly what
place we shall visit first.

“O, no matter.”

“A library?”

“Very well.”

She connects our chairs securely, as did Robet, and
presses them to motion, without saying as did Robet,
“look out.”

We are moving—how, _how_? Her “look out,” had
she said it, would have helped one less than Rohet’s.
For this is worse—so much more worse.

Not so exhilarating, quite the opposite. I am losing
my breath in a faint, so utterly unprepared am I, for we
are moving straight out into space. I look sideways to
see Serpenta calm. I look in front, if to see a track,
none there. Nothing above or below to hold, not even
a wire. Still we are steady and aim to another tower
top that is rapidly nearing. Now we stop on it. I get
down and walk around my chair to find its wizard
action. No track, did I say? There is a track—good
rail track behind. It pops into my head it is after the
method devised some years ago for a railroad to lay its
track as it went, but must have land to lay it on. This
carries and steadies its supplements—bridge-like.

We descend the elevator into an elegant room of many
windows and drapery, seat ourselves beside one, high
and wide. The scene outside is exquisite. Some fur-clad
people are on the ice around a fire cooking. A ship in the
distance is ice locked.

But there is no ice in this neighborhood.

“How do you like the picture?” asked Serpenta
eagerly.

“O, the window is a picture; it is fine," I reply
enlightened.

“Is it like your people that go in ships? ”

“They must be the last explorers whom Savant found.
How I wish I could rescue them and bring them into
Arc.”

“Did you say this is a library, where are the books?”

She presses on the picture frame; it changes as a part
advances, opens and is a book. The back was part of
the picture. It is Savant’s story in pictured writing and
quite enlists my sympathy. Seeing me tearful she takes
me outside and leaves me in a shrubbery plot, while I
attempt to compose my features.

Hearing a sob from someone else close by, I am upset
again and weep in sympathy. I peer through the
low-lying branches and see Robot in a mossy nook, giving
way to hysterical bitterness, her hands over her face.

Now, two other hands pull them away to give her
view of the laughing face of Show Off. She pushes him
off spitefully. Partly losing his balance, he settles back
on his heels, still laughing, seeing which with her toe
she completes his overthrow and leaves him in the moss
as she continues unconstrained her grief.

Show Off picks himself up sobered and looks around
for other occupation. I do also view the surroundings.
I perceive this building is over the river. Before I salute
Robet, she arises and stamps away.

Passing my retreat I hear her moan:

“You are lost, O my darling.”

Something drops gently upon my hand. I look down
to see a round button-like object attached to a line that
goes up above.

I raise it, when the string sways out from the tree,
free from aught else but the sky.

I feel in my hand a signal, which I recognize. By my
knowledge of Arc as a “hello," which I answer back.
Then comes a communication:

“I am away up in the sky. Who are you?"

Thinking some trick is being played on me I answer:
“Robet.”

Ting a ling ling. They are happy. (Can it be the
Traveler?)

Hoping so, I telephone on the line, in Robet’s voice:

“It is my darling!”

I hear back: “It is sounding from the clouds in accents
of her voice. O, clouds, speak again.”

“When will my darling come again?”

“Do you want me, dear? I will wander no more.
But it is fine up here. I go like light. Thoughts cannot
travel faster.”

“My darling is like a spirit of air for speed.”

“I will speed to you, dear.”

“His daughter pines for him.”

“Not her.”

“My heart is full of love. This winter I will marry
him and journey with him in the famous sky. Here are
ten thousand kisses to last till winter shall bring him
home.”

“My coach frets to be going. But this winter it shall
stop for a season.”

The button darts upward.

Robet—I say in my mind—weep not. There are fairies around.
I look up to see Show Off in front of me.

"What", he says “come to school?"

“Yes,” I answer vaguely, seeing no sign of such institution.

He slides back of me in the foliage, a door revealing a busy scene:

Men, women and children are scattered about,
variously occupied. Some are writing upon sheets of
transparent material. The pictured script, which subjected
to a solution, is shrunk to microscopic dimensions.
Other occupations are on each side, extending in a line.

On the farther side of each room are windows looking
outside. The school rooms being divided from the inner
halls and libraries by the umbrageous alley, in which we
sit.

Wheeling my seat ahead (which goes, tree and all, a.s
though one piece on rollers) Show Off explains:

“This school or fair, as Charley calls it, (would I
could take it home for exhibition) is devoted to silk.”

I see in process of construction pictures, screens,
garments, carpets (which I had taken for sward) with
American articles devised from Charley’s lectures. These
last are brought out to me for my benefit. A worker
hands me a glass of water, which another puts a bouquet
of flowers into, on which lights a canary and sings a
song, as a fuzzy dog puts up his paws at my side. All
are silk.

Down spinning comes a spider. I did not like its
looks. It opens its mouth saying:

“Come into my parlor.”

