The next morning I breakfasted alone. Though I saw during the morning several of the little people passing along the lawn in front of my window, I did not venture to speak to them, nor did any member of the race pay me a visit.
About midday the door of my room was opened, and a little gentleman walked into the hall, and, without saying a word, sat down in a vacant chair opposite the one on which I was seated. After examining my appearance, he observed, “I presume you are the stranger who accompanied Prince Tippin to the palace last evening?”
“I am the stranger, sir.”
“I hope the attendant has shown you every courtesy, and has not been wanting in hospitality.”
“From the prince and attendant I have received every consideration; and as for the fare, sir, I might have gone further and fared worse. I like your food much.”
“This is a very different country from yours, is it not?”
Myself. Yes; widely different.
“I presume you find it strange to have light without a sun or moon or stars?”
Myself. I miss the genial light of the sun; but there is a softness, a reflected beauty, in the light here which we do not possess in our diurnal luminary.
“Our light is uniform, as is our climate. In the northern regions of your country the sun constantly shines during several months of your year, which is followed by continuous darkness or night, when the inhabitants have to reside in snow or ice-built houses. Dreary must be the life of a people so circumstanced. You have in your climate genial and joyous spring, when nature revives from the dead and puts on her youthful and gay apparel, when the thorn, the citron, and the apple-tree bud and blossom;—beautiful is your spring, the loveliest and most charming season of your year. Then comes your summer, with its green meads, and fields of waving corn, and rich fruit. No artist can paint, no language can set forth, the grandeur of your clime during autumn. What have you afterwards? Cold, icy, and chilling winter, with its dank and cold atmosphere; with your hills, mountains, and even your dales, covered with snow. In winter your country seems dead, clay-like, and lifeless; sad and dreary to me is your winter scene. In this land we have perpetual spring. In all the months of the year the orange, the citron, and the apple-tree send forth their buds and blossoms and their ripe and rich fruit; our valleys and mountains are always green, a circumstance which to you, doubtless, appears very strange.”