Part 2

The rest now giving way to hunger, as our hosts duly regard us with infantile solicitude, I put my hand in my mouth, as in the latter’s fashion. Immediately wheels of itself into the room a table laden with food. Staring at its wizard-like action, we are seated to it. No dish, knife or fork, or board. Probably not in the land. An enameled lily leaf. The food, light and solid, piled in little fruit cups. One is put in each our mouths, cup and all. I taste and find it palatable. Our appetites satisfied, out wheels the table, making Mae smile and become merry. Seeing us still high perched, our jolly friends rally around us, pull our toes and pinch our cheeks, until I wish I had refrained in initiating this program. Soon in comes a hassock and wheeling to us, gives us an opportunity to alight. Mae down last, remains seated on it, when it starts around the room with her, pirouetting in mazy figures, giving its occupant mazy face.

When stopped, the host whistles, to bring from a corner two great white mice, kitten size. As he twirls his fingers, they fall to the floor, a green sward; folding their four pink paws to their breasts, they become round balls, thus roll about, greatly to our amusement.

This has suggested to the lady, who proposes to “go out in town to an entertainment that is funny, oh, so funny.”

The host, in gleesome impulse, elects to take me. Raising me on his hand, he asks my name. Charley, quite diverted, gives it, “Anna.”

“Ah, you are angel, Anna!” when Charley reads the puzzle, remarking, “He means ‘English.’” Then he kisses me squarely in the mouth, to my immediate struggle to get down, which I succeed in doing while he is taking Charley in his other hand, who now, unlike other husbands, proceeds to lecture me. “Do not be odd; you see it is all right. It is evening hour in America (swallowing); we will enjoy this, our first evening here.”

Mae, who has taken to the hand I have left, reaches and pinches him; at which I laugh and spring into a pocket in front of the lady, upon whose shoulder sits my father, his hand holding her feather cap. So utterly without matronly dignity am I, I am glad for once that home friends cannot see my position.

Getting into the center of the street, she stops, (I nearly fall) and sits upon a chair, raised from the road-bed by the man, who takes another. The object is plain, when we move swiftly along as on a track.

Mae asks ingenuously her bearer’s name; he gives it in Arc language, what sounds to us like “Show Off,” which we shall now call him. Then looking to my bearer he says: “She is Aunt Robet, a dear old maid, who is always taking care of us, papa and I, when mother is away.” He goes over and squeezes her shoulders. As father innocently sticks a pin into his hand, he looks so queerly at the hurt, it is plain he does not know the cause, or never felt the like before. In our childish role we still question: “Where is your papa?” “Oh, he is always in his house (room). You can live with him,” looking at my father. Seeing us unwilling at such an arrangement, his aunt explains: “He is a student, a very great savant, who is always busy in his office or study.” This alters the matter; father’s eyes glisten with expectation.

Arrived at the hall I see a great space in the floor, that is grooved in pattern. I look to see if a cable line is drawing through, when I am deposited on a chair directly above. The rest have chairs near by. Mae retaining her place in Show Off’s lap. The other chairs in the room are being rapidly filled. I cannot determine the entertainment so wait developments. Not long. The word is given, the chairs start off, getting a swift gait. I suddenly remember Mae’s hassock, but she is watching Charley, who takes a firm hold, as the important look, assumed at our departure, goes slowly off his face, ejaculating but once “Shake.” I think, too, shake, for quiver, jerk, jump, all in rotation; music playing is the order. Enjoying our mutual discomfiture, our chairs opposite, we are treated at the last to a grand bounce, that sends us into each other’s arms, so close. Had not Mae been held firm, she would have fallen, in her convulsion of mirth.

We lose no time in getting down, and close to our bearers. Aunt Robet, placid in demeanor, I calculate how to get even with her. Though she had declared it funny, I look at her viciously, when she condescends to graciously explain: “This is our outing celebration; the city shakes off its veil to greet the sun; shaking is, therefore, the order of the day.” Hence this little exercise, I was happy to have amused her.