I turn away saying: “No American parlor this, but
fairyland, sung of poets and imagined in spirit by
painters." As I become absent-minded, Show Off closes the
doors and leaves me alone.

I look straight up into the sky, thinking of the button,
when an odd little sky speck attracts my inquisitiveness,
for it is growing larger very fast, as it no doubt is
coming down very fast. Strangely heavy for a fleecy cloud,
which it looks to be. Down to the opening, through to
the tower top it stops by my side. The cloud is off, as
out steps father and Saucy, and I spring convulsively to
my feet off the rock I had leaned on in ease.

Holding my hands together Mae quiets my nerves.

“O, auntie,” with glowing cheeks and shining eyes
of sky angel. “Did you not know they do this here?
See, this is the string of the cloud balloon I hold.”

“But Mae, the Traveler is up there and is not
friendly.”

“O, Grandpa has been civilizing him, so I have asked
him to the wedding.”

“How is that?”

“Serpenta is his niece, so he might as well come and
be reconciled. Won’t there be an explosive,” she adds
gleefully.

"Now Grandpa and Auntie," as she sits down by my side, "take up your
bill of fare, and while we dine, we will talk of going home."

A table in our midst has been spread, a la American.

"Bill of fare?" I query.

"Yes, that menu by your plate."

I had taken it for a leaf decoration. It is named at the top _A Leaf
from Webster_. Webster's dictionary? It is the first page of S as that
initial heads each dish. Sabine-fish, sacar-game, saccharine-pastry,
sack-drink.

Serpenta comes in with Show Off behind her and sits up opposite. As we
part the fish with our knives and forks, so new to them, they are
delighted and get us to do theirs.

As Saucy blandly puts a piece in her mouth with her fork, they rush to
her, thinking her mouth speared. She drops the fork.

In father's hand is so familiar shape of white China cup and filling
also. I hastily taste my own. It is "ice cream," the white cup a
maccaroon.

But as the spoon, with which I tasted, goes into my mouth, they rush
to me, thinking it strained. We drop now our spoon and take up the
sack, which is in Arc cups shaped like bottles, which are gum paste.

To cover our discomfiture, we arise in unison, touch and drink boon
fashion. When boom, crack, roar, the ground beneath us shakes.

The two opposite, natives, here, spring to their feet with distending
eyes, standing transfixed as the cracking roar continues, listening to
the approach of a sucking, whistling sound, which long drawn, lessens
and gradually disappears when they recover composure.

My first idea of panic was that it was God's displeasure of our
dissipation. Quickly banishing this I recognized the crackling as that
of ice, which denoted the real danger. The sucking sound was so like
water, which, escaping to the river, had ended the commotion.

Ah Arc! Highest of all! Yet is death ever beneath!

Resuming our seats I bethink me of Saucy’s proposition:

“Going home, Saucy?”

“Yes, to America.”

“To America!” I echo again.

“Yes, will this be an easy way?” getting up and
coming to take hold of me, as though I was to be scared.

“An easy way.” I cannot think what she is driving
at, when it comes out.

“Yes, the way we are sailing in the air.”

I clutch the rock (as did Fitz James) muttering as did
he, “This rock shall fly from its firm base, as soon as I.”

But too late, the rock is flying with me on it through
the air in combination of the rest on the plot. Tower
and schools are left behind, so quick done I had been
observant.

By effort accepting the situation, I turn to Show Off,
jocularly:

“How far can this go?” in reference to the proposition.

“To the sun, if you want a scorcher,” he answers with
assurance.

“I have been studying, Auntie.” She studying, “We
can place relays of these over the border."

“But the compass?” I interrupt.

“We will measure straight between each relay until
the compass rights itself,” sitting down herself
contentedly.

I get up and choke her with a hug. “You blessed
child, given me a way to get home.”

I forgive her immediately and all the rest for the
dreadful scares I have been victim. I think of home
scenes, so far away, and compare with these of this
delightful land. I must confess, I prefer as magnificence,
these. But the blessed mascot has studied how to get
home.

It being possible, my full spirits rebound.

“Next spring will do to go,” I say, anxious now to
stay, where before I was anxious to go—now that I
could.

The next day I am so light of heart and light of step
I take trust that my old statue heaviness cannot again
weigh me down.

Initiated to the schools, as the place where all
work, (Arc life above, mostly a recreation) I become alert to
choose an industry. Saucy arriving, takes from her
pocket silk and needle, deftly fashions a butterfly, which
she affixes, waving to my shoulder. As I ask: “What
can I do?”

“O, you can print the books you write, you know.
And Charley,” laughing, “can paint.”

The days fly swiftly by. The sun has rounded down
toward the horizon. Twilight is our only day. Clouds
skim the blue sky. Cream foam in portend of storm,
driving us to the warmth of the towers that are now
getting a layer of arctic protection.

