Unsegmented source body · Part 2

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 it 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. “Roban’s son, and his daughter,” are her startling words.

We all turn silently toward Roban’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 his 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 Roban, 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 safely, by dykes and jetties,” becoming 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 faraway 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, hardened 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 untamable 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.

Roban 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 millenniums old,” she breathes gently, chestnut-haired.

I am transfixed. When able to look up I see a halo round 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. To-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 me 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 lower 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 garden 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 are you 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.

[Illustration: Decoration]

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“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, hers 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 Robet’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 Robet 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, as 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 last, 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 case.

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 macaroon.

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 the 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 unobservant.

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 a separate and more distinct gleam. I turn again quickly, awed to inquire. I look into the face of Savant, who is intently regarding my expression.

“The chairs,” I say, “are they alive?”

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

“O, is this where Roban 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 caused 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 leaned 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:

“O, 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 somewhat 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 ice-mass evaporates, filling the interior with Aurora prisms. These escaping at both northern and southern zone outlet, 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 a semi-transparent vapor that floats and densifies, 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 air. 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 brunches 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, my 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 cliffside 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-crust. 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 hearer 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 claps his bands, a reverberating crackling following. The other slops 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 grown-up 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 you, you sang out: ‘Give me a butterfly’s wing.’”

When I fanned you, you groaned, “Lost, 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 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.”

[Illustration: Decoration]