"This way," said the Unwiseman with a proud smile of superiority, taking a bottle from his pocket. "See that?" he added.
"Yes," said Mollie. "What is it?"
"It's land, of course," replied the Unwiseman, holding the bottle up in the light. "Real land off my place at home. Just before I left the house it occurred to me that it would be pleasant to have some along and I took a shovel and went out and got a bottle full of it. It makes me feel safer to have the land in sight all the way over and then it will keep me from being homesick when I'm chasing those Alps down in Swazoozalum."
"Swizz-izzerland!" corrected Whistlebinkie.
"Swit-zer-land!" said Mollie for the instruction of both. "It's not Swazoozalum, or Swizziz-zerland, but Switzerland."
"O I see—rhymes with Hits-yer-land—when the Alp he hits your land, then you think of Switzerland—that it?" asked the Unwiseman.
"Well that's near enough," laughed Mollie. "But how does that bottle keep you from being homesick?"
"Why—when I begin to pine for my native land, all I've got to do is to open the bottle and take out a spoonful of it. 'This is my own, my native land,' the Poet said, and when I look at this bottle so say I. Right out of my own yard, too," said the Unwiseman, hugging the bottle tightly to his breast. "It's queer isn't it how I should find out how to travel so comfortably without having to ask anybody."
"I guess you're a genius," suggested Whistlebinkie.
"Maybe I am," agreed the Unwiseman, "but anyhow you know I just knew what to do as soon as I made up my mind to come along."