Bright days only let us out to tour the cities, making
the round trip roundly. Each tour develops a new
specialty, marvelous and absorbing our interest.
Though the upper sky, out of the crevasse, is getting a
soft black color, still the air around has a light of its
own that is not artificial in any sense—proceeding from
the center aurora, that is becoming oftener in action.
Scanning it closely one day, as I am returning home, I
mistake the door and curiously look around at the grand
hall in which I find myself.

The walls, like all others, shining and sparkling, are
here, strangely glimmering and glinting, quite dazing
my eyes.

I ask a slim little Arc maid I see walking about in
absorbed fashion, “What place is this?”

“Holy Hall,” is her impressive reply.

“Then you have a church after all. Do you pray to
God?"

“Not in words as you. God knows before.”

“Then what is Holy Hall?” I persist.

“Where people are holy.”

“O, what makes it glisten so?”

“It holy spiritualizes all within.”

“Then no evil spirits can come to this communion of
saints.” Quite bestows comfort and relief.

The walls are landscaped in crackled scenery, and at
intervals against their centers aloft, are fastened most gorgeous
state chairs, supported by brackets that have separate and more
distinct gleam. I turn again quickly, awed to inquire. I look into the
face of Savant, who is intently regarding my express.

“The chairs,” I say, “are they alive"

“Yes,” he replies, “to make the dead alive, who come to sit in them."

“O, is this where Rohan saw the scientific angel?"

I rigidly regard the one nearest to me to see it being
occupied by a familiar face and form. (Familiar by
engraving). It is _George Washington._

A hand appears from the air, resting on his arm, which
slowly materializes the form to which it is attached.

I open my mouth in awe, for I recognize again
President Lincoln—the _martyr_, as joining him in touch
appear his generals. My memory goes back to that
struggle of civil strength, at the sight.

Then I strive to awaken myself, as though I must
have fallen strangely asleep, scarcely believing the
illusion before me.

Not crediting the tales of spiritualist societies, I
cannot likewise discredit the Bible records. Knowing I
have not, as likely the excellent souls in Arc, have not,
in wantonness profanely tempted this array, I, in
deference to the manifestation, wait resignedly. I clasp my
hands in added awe as Savant touches me to inquire:

“Who are they?”

“Upon the other side of our country’s father has
appeared. Ah, who? Jefferson Davis and his gray-clad
staff.”

I wring my hands as Savant touches me again.

“There was a war,” I gasp. “Do they hear? They
look down and smile at me, even the rebel, at whom I
shake my finger.

“You earned it, to be a President. You tried to cut a
great country in two; deluging it in blood.”

In my electric state I see the root of the real cause—ambition of earthly state. The root of evil that grew to
a tree of distrust of brother to brother. Each aroused in
strength of pride to combat of their separate interests.

He replies resignedly. "I did not want war. It conquered back the
Union."

The father hastily spreads his hands in benediction. So like prayer I
ask:

"Do _you_ go to _see_ God in _spirit_ form?"

Then dropping on my knees, “O tell me of Jesus.”

"It was my republic. The kingdom of God to men--the people. He taught
to pray for."

"How could you be 'Our Father' before you were born?"

"The testimony of Jesus is the spirit of prophecy.”

"You, the father of Jesus, how is He the son of God?”

"As such to teach republic love. I will ask my pastor."

"Will He come at the end of the second millennium in
body form and bestow body life on good spirits to that
end preserved?" I, endeavoring to prophecy.

“It will be evolved scientifically to all," astounds me.

"Good and bad, where will be room for them?" skeptic.

”Some will dwell in air; O, in cloud balloons.”

"Will they eat and work as they do now?”

“The same.”

“Must they live and cannot die?”

“Live or die as they do choose?”

“Have war?

"There will be universal peace in a universal
republic," as one foot steps forward to disappear.

I hurry to ask: "Was Jesus the Christ of the Jews?"

"The seed of Abraham in which all nations should be
blessed."

“What about David’s throne?”

“The promise was to Abraham, not to David. The
latter’s throne will be raised to a republic.”

“Was the spirit of republic first of Jesus?”

“From the beginning of God.”

As a foot disappears. “Will woman equalize in its
rule, Presidentess as of God?

“That is the universal rule.”

Another foot starts, I haste again. “Who is the
devil?” But he is gone too quick. And around about
me come living people; friends at home.

“Can the living come?” I ask Savant, who is still
near.

“In spirit form just the same.”

I talk to them; they to me, the news of each. We
walk about and discuss the people and the occasion,
quite content in each other’s society.

In the center of the room, upon a pedestal are Serpenta
and Show Off. I do believe they have been married, for
this has been the assembly. We arrive at their side
with loving wishes, in time to see a chamois garlanded
close by. We hear the word “initiation” and stuff our
mouths at its American misapplication.

The crowd are gone and spirit friends. I say to Saucy:

"Let’s go to bed,” who replies:

"I have just woke up. I went in dream to see Mamma.
She was crying. I put my arm around her neck and she
lean her head on me and was comforted. I told her I
would come home in a cloud, which scared her so, I
laughed out loud. She heard, and looked about the room, then took her
work. I think I will go every night to see her.

