 Chapter 1 of Arctic. A Study of the Marvels at the North Pole, by Anna Adolf. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Coming by Chuck Williamson. Arctic. A Study of the Marvels at the North Pole. By Anna Adolf. Chapter 1. Saying I will go with thee, two yon aisles of mystery. Always fond of the marvelous. I conceived a strong desire to go to the North Pole. To obviate the dangers of the trip, I invented a coach that was also ship and balloon. Its silken canopy is inflatable to strong wings or wide sails. Its wheels are wide-remmed, to glide over snow, and paneled for water-paddles. When it is finished and stored, I select some friends to accompany me—my most personal loved ones. A volatile, fair-haired gent, my husband, and a fair-haired little maiden-friend. Sit on the front seat. On the back seat are sitting my aged father and myself, our black eyes snapping with expectation. Waving my hands to the few gathered to see us off, I say, this undertaking is of desire to gain knowledge. Success, surmounting all obstacles, will take us to the summit of the round earth, where, ages past as ages future, will accord us first record. Charlie turns levers to start as little May's mama says, You will be the mascot, May barrels, but I do not think you will go very far, dubiously. You will change your mind, mama, when I bring you home a little bear. Makes us laugh. I will be glad to get you for my little bear. All the rest of us, I answered, will take care of her. No doubt, she replies, as far as you go in your odd rig, facetiously. Our wheels turn slowly and silently. Then, with a low tinkling of the strain, goodbye, sweetheart. May had slipped a music box in one. Wound to that harmony. We are Californians, and take the CP railroad to our eastward route, our wheels being grooved to fit the track. Speeding merrily, we give vent to our imaginations of coming events. Will there really be a pole, Auntie? That is for us to find out, dear. I sometimes think there is a stem there, covered with ice, that holds the earth to an apple-planet tree. But the astronomers would have seen the tree, argues my father. They could not look so far. Only as far as the other star apples. May not the Milky Way be a branch, I suggest. We now become aware that a train is approaching on the single track that is hanging over the grade on the canyon side. We have no choice but to unfurl our wings and rise in the air, as the engineer blows his whistle. Brushing the pine-tree tops, we cross over the peak and seek the track on the other side of it, selecting an opening in a thicket for that purpose. Being it occupied by miners digging away, we hallow, when they look every way but up, as we land in their midst as though dropped from the sky. Their consternation is depicted in set jaws, as we give military salute and roll off. This feat, so skillfully accomplished, denotes an expert hand in our motorman, who had been practicing faithfully as a bird to fly, a swimmer or cyclist. As exhilarant to him as to us, and much lessened our distance, causes May to clap her hands and ask, why not fly all the time? We want to save that force until we have more serious need, Charlie replies. I hope that poor boy who fell over the log while eating his breakfast and ran away, will recover and go back, makes us laugh uproariously, when zip were. Over we go and lay on our side, the wheels still revolving. The grade just here, level from the ground excavated by the miners, saved us from a serious mishap. To have rolled to the canyon river would have damaged us greatly. As it is, we cannot recover the track without that descent. So we twist our car upright, we are fastened in our seats, square it to the hill and down we go, losing our breath as we plump, splashing into the water. Our bonny wheels take paddle-stroke and carry us, laughing over and up the opposite bank to the track there, in its sinuous course. We laugh too quick, says father. That friend at whom we laughed dropped that fork on the rail, I see him behind that boulder. We leave the narrow gauge track at its terminus without stopping, and have no other special accident in this vicinity. The sun has chased frost and rose hues the higher snow peaks. Sierra Nevada, snowy, in its most interesting locality, is around. Having come on the narrow gauge railroad that connects the two largest and oldest of the mining cities with the broad gauge of the Central Pacific, we are rounding out on the ladder over the famous Cape Horn. Spring is in her first freshness. We sniff its fragrance as we continue to do, following its pioneer march until our arrival at our destination, to enjoy our summer at the pole, where it is most