“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.
I am surprised they show no solicitude. Mae one time is absent a week. Alarmed I go to Savant. He takes the register telephones of her position. Then in a shining leaf shows me in picture what has passed to her. I feel to get up and hug him. But hug Charley who is come. “You had better go after her,” he says. “Why, I know all she does.” “Yes, but you should direct what she does,” wisely.
I look to the leaf. A new impress is coming. Behind her as she is backing unconsciously toward it, is an open crevasse trench in use by a workman. I startle the air with a scream to Savant, “Call me,” says Charley, authoritatively, who looks on the plate, to call Savant himself. The latter seeing the dilemma, without leaving his laboratory, touches a button, that closes the crevasse behind Mae, as she steps on it safely. I hug Charley convulsively.
“Logic is logic. That’s what I say.”—O. W. H.
My husband, always so loving, so bonny and practical, has become sober and long-faced, no shadow of a smile. No hop, skip and jump, like Saucy Mae. Even she he passes absent-minded. If she pulls his sleeve, he does not heed, so she follows him around to find what the matter is. As she makes a body-guard, I leave her to watch him.
He has just come out of Savant’s room, absorbed in some papers, he carefully carries in his hand, assorting them as he noiselessly walks along, the genius behind failing to get a peep at their contents. Hearing me approach, he hastens to conceal them in the shrubbery, disappearing himself.
Saucy having lost him, takes up with me, and we run out and up the street, looking in at various places. Seeing familiar faces in a crowd at an opera house, we join them.
Seeing us, the crowd gives way, and gets up in front, where we become the cynosure of the audience (the performance not having commenced), who look from us to the stage, as if in connection, enigmatical to us.
Puzzled no longer, we see Charley come out and take position as speaker.
Our mouths as well as eyes open in wonder. What will happen next?
With preoccupied bearing, he explains our discovery of iron, that raised man from savagery to civilization, builds ships and houses. It was well we were before him and appreciated his discourse (the home reminiscence starts the old pain) for the audience do not understand a word he says, but connecting his gestures, they oddly imitate the latter.
He turns to us and changes to an abstruse subject, not at all congenial to him.
“Americans concede three natures to man and five senses. I will show him to possess seven natures, each represented by a sense.” We are quite attentive. “Touch, first, by his palm, denoting his acquiring nature.” I clap my hands. “Taste, second, by his tongue, denoting his sustenance nature.” I muse to myself, do we kiss because we are cannibals, and would like to eat the one we kiss?
“Social, third, by his lips, denoting his impress nature.” O yes, that is why we kiss. “Vibrative, fourth, his ear, denoting his emotional nature.” I think him quite a phrenologist. Mae is some dazed. “Atmospheric, fifth, by his nose, denoting his steam nature.” Mae sends up a prolonged shout.
“Solar, sixth, by his eyes, denoting his mental nature.” I shake my finger at him.
“Soul, by his hair, denoting electric spirit nature.” I come to my feet, raising both hands, as he proceeds.
“The hair as covering or ornament of the head has not received sufficient dignity. As telegraph lines of divine construction communes with God, raises its value.” I place my hands on each of his shoulders, as he finishes impressively.
“Above the mind, summit of senses, its own power only has revealed it even to sight.”
Remembering him coming out of Savant’s studio, I am not surprised.
But I continue the thread. Does this theory contravene the immortality of the soul, teach dissolution with the body? O, no.
The operator back of the telegraph machine does not integrate with the machine. The telegraph wires down do not signify the operator to be in the same condition.
My spirit lies, with dreamful eyes,
Beneath the walls of Paradise.
I catch sight of Show Off coming leisurely toward us. Has he caught the last part of the lecture, and is he, too, of a studious disposition. For raising his eyes intelligently, he continues the discourse. “Still we are made of dust!” (What can he know of dust?) “Birds,” going on, “are made of trees, for their feathers are little branches. Fishes are of waterbirth—their scales little drops. Beasts of grass, with coats of grass fur. Sheep of snow wool.” I am wool gathering. “Reptiles have clod skins. We are only of the dust—marble, granite or otherwise.” I decide to read him Genesis some day.
But now he speaks up more blithe. “We are going to-morrow to Aunt Roban’s house, where my mother Roba is, to get her,” winking his eye at Saucy.
We are delighted as we return, all together. I look at the streets and people, not knowing I shall see them no more forever.
The next morning, that is getting very late, we are placed in an open sleigh, to try the new snow, in making the trip. As it is a gala day, called Inning Day, so everybody is out. “Will everybody be at Roban’s?” I ask Show Off, who is holding Saucy by my side.
“Yes, and more too, for the Traveler will be there,” he replies moodily.
“Who is he, and where does he travel?”
“Up in the sky on his air star.”
“And what does he do up there?” I smile.
“He fishes below with a line.”
I look warily each side or me.
“Do you like him?”
“Yes, but he wants me to marry his daughter.”
“Well?”
“She won’t have me, as she loves my cousin, Aunt Roban’s son. Her father expects our betrothal at this time.” He stops a moment, then resumes. “He is engaged, himself, to be married to Aunt Robet, who does not dare to tell him of his coming disappointment.”
“How did she, so gentle, ever fancy so douty a man?”
“It was at a ride. The cavalry were going by so swift she became dizzy and was falling, when he by a deft move put her back. When he appears, ever since, she is like affected. He is coming now.”
With a start, I look up to the sky, which is clear. Then I look about at the celebrators, thinking he may be come to earth, and be among them. And though I see a strange mist in the distance, I become occupied in studying the various modes of conveyance close around. Of every odd design, one vehicle is oddest. It is a round glass globe that rolls over and over, bearing its inmates upright, ballasted in the interior. It has only ladies, so I look ahead.
Ahead is a bridge, shaped like a flight of stairs (rests for the horses). Around the farther tower arches—strong supports of the suspended ends—a mist is twining and winding, glistening peculiarly. Show Off seeing my intent gaze looks there, and hastily takes from his father’s pocket a glass and absorbedly scans the mist. I had forgotten the Traveler’s approach, of shock to Robet, who leans back her head gasping faintly. But directly over us is the shocking man, on a high seat, over high runners, between which glides our humble sleigh. At Show Off’s shout, he looks down, his stern face relaxing genially, recovering Robet.
Thus disturbed, Show Off drops the glass, which I pick up, wonderingly.
One look, and I am curious too. For deep within the luminous vapor are human beings, lace seated and draped. They are singing, their countenances reflecting the inspiring symphony. Studying closely, I detect a peculiarity of expression, as if masculine and feminine are combined, both strong and tender. Coming swiftly, and bending low, they must brush us as they pass. A child in front of adult, eyes exhilarantly my exotic bouquet. I select a dainty bud, and raise it over my head. The gust shuts my eyes. But I feel a tiny touch that wisps away my bud. From our slow journeying, we are too late to make our address at Roban’s, before the election, which occurs to-day. So proceed to that function. Seated comfortably upon the Central Plaza, a nice esplanade covered with rugs, we are scarcely seated when two ladies and a gent approach us, who by their family resemblance are no doubt sisters of Robet. One hugs her tremblingly. The other is hugged vigorously by Savant, his wife Roba. She is, though of exact likeness, still of different temperament from the others. More sedate, quite stately, though none the less lovable. When Savant puts my father with his silver hair and shining black eyes on her lap, she is quite awe struck. When my father reaches up and kisses her reverently on the cheek; she is more nonplussed still, and takes her muff to sit him on.
The gent is no doubt the husband of the other sister, who snaps his fingers at Charley, when he wishes he did not, for the latter bites 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.