We ride now leisurely home, viewing the heavy buildings of great blocks of ice, shining in the sunlight. Why they do not melt I cannot tell. Afterwards I learn they are covered with an enamel that preserves them. The picturing on their sides is done by fracturing; the graceful cornices and other trimmings are in imitation of snowflake crystals, relieving to beauty their solidity. Quite exhausted on our return, we are given apartments to ourselves, in which we prepare to rest.

Convinced that false positions are unfortunate, I resolve to adopt a dignified bearing, suitable to my maturity, my short experience in babyhood, however remunerative, proving quite objectionable in excess of bestowment.

Hearing father sigh, as he watches the dawn that beckons to arise instead of sleep, I essay to comfort him. “Dear father, has not God sent us here to convert them?” “Too intelligent,” he mutters; “they will convert us.” Science is his religion.

“Know’st thou the house? On columns rest its pile; Its halls are gleaming And its chambers smile.” —_Goethe_.

Waking early, my prayer goes up to God, with my whole consciousness borne intact. So when we miss a link in our self-calculated program of events, we look to Him, the holder of the links of us—his marionettes below.

Charley rushes in with a bundle. I speak: “Are you up, dear, and not sorry that we came?” “Haven’t time. Get up and see your new dress.” I sit up. “Invisible garments,” he explains. I hurry to him to find only the usual feathered robes, that in tint and style give all an appearance of the feathered tribe. Tufted cap and sweeping train; wing sleeves, with which, could we fly, we would be the angels we are called.

“But where is the invisible?” I inquire.

“Dressed like everybody else, not visible, because not conspicuous,” settles that problem.

I take the hint and hastily get into the suit assigned me, but not as quick as he, for he is dressed, and out, and down the hall, while I admire myself in the glittering ice-mirror walls, vanity for a moment overcoming homesickness to forget that such an unhuman-like attire, though beautiful in heaven’s songsters, is more beautiful, even, in a civilized American.

In bounds Saucy—that is what we nickname Mae. “Where is my dress?”

“Here.” She is soon in it, her flowing hair making her a canary. Bowing to me in mockery, she says:

“We belong here now. Where is Charley,” looking around.

“Gone out,” I reply.

“I am going to catch him.”

“So am I.”

She calls him Charley, because I do, and that he is not her uncle; nor am I her aunt, which she uses in lieu of Anna. Running out so hastily we run smack into the arms of Show Off, which we immediately see is not him, but probably his father, from the likeness, who grasps us in each hand, holding us out for inspection, saying, “I have caught two little birds that have flown to me.” (Like pigeons, I wish we could fly home again.) “We have no cage here, only freedom; so now I let you go,” suiting the action to the word. Cordial as sedate, I watch him as he walks down the hall and disappears. In trying to find Charley, we find ourselves in the city street.

“Mae, dear, to-day is Sunday; let us find a church,” as we inspect the various houses. We select a large domed enclosure as a temple to God. Stepping to its crystal doors it opens itself to us. Within is a rest scene. Standing or sitting, all look serene, as sacred dreamy notes of melody fill the air, flower perfumed. A soothing sense of peace takes possession of us. Instead of high altar, Hebraic, or idol, or Hindoo custom, a lady and gentlemen are passing among the people, speaking kind admonitions, solemn adoration, or cheering responses. I reflect; this may be their manner of service.

The lady passing us, (who I see is our hostess) chucks us under the chin playfully, saying, “Sweets, have you come to court?”

“Court? I thought it was a church,” I explain.

“What is a church?” she asks.

“Where we pray to God.”

“Oh, we should do that everywhere. The earth is His court. This is only an Arc court,” as she passes on. I still think it a church.

“Auntie, some are dancing; do you see?” I did. She tried the step in childish glee.

Is it a church dance? A worship mode suitable to the Arctic locality. How the Unitarians and Catholics would enjoy it. But I—my M. E. founder, Asbury, was lame, so could not dance, therefore we preach it down. Saucy, as Episcopal, sees no harm.

But now she pulls me out and waltzes me around. (I had learned the art before I joined the M. E.’s.) The glow of circulation raises my spirit to a desire to shout. I do so in M. E. denominational style, solacing my conscience thus far. Soon it pricks again.