My father is brushing by my arm. I say:

"Oh, what do you think, I saw my little children who are dead, in dear
mother's care. They have been growing by my side. I knew them plainly
and realize I have oft consciously caressed them. What is the element
producing the phenomena?"

"It is positive electricity confined by glass. The balloons of clouds
are thus manipulated and strong to carry a number of people. I am
studying how constructed, to use them in our return."

I go out hastily into the night, the long night of this city. My mind
so wrought upon by home people I look up at the velvet black sky, and
pray:

> Silent night! Above me \
> Thy sublimity far reaching \
> Opens to Omniscience! \
> Specks are thy sun system \
> In dotted plain! \
> Mindful of human pain— \
> Communest thou peace? \
> Longing to leave this place. \
> Great everywhere, guide me, \
> Guiding me here, guide me hence. \
> I await thy signal \
> In calm acceptance.

What? A Crown of Radiance arisen there. A solemn bell
tolls forth; streams of light are shed around in spectrum
sparks; the river banks are deserted; the towers
tenantless, as each citizen hastens to the inner aisles of
verdure depths, where issues shadowed fire.

I keep pace with Savant, whom first I see and reach
with him an inner balcony that is endless in curving
ring each side, making amphitheater around the city.
The center is a great open rotunda, of fields, miles broad,
of shaking ice. A flame of gold supplying the Crown
above ascends out of a round cavernous crater in the
center.

Savant seats himself on a raised broad platform,
commanding a view of the whole scene. I unconsciously
sit beside him. Beneath our feet I see a rug of
“hel”iotrope. (_Note:_ The quotation marks in the flowers give
a double meaning. A “hel” meaning heel on the rug.)
A hedge of “wall”flower hems us in from a row of
poplar tree columns. Before us on a table is spread a
set of "China” asters under a canopy of blue iris (flag).
As Canterbury “bells” ring forth, we begin a feast.

The centerpiece is a large “sweet-pea” cock, flanked
by “chick”weed on each side, “butter”cup, “pica”lily
and “pitcher”plant have places.

Alarm at my heart at the solemn tolling bell had
hastened my feet hither. To find a scenic banquet is
what puzzling. The usual ascending glow, with its
usual reversal of shadows, is augmented by the added
source, in new portraiture, adding to the picturesqueness
of the occasion. Taught at home that all people without
Christ are barbaric, I was expecting an abject worship
of the disturbed elements. Instead I am pleased as
surprised to find it an inspiration of interest only.

I look to get their knowledge of the phenomena. For
its solution I have left home and risked my life. That they
fear it not, is evident. Instead they love and reverence its
benefaction to them—lighting and warming their homes
all winter; their winter daylight-as Roban said, in their
interior winter quarters. Unusually quiet this season so
far, but this is to outdo all, make up for lost time,
unprecedented in grandeur. That they understand it I am
solicitous to know. I could catch a word now and then.
I could understand in the voluble tonic, stream of talk
I read from their gestures and expressive faces some
meaning of their patriotic interest.

The morning banquet at an end, all sit back in their
seats and look at Savant as though some special
ceremony is to ensue. Thoroughly excited, I see him hold a
state book and read:

“We receive again God’s sign of the disturbance of
aurora—our beautiful mother in the earth—who gathers
us each winter around her fireside to comfort us in its
warm beams.

“What is aurora?

“Yearly we ask this question. None have answered
us. We yearly invite our subjects to explore her
confines, whence she lights her beacon. We invite now.

“Who will descend the Glory Hall to pay devoirs to
the country’s goddess.”

I had followed him quite plainly. When he stopped,
in the silence that followed a great light filled my eyes,
as the idea that engendered it filled my mind.

I a“rose” in my seat, which latter is a rose vine--insignia of
aurora—-which word I hear in suppressed
intuition in application to myself as a branch of bloom
settles on my head wreath-like. Raising my hands in
acceptance of the undertaking, they look calmly at me,
incredulous, when I speak in full earnest tones:

“I will go, God of the universe, Creator of aurora has
led me hither for that purpose.”

Sitting again, they are convinced, and much upset in
their calculations, that I so small should answer the
great request.

In their surprise I get full revenge of all I have been
subject of so long.

Now, all look at Savant, which occasions me to do the
same. The phenomenal wave of thought, individual to
him, wraps his countenance in stormy struggle. He
speaks:

“We cannot accept, in duty to guest and stranger.”
But I gesture firmly.

Again he is submerged with greater struggles to
exhaustion of his great strength, when an enduring calm
arises in his face, like a smiling island in a hurricane
tossed sea. Waving his hands, as I had done, he speaks:

"I will take you.”

