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.