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.