All arise in consternation and press about us. Mae,
wild-eyed, shakes me back and forth. Father buries his
face in his hands. Roba and Charley only, clap their
hands. The tide now turns in our favor; all is pleasant
bustle. The tender social visiting of their usual tenor
and normal habit is changed to agitation in concocting
a mode of preparation to ensure our safety, resulting in
an elaborate scheme of training, to which we are
subjected, separately, next day.

Bandaged securely we are rolled about and tossed.
Suspended to a long rope we are dangled in mid air,
swung in a circle with increasing speed. Hands are
waved before us, jumping and shouting indulged in to
harden our nerves. Left alone, click, the floor beneath
is loosening, revolving, opening, black darkness ensues,
then lights glimmer around; bells, whistles and
reverberations fill all the air with din, followed by melody so low
as scarcely to be heard—the music of the spheres.

This has taken days, as it has been necessary to repeat
each lesson, over and over. Quite unnecessary, I think,
is so much pains of preparation.

But at last the day is appointed, as all things are
ready.

The city is astir from center to circumference. We
are on view in Central Hall. The masses pass by us in solemn file to
take leave of us, as of their dead. I feel to smile, but like the dead
am turned to stone.

We next are placed in a round crystal globe receptacle.
Packed in, Savant's unique instruments to his hand.
Fluid food to our mouths through a tube. Condensed
air to our nostrils. We are locked in by Savant.

Now carried out on a long platform pier toward the
abyss and placed upon the top of a huge iceberg mass--as weight to
sink us.

Dynamite hurls us out over fields and blocks of
surging ice lifting us into the rose enfolding pit. My sole
experience is precipitation. Conscious of swift descent
unattended by jar, thrilled to the center of my being, I
realize my position.

Readers, what is to ensue, is the special key to the
phenomena of Astronomy. For the contents of the next
few pages, I have written this story.

I am not the first who has thought the earth to be
hollow and entered at the Arctics. Also that a rolling fire,
and open sea, are within. That I _define_ this fire, and its
_safe control_, thereby discovering the _secret_ of our planet,
and its object in the solar system, is the first time such
definition has been given ever. Is of such high
importance I deem it my solemn duty to publish it.

Adding a relevant definition of the Sun, and other sky
objects, is but following out the line, struck by the first
keynote.

In comparison with the present indefinite theory, this
illustration far exceeds it in practical demonstration-ever satisfactory to truthful students.

Shelly in the time of Byron voiced this promise of the
Arctics.

Poets have sung of its unknown city.

Capital and life have ever embarked for its discovery.

The smoke has cleared, leaving a steady moonlight,
brightness intensified. I think to look below and see
there a moon, round and glistening, many miles in width,
its grandeur startling. Transfixed, I see it grow, as it
is plainly coming up higher. To relieve my eyes I look
to one side to see its appurtenances, only to find none.
The sides of the cavern are far away and undiscernible.
I am puzzled. Resolving to understand this unexpected
bearing, I look first at my watch. A new puzzle is on
its face. Its calendar declares the passage of days since
I have been here. I turn square to the beautiful moon
beneath me and bravely steady my understanding, for a
queer unrest sensation is trying to creep on me.

Though I throw it off, in its terrifying aspect, yet it
wraps me round and permeates my consciousness.
That this moon, now so quiet and glittering, is not only
the fire producing the Aurora smoke, but something
more. The painful solicitude of Arc people at letting
me do this daring act, that to me looked like mockery
is demonstrative of their better understanding. If
Savant knew what was to happen, I cannot say, for I
cannot speak to him, nor he to me, nor see each other’s
faces. I am alone with the problem I have put myself
in. My old statue sense upholds me. I lean on it as I
place straight the lines of new knowledge—that the moon
I see is not a moon, but the central fire of the whole
earth—the molten mass of astronomical science.

That it does not fill the whole center is second new
knowledge, for a haze of distance is each side and above
denoting far removal of the earth crust, egg shell,
undiscoverable even by the powerful lens of the crystal
globe around me. Central of the earth, it may be
thousands of miles below, though slowly growing. My strained
eyes take its impress on their inner orbs. Wherever I
look it is there. I settle bravely to scan it, enchanted.
A new phase comes over it. A flame column is rearing; breaks and
sparks fly upward as coals snap outward. Should the latter hit the
crust, so far away, it would stir it somewhat, giving the outward
inhabitants a shock of earthquake. I have it--this is the cause of
earthquakes. Third new knowledge.

Nearer to the flame that now rolls back and forth as if
to engulf us, it bends downward on each side as if the
space around it were also below it. Thus have I seen
our hall lamp do at home when disturbed by air currents.

Lamp! Lamp! Is the earth a lamp?

Before me is the key note.

Hiss, crack! it is our life preserver—the iceberg
beneath us. Melted to vapor it will ascend and carry our
globe to Arc again.

Listening with wildly beating heart in intense
suspense, I become unconscious as fiery serpents twine
beneath me.

