Instinctively I looked round. The speaker weighed three hundred pounds if he did an ounce, and the idee of his bein’ turned into a fly seemed to bring down my soarin’ emotions more than considerable. Truly, we ort to be careful how we handle metafors. If he’d said he wanted to be changed into a elephant or a camel, or even a horse, it wouldn’t have seemed so curious, but a fly!!! Dear me!
Clayton is a good-lookin’ drowsy sort of a place, and kinder mixed up lookin’ from the aft forecastle, where I stood; but at last the little foot bridge that connected us with the shore wuz took up, the old boat gin a loud yell to skair the children and young folks back from the water’s edge, and the boat riders from fallin’ off the boat, and we sot out agin and floated along.
And now pretty soon the islands grew closter 34 and closter together, and we wouldn’t no more than go by one lovely one, than another more perfect lookin’ hove in sight, and then another and another, each one seemin’ly more beautiful than the last.
Some times we would go clost up to the shore, by islands whose green forests swep’ clear down to the water’s edge, makin’ the water look green and cool and shady, and the water would narrow itself down between two houses seemin’ly jest to be accomodatin’, and run along between ’em like a little rivulet with water lilies and buttercups dippin’ down into it on each side and boys wadin’ acrost. Jest think on’t, that big noble-sized river, dwindlin’ itself down jest to obleege somebody.
And sometimes big houses would loom up jest above the water’s edge, their daintily shaded winders lookin’ down into the green waves and reflected there, anon a stately mansion would set back a little with towers and pinnacles risin’ above the green trees, and cool shady walks windin’ by summer houses and bright posy beds, and gayly dressed folks walkin’ along the beautiful paths, and mebby a pretty girl settin’ in a boat, and a hull fleet of boats filled with gay pleasure seekers would glide along like gayly 35 plumed sea birds, and fur in the distance and on every side white sails would sail on like bigger birds of white plumage, all set out for the Isle of Happiness.
I pinted out the metafor to Josiah.
“Isle of Happiness?” he sez, sort o’ dreamy like. “That’s right. Serenus sez its everywhere, all over the place.”
“What place?” sez I, suspicion darkenin’ my foretop.
“Why, Coney Island,” sez he, “that’s the only Isle of Happiness I ever hearn tell on.”
I gin him a look. “Would you compare Coney Island with the beautiful Isle of Happiness that the poets sing on?” I sez, severe like.