ARQTIQ:
A Study of the Marvels at the North Pole

By MRS. ANNA ADOLPH

PUBLISHED FOR THE AUTHOR

1899

Copyrighted, 1899

ARQTIQ.

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 imaginations 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 skilfully 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 largest 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 pæan 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 bastille. 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 battle-front 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 fountainous 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 uttermost 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 near by 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 sky 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 uplifted 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. Led 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 pæan 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 lifts 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 road-bed 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 all 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 I 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 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 benignant, 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; lady-bugs minced; graybeards stalked around; a black-coated beetle handed me (as a weevil) 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 spitefully 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 thickening 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 indite 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 the 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 form, 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 bathday. 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 harpshell, we tread an anemone 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 skilful 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 sorceress.

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

When it is over and Mae 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-vase to cake and lower fruit-trays down to numberless seals, 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 clarifies. 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 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 useless 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.