At last recovered I look again; but no longer there.
Ah, above? Have we passed it?

Below it and still descending. I lean heavily and
wholly on my statue. The days make no impress on
me. Not even when I see the sky out of southern zone.
Coldly viewing the Southern Cross Constellation of sun
stars, the planet Mercury comes between, taking on a
peculiar distinct phase. I sluggishly remember that in
a mine the planets are seen thus at noon-day. Ah! is
the earth’s center to be a mine to me?

My eyes become exhilarant as I quickly investigate.
I can see its (Mercury’s) rivers, mountains plainly. I
can see into it. As I get excited, I see an inside
flaming fire, as earth’s. Then it is—-yes, a lamp, also.

The planets lamps? Where are their chimneys? I
inspect again. There certainly is no chimney to guard
the draught. I will study. Oh, why did I not notice
before, it is more like a Chinese lantern—candle inside,
colored shade outside.

I look in ecstasy for days. It is, as is our dear
mother earth, a beautiful Japanese lantern; made by
Deity’s hand to revolve around the glowing sun.

A sun ray spectrums the interior of earth. O, beam
alive with electric, spirit intelligence, give me a sign.
The sun itself comes. My eye, on fire, looks into its
soul. O, sun, what art thou? Worshiped by some as
God, by all as a great life giver. Ages past and future
will you roll, unguided by man.

I am now so hot I wonder if I have partly warmed the
inside of my statue being, (so wholly benumbed I
became at the knowledge of passing below the earth’s
center, inside light—losing all shadow of hope of seeing
Arc again—that my marble state was more than ever
marbleized). Now that I am treated, in lieu of home, to
new explanations of past astronomical phenomena, is
some recompense to my constitutionally enthusiastic
mind.

Holding down an equally strong impulse to desire to
tell this new acquisition, I let it unfold to myself to warm
me under my marble shield. What follows fast? Vision
upon vision is enlarging my interior sense of human life,
until my outside is only cold. My whole inner is
seething in ardor until my eyes break through the statue
thrall. Too hasty—the light blinds me. I close them
impatiently; open slowly.

Is the sun a China lamp? O, no, no; but an American
electric arc light. I hurrah unrestrainedly!

Around it dance its gay planets as it sits and beams
warmly upon their atlas garniture--a round crystal-globed
lamp. I see a marking on the disc. Does it designate
a disturbance within? It grows and changes. Would
that some astronomer were here. The globe in which I
sit is steady in its motion, but the marking on the sun
changes oft. I look up toward the earth flame to see
coming from its side more coals and smoke; also so far
one side as to clear its blaze safely, is a huge mass-—yes,
ice-—coming swiftly directly over me. Having collected
all this hard winter, it has rolled over the edge of Arc to
complete my destruction for my daring temerity.
Resolving to retain consciousness, I look downward at the
sun spot. It has changed; is changing, as does the ice
mass above me. Can that mass, in eclipse from the
light above, be the spot? I believe it is, and that it will
now strike us.

Hitting only on the edge of our anchor, ice, it spins
the globe off into space, over and over, vapor spouts
adhering. But I have seen behind us a slim stationary
object. Is it? Oh, is it a fixture to hold the earth flame?

Relieved of our heavy ice we gravitate to it (as the
mass evaporates, filling the interior with Aurora prisms.
These escaping at both northern and southern zone
let, are certain proof of the attending phenomena).

Sliding along its length we curve toward the side of
the earth which I shall hope soon to see. Coming at
last far away, like a cloud, now to it, we dip down (or
the rod fixture on which we slide, as though some inner
electric lode drew us).

This quite mysterious direction engages my study as
we pass under the earth-crust, as it, China-lantern
transparent like, curves by above us as if in a rim. I study;
why the crust of the earth turns round and round, and
not the rod! Surely no earthly lantern is so elaborately
constructed.

Engaged in study I find myself outside. The rod
arises now in height of location and branches to each
side of the crust-rim, fork like. Extending, we go out,
out toward the sun. As we lightly bound hither and
thither, side and about, I catch a backward glance of the
continent America. Tears fill my eyes. As I press them
out I see approaching a white cliff on the rod, covering
its width. This side are crowding a swarm of tiny
people absorbed in dislodging a huge boulder of which
the ground is covered. Clinging about them is
transparent vapor that floats and densities, collecting
over their heads. They jump into the air, whirl over
harlequin like and descend to push again the boulder.

No sign of vegetation; there must be no stir. Can the
vapor be their breath? Why does it not float away? In
the globe I have tubes to my nose that supply my breath.

The little fairies, are they (I pinch myself) getting
into mischief? An adult makes peace by administering
sharp pinches. As one moves its mouth to howl, I do
too, but cannot make a sound; neither does the child
who cries without. I see the reason. A thin filmy
gauze surrounds it confining the vapor breath.