When tired and resting I study out the scripture of this new service. Would Jesus (if here) adapt a sermon to its beneficial principles, as He had done to baptism (bath) of the crowds drawn to the river side for that purpose, obligatory in their sweltering climate? Are not all church rites illustrative of adaptations of the one worship—Spirit and Truth?

These thoughts adding so much of scriptural interpretation of new modes, adding, therefore, new program to my former stereotyped observances, I become at first slightly confused, but reserve my settled decision, until I have farther and more deeply weighed the subject. Until then, I wonder.

“What is best for us to do in such a church as this?”

I turn as I speak aloud, to see Charley by my side, who has overheard all, and coaches me. “Do? Make the earth a church, as do these people.” The noon hour arrived. Refreshments of light and solid food are passed to all.

Not having got over the impression of its being a church, Mae, who has not heard the explanation, turns and says:

“Auntie, it is a sacrament! The little gum paste cups hold drink. I do not think it will harm me.”

A sacrament! Would that all the churches would give each Sunday as substantial a one to Jesus’ sheep and lambs, which are the poor, who go poorly fed all the week.

Seeing how strangely people sit down, by some contrivance or stiffness in their back drapery, I try my own, and being successful, am become quite at ease, as I eat, prayerfully, until satisfied. Then looking around at the beaming, social faces, I suddenly take a distrust and grasp Mae’s hand: “Child, this is a saloon!” in great trepidation.

“No, auntie,” she replies firmly. “No one is drunk or disorderly. It may be a hotel.”

Show Off pulls my sleeve. I turn to him in benignant, grave demeanor, causing him to step back in wonder and gracious deference.

“We are Americans, I want you to know. Have you a President?”

He looks wistfully at us, to brighten soon and ask: “Do you mean your God? My mother is goddess this year. Aunt Robet takes her place when she is away visiting.”

I study out the whole problem. This wayside sitting-room is a courthouse, a saloon—the latter purified—and a church in one. I am quite converted and wish ours at home would become the same, but Charley, who is still by my side, impatiently waiting to get my full attention, remarks, jokingly: “Little folks should keep out of the parlors!”

“Parlor? How do you know this is the parlor? I am sure I walked some distance to get here,” I reply evasively.

“But this palace occupies some distance; you will have to look farther for a church, if there is one at all. Wait until you are better acquainted, but to-night we will attend the masque,” meditatively.

“Masque? What can you imagine to be that home dissipation in this cold and pure, and pure as cold city; certainly less advanced, I hope, less perverted section of the earth. But that it is Sunday I would accompany you to investigate for missionary purposes,” I reply devoutly.

“Well, it will last a week; there is no hurry,” as he leaves me free to muse. So utterly definite in dissimilarity are all things here—arts, amusements, devotions, etc. I do not expect to encounter social dangers in similar guise, but must guard as conscientiously from evil under new guise. Show Off, our attending friend, does make so remarkable blunders in his attempt to apply our cultured phrases, I quite despair to get out of him by question what I wish to know. I reflect deeply, what can their church be? Can it be in happy unison, as is this human social church—to wit, parlor?

Presently I recollect that here is but one city, one people. Allowing one church to be feasible, what about different races, who have different forms of devotion that to them take the place of religion or its comparative manifestation, though religion itself is solely an act of the heart.

I imagine present before me this heterogeneous crowd. A Catholic crosses himself, a Shaker shakes, a dervish howls; Buddhists, Mahometans, and Confucians appear. Closing my eyes I wonder, could they not, one and all, do their several forms in the same building? The same “free for all” church in the same “free for all” country. Trading and walking together with mutual respect, why not worship also?

I look around and see Charley coming back. He stops short at my expression. “What are you now conjuring up?” he asks. I told, “a church, where all kinds of people worship in one building.”

“Very good; when we go back home we will get one up; call it a church fair, or carnival of churches. Each and all sects to have a booth of their own. The Hindoos would put up an ox as a symbol. The Mahometans—what? a goat. The Jews a sheep. The Christians a lamb. The Chinese a roast pig. Egyptians a cat. Other pagans, somewhere—a snake. Taken altogether, an animal fair, and as all have good points, even a snake, Americans would accept all, and could, by protecting each, make them a happy family. As a cat and dog of one family live in peace under one roof, and the church symbolic animals in one farmyard, so could the principals they symbolize aid in its several good, in one church building.”

