Dreamland

by Julie M. Lippmann

With these words Marjorie felt herself brought to a gentle halt, and found herself in a place most wondrously clear and light and high, from which she could look off,—far, far across and over and down to where something that looked like a dim ball was whirling rapidly.

"That is your earth," whispered the sunbeam in her ear,—"the earth that you have just left."

Marjorie was so astounded that for a time she was unable to say a word. Then she managed to falter out: "But it always looked so big and bright, and now it is nothing but a horrid dark speck—"

"That is just it, Marjorie,—just what I said. When you look at the world simply as a planet, it is small and dark enough, not nearly so large as some of the others you see about you; but when you look at it as a place on which God has put his people to be good and noble, to work out a beautiful purpose, then— But wait a moment."

Marjorie felt a strange thrill pass through her; across her eyes swept something that felt like a caressing hand, and when she looked again everything was changed, and she seemed gazing at a wonderful sort of panorama that shifted and changed every moment, showing more lovely impressions each instant.

"What is it?" she gasped, scarcely able to speak for delight and breathless with amazement.

"Only pictures of your world as it really is. Pictures taken by his Highness the Sun, who does not stop at the mere outer form of things, but reveals the true inwardness of them,—what they are actually. He does not stop with the likeness of the surface of things; he makes portraits of their hearts as well, and he always gets exact likenesses,—he never fails."

Marjorie felt a sudden fear steal over her at these words; she did not precisely know why, but she had a dim sort of feeling that if the sun took photographs of more than the outside of things (of the hearts as well), some of the pictures he got might not be so pretty, perhaps. But she said nothing, and watched the scroll as it unrolled before her with a great thrill of wonderment.

With her new vision the world was more beautiful than anything she had ever imagined. She could see everything upon its surface, even to the tiniest flower; but nothing was as it had seemed to her when she had been one of its inhabitants herself. Each blade of grass, each tree and rock and brook, was something more than a mere blade or tree or rock or brook,—something so much more strange and beautiful that it almost made her tremble with ecstasy to see.

"Now you can see," said the voice; "before you were blind. Now you understand what I meant when I said the objects one sees are of themselves nothing; it is what they represent that is grand and glorious and beautiful. A flower is lovely, but it is not half so lovely as the thing it suggests—but I can't expect you to understand that. Even when you were blind you used to love the ocean. Now that you can see, do you know why? It is because it is an emblem of God's love, deep and mighty and strong and beautiful beyond words. And so with the mountains, and so with the smallest weed that grows. But we must look at other things before you go back—"