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    Utopia Novels repository

Cover image by
Liza Daly

ArQtiQ

A Story of
the Marvels at the North Pole

Anna Adolph

1899

Public Domain

EPUB version of this book: arqtiq.epub

This puzzling novel, self-published in 1899, has an
        idiosyncratic, even ungrammatical writing style, but is deeply
        lyrical. A biography 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.”

This material is in the public domain. Source code for this book.