I look prayerfully to him and say, regretfully, “But you don’t believe Jesus is coming back.”

“Yes, I do,” he replies. “_Then_ is He coming. For this is He waiting. Peace on earth, among the churches. Upon the cross His arms were spread. To reach around the earth, to join all churches in peace, which is brotherhood; children of God—Father.”

“What would the Jew say to that?”

“They started it before Jesus. The Jewish High Priest Hillel composed the prayer, ‘Our Father.’”

“Yes; but he meant it only for the Jews.”

“Well! he can still be a Jew, in the new world church,” and walked briskly around.

I muse. Where would be my father’s place, as he is an infidel, in this many-sected or membered church. Would Jesus enfold him as a neighbor of kind heart? I think so. Entirely rejoicing in this selection of God’s following, I charmingly ask Show Off, who now appears, “How long do these churches hold open?”

“Always, with Gods as relief.”

“You mean ministers—but does nobody work?”

“Yes; at the schools until noon.”

What! half of time for God, instead of seventh? Can the millennium have come here? Has, most likely, no one told them of the Sabbath? One day of seven? Well, we can keep both—certainly our Sabbath, and explain to these people why we do.

“One question more. Have you jails in this city? What do you do to people vicious in hot anger!”

He turns partly to me to see what I am asking; then, understanding me, he answers gravely: “Freeze them.”

Aunt Robet, now off duty, takes charge of us, conducting us to her sitting-room.

But two days pass, in which we endeavor to learn the Arc language, as none except the three already mentioned can converse with us, when Charley brings forth the masque.

“Oh, yes; but it cannot be a ball nor a domino party. I am curious at your idea. If it is beneficial and delightful as what I have already seen, I will be pleased to participate,” I reply, cautiously to my gentle mate, who, devoted to social assembly, and believing ennobling dancing as consistent as ennobling singing, he has no patience with my doubts.

“What am I to do?” I ask in prayer. Silent a gentle whisper breathes in answer, “It is one of the ten talents! beware of letting it rust!” One of talents, loaned us of God, and not a sin of the world? Or are the sins of the world perverted use of honorable talents, to be redeemed by us by honorable use? its omission, of condemnation.

Can I burnish and enlarge my consecration to Thee, oh God, in gay circle? Dost Thou truly love, also, happy faces? At the hall we don our costumes and are shown into a green bower, so banked with trees, shrubs, and plants there seems no space for guests. These, I soon discover, encostume everywhere about; I discover, also, much relieved, that the object is educational, only—to put us in touch with “the least of these” that God noteth.

A huge butterfly lights in front of me, greeting me cordially. So like a host I feel quite at home as a concourse of bugs, bees, and insects arise around, with waving wings, until I think I never saw before so moving a sight. A bee hummed in my ear—a sound like Charley; a mosquito sung in glee—a note like Saucy; a wasp with saucy eyes—Show Off. Moths in the windows, locusts in shady nooks, and a cricket adds its refrain. Sitting upon a scarlet ottoman, it moves off on its four feet—a live cochineal. Standing under an umbrella tree I was “darned” by a “needle” to a branch; a hopper hopped to a sheaf of wheat; lady-bugs minced; graybeards stalked around; a black-coated beetle handed me (as a weevil) a rose conserve, saying: “A ‘flour’ for you.” I accepted it, making room for him by my side. But soon the hostess, bringing to me a “bigbug,” who asked a promenade. Replying to him “May bee,” the beetle gets up and snaps spitefully away.

I could see no harm, as the hours passed swiftly, teaching us a social sympathy, with this (insect) realm of the Creator, who now, as I apply my mind (talent?) to them, have always, as us, displayed love to their kind, dislike of pain, and gratefulness to benefactors. The younger danced in buoyant evidence of youthful being, the elder in touch with their delight. I saw no harm, and wished that all dancing in America could be so eminently cultivating in bodily exercise and polite demeanor.

The rooms are not close. We did not stay late to become weary.

