“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.