Over goes the boulder lightly as if hollow. Losing its
rod gravitation it flies off toward the earth and
disappears, (dashing on its surface—an aerolite).

Ere they select another we enter their midst. Not
seeing us within, they grasp the globe and roll it over.
Seeing a debris marring its shining surface they pound
it off. This removed from the fastening Savant swings it
open, Pandora-box-like, as off they rush. Winding carefully
his breath tubes about him, Savant takes tools, solutions,
etc., and stepping out carefully inspects the boulder’s
surface. (Are they the dust on the rod?) Selecting one
he quickly works. Indents and excavates a large round
cavity, disclosing a glittering black diamond interior,
disappearing inside as he works. I, curiously steer the
globe to the entrance. The inside smooth he places a
block in the center, obvious as rest to the globe which I
steer to and stop on, seeing myself an equal distance
from the interior sides. Satisfied, he proceeds to throw
a solution over the latter, which brings out a picture or
reflection from the globe-disc, camera-like. Is the
picture the interior of the earth? I scan it curiously.

After the ice border (around the north pole) land with
one only vegetation, a white cactus. White is the color
of the whole inside except some blackened spots. The
cactus skin is clothing of a people who appear, who eat
the pulp and work the thorns into houses and into ships
as water, first shallow, deeper grows; and again into
forts upon the cacti branches growing up out of the water,
thorn protected from sea monsters. Then these last
range alone.

A great blur where we passed the light, more sea
includes the lower half.

I exclaim to myself in bitter mood, is this all!

I am quite disenchanted. Is this our brother earth
man? So flat; more wide than tall, who cannot lift his
feet on account of his centrifugal location; thorn artists;
skewering hair, umbrella like. Nesting on trees as high
as Jack’s beanstalk. A shade outside draws us hastily
there. How came this emerald lawn with ruby roses
sapphire lilies, made of the gem rock centers.

The shade increasing relieves my eyes to see distinctly.
As the tiny artists finish their work by sprinkling the
sparkling dust over themselves and resume their jubilee
racket. Suddenly I get an odd sense that they are
different from ordinary human beings. Grace in every
motion. Fair flowing hair; deep-dell gray eyes are of
plain human being species. Still I notice strongly a
difference as they gather now and hurriedly consult.
Children and adults. Are the latter all mothers or fathers?

I cannot tell.

Before solution dawns I look up and find the moon is
approaching close over. Is it whence the unique mites
have their origin?

Still in the globe, ray attention turns wholly to it, for
the globe-lense shows it distinctly enough to read its
surface. Its mountains, valleys, and—yes, certainly,
human cities grow upon my vision. So interested am I, I
forget to look for appurtenances or attachment fixtures,
in my new custom of practical demonstration.

As I get an important discovery of inventive
construction in a certain locality straight in my mind, it is almost
knocked out, as now, directly over, I perceive a central
light inside the satellite. It is a taper-kind and in
disturbance. A burst of blackness drops from it and down
toward me. Keenly alarmed, the tots are more so, as
they, run and fall down and dig faces and hands beneath
the boulder debris.

As trembling thus they lay, I get another impress of
them which suddenly takes definite form. The solution
is present. The father and mother, before mysterious,
are also present. What is quite astonishing, these two
are one human being. Uncanny sense-gives way to
delight at the vision of strength and dignity, so masculine;
enhanced by grace and tenderness, so feminine.

I feel to clap my hands, but the inky blackness is
coming down so fast I look to it. Wavering white spots are
on it; reflections of the white cliffs below. The forks of
the rod are plain and take on a familiar contour.
Contour of the Milky Way. Is _that_ a mirage of this rod on
night sky?

The cloud falls and fells Savant too, nearly breaking
the globe, as it splashes upon the nearest white cliff.
The air now clears and cools as the deposit whitens,
emitting a familiar odor. What! wax dropped out of
the moon?

The tots arise and fly with gauzy robes to the
side and clamber excitedly about. Savant arises and
enters the globe, proceeding to steer that way.

As the moon takes a smiling adieu I turn my attention
again to it. I hunt some before I find a faint line, far
away attached to the earth-rim, obviously its fixture.
Simple but inexplicable in action. Though an electric
connection in the rim may turn the earth-crust it would
not also turn the moon, as the latter’s motion is monthly,
not daily.

Unable to solve this I complete my former broken
discovery that the constructions on it are telescopes.
Mining, maybe. Informing its people of the earth and how
to get there.

Approaching the cliff a digging is heard inside. Then
breaks out a waxen aperture, (closed by the splash) and
out peeps a tiny head. We follow the rest, unseen, into
the inner court of their mountain lodge.

Wax-carved alcoves, cloud styles, line a large area
open in the center thinly to the sky. In one a tiny
table holds tiny plates of brittle make. In them, what?
A giant mosquito trapped in the outer wax, its denuded
wings wrapping the imp robbers. Another alcove in
high cloud has a choir, lace draped and seated. I
recollect the mist people.

