“Do not fear,” she says, “it does not eat children, it is better fed.”
Imagining she is laughing at me I brace up to great bravery, asking,
“Can I ride, too?”
“Yes, we will go down, look out;” the latter in reference to the chair
upon which I sit—one of a row of seats around the lower edge, facing
outward. I look quite curiously and assure myself its rails are in front
as on each side of me, inclosing me quite secure. Connecting it to her
own, she presses on them heavily downward. Feeling warned, as curious, I
feel the top bend over forwards, still more. I hold quite fast. My head
is now where my heels have been. This is not all; increasing the
velocity we complete the revolution, and repeat it to the foot of the
tower, where I come standing, red with vexation (the idea of a lady of
my age rolling down the side of a house), my temperate zone stomach
quite upset.
But “click” at the top. There is Roba in similar chair, who signifying
that she will join us is about to round the edge. I recover my temper in
anticipation of being witness to her acrobatic descent—stateliness
combined. But no; she slowly goes over, smoothly, down to the bottom
dignifiedly—right side up with care. I turn reproachfully to Robet.
“I thought you were in for a frolic,” she says innocently.
This restores my gaiety and we return to the arbor with zest and join
the jolly crowd who are making the garden ring. They make room for me on
the boa, where I ride, the danger enhancing the delight. I regret to get
down for others. As I do so, the great graceful head of the boa swings
close to me, the mouth opens, the eyes dart fire; then next I discover
it is an art manufacture.
“There are real ones, Auntie, but they do not let strangers ride.”
A storm is brewing, as I hear a thunder peal; no clouds above—some are
in the vista, rapidly drawing near, close to the ground. What an odd
hurricane! No; with bounds and roars a herd of white lions rush into
near precinct and wait, low crouched. Their long pink-tinted manes make
them so handsome I forget they are fierce. Some are grand and nervous
looking, others young and playful. Calling one of the latter by name, it
wriggles from the rest to go to Show Off. Saucy stepping up too
frightens it back; but trying again he coaxes it to him, where Saucy
also strokes it, saying: “You must give it to me to take to America,”
bless her.
A shout and he strides its back, then with merry bounds, race and glee,
they give us quite a circus.
My attention is called to my side by a mysterious self-satisfied lisp. I
turn to see Charley who is taking notes for future lectures. I look over
to get the train of ideas. What do I see—“How lions dance in our
country; machines put in their mouths, they sing.”
“O Charley, what a drop. I had counted on your wonderful conversion, and
here are you improvising wonders.”
Roban is getting social. “There are not many lions now. They were
dangerous; the city filling up has thinned them out. Do you want one?”
I am still in chagrin, so answer crossly the sweet-tempered lady, “What
for? Will it take me home on its back?”
She eyes me sideways, still serene. “Do you want to go home?” I choke up
in golden silence. “When you want to go the Traveler will take you,”
complacently.
Roused to ire at my earnestness being taken for jest, I launch out
disrespectfully, “That crusty man would drop me over an iceberg and
think his duty done.”
She does not heed me as her sister Robet is now approaching quite rosy
cheeked, and is about to dance me up and down, which I never allow, when
I can help myself.
Roban says to her sorrowfully, “The little dear is going home with the
Traveler.”
I smile, then say to Robet, “When he and you are married I will go.”
Then I eye her sideways.
O what a drop! My Charley untruthful! When he says my church raises
money untruthfully in its fairs and suppers.
I was about to have him teach this people how Christ incarnated is to
come on the earth from the clouds. Shall I now do so instead? Yes. I
select the Traveler’s daughter as one quite wayward, and say: “Dear
lady, an American (oh no!) a man like us little folks is in the sky;
some day he will come down and make us golden streets,” smiling broadly.
“What is gold?” she inquires.
“Something harder than rock.”
“’Twill hurt your feet; grass is better.”
“Glass houses,” I continue. “That is fine.”
“No one will marry.” O what a face she makes.
“No dear little children?” she pleads.
“No one dies,” I continue.
“O how nice and old.”
“Always fruit and flowers.” I feel I am getting along nicely. When she
asks:
“How is that? they being the children of tree and plant marriage.”
“I never thought of that,” but continue:
“All dead will come to life.”
“Where is the room for them?”
“All bad men will be killed off.”
“Who will kill them off?”
“He that comes out of the sky.”
“Their spirits would haunt him.”
“He would kill their spirits, too.”
“None but God can do that.”
“He is the Son of God.”
“O, is God married?” so impiously, I lose heart. But Roban comes to my
aid. With shining expectant eyes she now interrogates me.
“When will He come?” I shake my head.
“_Who_ will He bring to life?” persisting.
“Those who love Him. O dear, dear Roban, do you love God?” I am pleading
for a soul.
“That I do,” is her positive confession.
“Do you love His Son?” my hands clasped toward her.
“Anything that belongs to Him,” so beatifies me I spring to my feet to
declare:
“Then _you_ will be saved, for love is the fulfilling of the law.”
Drops sprinkle all about. I look back of me to see Saucy with inspired
face who has been listening. Thus bestowing this rite upon this new
convert, who strangely takes on a serious look.
“I know whom you mean,” she says. “He does like this,” pointing her
hands as in prayer. What can she mean?
“He comes here to teach us.”
“Who, who? It cannot be He, the Son. Does the spirit of an apostle
transfigured appear in this city—this city of love? I am astounded.”
“He says that in a century hence electricity will create a human being.”
What can she mean? Is the camera-eye, telephone-ear to be supplemented
by a dynamo head, put on locomotive lungs and stood on wheel feet?
Truly here is sympathy in Arc for such invention.
Twenty-four hours without sleep. I yawn so terribly. Robet anxiously
straightens me out on a chair for repose.