Returning, I discover I have acquired a home interest. I see an enclosed balcony greenhouse, that line the fronts of the buildings, filled with ferns and foliage, new to me, that the sun is marvelously unfolding. They seem to grow up from the ground that must be far beneath the snow, and clinging to the ice-block wall, do not wither, for an enamel surface on the walls prevents. I then perceive why the late deep snow has spared them, snow that has been let below in covered trenches. Charley is going to pompously interview me.

“You are not so dreadfully horrified, I see. There are, you see, different grades of parties. At this you were intellectually amused and society edified. I wonder this people do not drink. I must teach them the thickening of wine blood,” slightly wavering.

“Thickening of wine-tongue and brain; how did any human being ever adopt it? I earnestly believe it was water and not wine that Jesus recommended. (That has been mistakenly translated.) That being plain God’s design.” I speak prophetically.

“Dear,” he says, “you are right; I will let the people here be temperate; thus, I believe, more enjoyable.” Then coming close to me he says: “I was at the party to protect you in safety of ease, you know, so give me that due for your unrestrained mirth.”

He is so autocratic in his manly assertions I become slightly overawed, when Show Off, who has had no lesson of him to regard his dignity, comes up and snaps his ear playfully. The fire darts from his eye, but I quickly make peace, using his own words: “You see, it is all right; do not be odd.”

Thus quickly, everywhere, wrath arises innocently, to burn often in high flame—to indite some deed of evil intent.

Seeing Charley still cross, I converse with Show Off—ask him where my father is, that I have missed these three days. “Has he found your father’s room? and is he quite happy?”

“Quite. You will never get him again,” meaning that I am substituted.

This talk, though rather un-English in phrase, is so intentionally jolly, I become quite familiar, so ask: “Dear Show Off, why did the sweet Aunt Robet never get married?”

“She is going to be, when her lover comes down out of the sky.”

This mysterious news sets Charley off into a roar of laughter, so I proceed: “What does he do in the sky? ride about on a star?”

“Yes; and fishes below with a line for pastime.”

I look warily each side of me. “When is he coming down?”

“When the signs are right. We expected him at the Outing; since then we are unhappy.”

In this lovable manner does he couple himself with his relative’s heart, who now approaches, and his snap is repeated upon her glowing cheek. But she, as Charley, gets cross, and he comes back to me. I suddenly miss Saucy, to see her flaxen hair dangling out of his sleeve, and know that it is she, in childish fashion, who had done the snapping to our disconcertment.

Laughing at the innocent cause of war I turn aside to enter the court, which we are passing. Saucy seeing, drops out of her nest and hugs close to my side; the rest proceed in peace.

“Ain’t it nice, Auntie, to have a church to step into all the week. You feel so safe to stop in such a place. No one expects us to buy something, or read something, or talk something. I wonder if they take up a collection. If not, the tax supports it.”

“I do not believe they know what money is, though certainly they do its equivalent—work. We must find the shops and select some work ourselves.”

Then, as Saucy mutters to herself, “What a queer people; no fire, no dishes, no money, no Sunday, no schools,” I look around at the delightfully intelligent, as delightfully happy countenances; though the majority are lying comfortably back in their drapery supports and fast asleep. This seems to be the rest hour, and I, as Saucy lays her head in my lap, also to go to dreamland. In vision a mighty angel descends from God, down through the open dome and takes us by our wing tips, to carry us off. Hoping it is to America, I keep my eyes closed in expectation, until an unusual jar involuntarily opens them, showing the angel to be Show Off, who has deposited us safely at home on a cushion by the side of Robet.

Half uncertain, as half awake, I hum to myself the tune of “Home, Sweet Home,” when Robet gets down by me and swelling her throat, warbles forth, like a bird of paradise, an entrancing melody, soothing me again to slumbers.

I awake in high fever; at least so I am told, weeks after, when I sit raised on a cushion and am able to talk. “Yes, Auntie,” says Mae, “when you were in delirium you talked such strange talk. You raised up once and asked us ‘What is in heaven?’ I humored you and said, ‘Golden streets,’ but you shook your head wildly and waved your hand, saying, ‘No, no; golden ice, the sun shines all night to make it.”