In the center of the sward plaza, or esplanade, is a
circular fountain, enclosing within its circular wall of
water a dell or green glen. Covering our top, we steer
through the fountain side and to it. Discovering
ourselves to the others, who scurry angrily behind us, we
descend the dell, sloping down like a funnel, to find it
shortly cut off. But lower down-—ground again. While
gazing at the latter a sensation strangely affects me, that
it is moving--moving slowly by.

What is it? In the fixture—-lubricated by the
fountain in each white cliff (cooling the wax), moving as does the
earth crush. We are both lost in study.

The tiny fiends anger culminates, as altogether they
give the globe a sudden push. That taking Savant
unawares, it is precipitated through the funnel and to
the moving ground below. Electric tremors shake us
up, but, insulated, our globe survives, and passes on the
ground motor out of sight of the enemies above. A
signal from Savant, but e’er I look ahead, a cake of wax
drops upon my lap. I look up and see the wee gnomes above,
clinging like fireflies to the ceiling. Their fun is
shortened, though, as one accidentally, also drops landing
safely in the cake of wax. Zip, down comes a
gauze ribbon, up which goes the little gnome too
frightened to fly.

Breaking up the cake, I see in it a mould of the
harlequin form, which I proceed to restore and dress, to his
consternation. My attention thus diverted sideways is
attracted by the width of the cavern. The cause soon
obvious. It contains other motor ground beds. The
twin of this on which we lazily ride is close by, but
moving in an opposite direction, like a band reaching
out and returning. Does it contact with the earth crust,
and turn it in daily curve? Then what do two others
on each side of these, farther out, but opposite, also, and
smaller in size, turn-more slowly turn? Is it the band
of the fixture of the moon, _attached to the earth-crust rim_?

I now look ahead--in my head--a sun--earth and
moon. What next?

The tube “O! O!” is a telescope: greater than that of
earth center; as so much longer. Shall I see God?

No, only a comet! “What art thou--a sky steamboat
or a torch flambeau? If the latter, then is the universe
a _campaign, illumination, ratification_? And hast thou a
human bearer on mighty sidereal parade?”

A living being is by it. (Oh, only a babe chub swinging in the tube.)

It is gone, and we too are going out.

Globe protected from the dazzling light we look
around and see a slow-going meteor—the rest had flew
so fast, we had not time to read them.

This is so like our globe in which we ride. I cry, "Is _this_ a sky
meteor? This our globe?"

Answering not, Savant clans his hands, a reverberating crackling
following. The other stops and turns our way. In it, as Engineer, sits
the Traveler, at whom I will scowl no more, for by his side is Robet,
in bridal phase.

Wuu, wu, w--

"What big, round eyes.”

I look around me, as I lay in my hammock on my
little porch. Directly in front of me is Saucy, a
grownup young lady, as genial and ingenuous as ever.

“Now you are really awake, I will tell you what you
have been doing while you were asleep. When I found
you here and began slowly swinging yon, you sang out:
'Give me a butterfly’s wing.'

"When I fanned you, you groaned, 'Dost, lost, oh, the
ice.'

“Then Charley came.” (I see him, laughing behind a
vine); “then talked gibberish to you, to see if you were
asleep. You commenced making signs with your hands.
Then slept soundly for a long time.

“Getting restless you held to the hammock sides, as if
you felt to be falling.

“A branch of wistaria brushing your cheek, you
grasped and began eating it. So I laid a banana on
your hand, which you threw off as if it were a snake
and bit you. Bernard (the dog) licked your hand, when
you fainted clear away. To restore you, we shook the
hammock. You then made your feet go as in dancing,
ending as in prayer.

“Then you opened your eyes and looked straight ahead
for a long time. Charley got a glass of water and
sprinkled your face. Dropping the glass on the stand,
you spoke in absorbed fashion, 'Meteor,’ then awoke."

### * * * *

A dream! Only a dream! It was more—it was a
grand inspiration. I will write it all down.

The beautiful coach, with sail wings, the sea and ice
tour. The city of Arc, city of Zion! The marvels of
perpetual amusements, science and spiritism—-of God (?).

Going down the earth’s center—-the awed terror.
Seeing into the planets—-I did, too, I know I did.

I will write it all out.

I have spoken aloud my dream, to two very intent
listeners, one of whom is convulsed anew. “A china
lantern"-—will he never stop laughing. The other, “all
right, auntie. You have got it right, and, if I mistake
not, some other things. Though seen in a dream, it is
not the less valuable tour, sought for for ages. But the
ancients did not have arc-light suns, to see their lanterns
by, as do we. But why is the decoration set so far apart,
unlike ours, that are close lantern-hung?"

“Oh, I can answer that,” says Charley. "The
design is but in outline. We will some day catch a
meteor, and go to inspect it closer.”

repo_name: lizadaly/utopia-novels

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