enjoyable, and the only tolerable season. From apparently bare ground are flying the cyclamen banners of the Johnny jump-up. The blue sage, sundial, gives a lake of national colors, interspersed with the scarlet of the gorgeous fire-weed, whose leaves and blossoms glow alike. May gleefully reaches out to a dogwood lily, artist's favorite, then snatches a tuft of pink pymrose that covers a bank and decorates its edge, while I cook the breakfast upon our steam-heater. It is so late, I make it serve for dinner also, putting omelette and ripe strawberries beside the spinach and wild duck. As I finish, may amidst a long whistle, as a red-breasted linnet, the first, flies close to us to get our sweet food company, then sings to earn it and call its family. The chaperon is faintly green, but the manzanita, sung of poets or ought to be, in its immaculate green leaves adorning the winter, with red stems of eternal beauty, is covered with pink waxen sprays, as fragrant as it is like the lily of the valley. A momentary regret comes to leave California this worshipped shrub, its blossoms developed a little green apple-fruit, the size of peas, of edible flavor. Nameda is the Indian name for little apple. Charlie appreciates my feelings as he calls out, Take a last look! When father, to turn the tide, passes the muffins. Our glance down the mountainside falls upon a ranch, tiny in its depths. A maid of midget-size throws invisible corn to mice-sized chickens that flock around. Only hurls deftly a cracker toward them, that falls far short upon the mountainside. My spirits rise. To be here sings a grateful peyon in my breast. To write it is not half the story. I remember lovingly the sister-cities left behind, mining-born and golden-reared, with their Californian continual lawns. Little halls and grand hotels for the floating population, this last much improved by the efforts of the Salvation Army, who have charmed the crowds to good behavior as they enjoy appreciatively their sweet-voiced pleadings. I look out at the country, dotted with quartz mill chimneys, with their heavy roar as the heavy stamp crushes the granite to free the gold imprisoned in their Bastille. To all we bid good-bye as we turn Cape Horn, and though still among the clouds, we see and hear the rushing river below. As all streams here are given to chatty hilarity, I think once more of the one where oft I have walked out on trailed path. I muse on until, in time, we salute the desert plain, with its sagebrush and dog-cities. Stations are not hailed by us, as in time a small crowd awaits us. Silently we appear, like a shadow disappear. Our seats are so constructed that we can stand and exercise, rock or lie down at ease. Partaking our meals without alighting, we have no occasion to lose time. Our casing open, banners flying. I have brought handwork and books. Father is carving on some queer rotary wheel that gives three separate motions. We can see and see, on the seat in front, a muse each other and call us to the special sights. Chicago. We leisurely arrive and traverse silently, street after street. Sadly impressed that the continual magnificence and equality of buildings, found nowhere else, was dearly bought. Spirations are crowding our path, obstructing our progress with their progressive ardour, for someone has telegraphed them of our intended exploration. To our unexpected aspirations, unheating our desires, they hurrah lustily for our success. Thanking them, we start on, grateful in our hearts for their sympathy. We do not stop in any other city, even passing over the suspension bridge quite silently, though lost in ecstasy at its cataract view. Evading detection in New York, we whirl over the Brooklyn Bridge without minding the many curious gazers. Arriving at Coney Island Beach, though a storm is coming on, we light our interior, and in the dusk are about to drop into the sea. A shout goes up, and strong hands hold us, near us is a carriage whose horses we had frightened. In it is an aged man of martial bearing, who recognises my father. Oh, it is you, is it, meandering at night like a firebug. Run around now, and go home with me, he said, cordially. Haven't time. We are bound to the North Pole. Hurrying up so quickly, we break away and sink beneath the toppling waves. Pelted and tossed all night, we welcome daylight. But flash, crack, roar! We draw ourselves closer together, and sink in the depths beneath the turmoil, to find other disturbance. A masked army of swordfish hold battlefront with glowing guise, to an opposing array of giant whales, who, ponderously coming, lash the sea into a vortex. The two columns colliding, the first leap in white streaks, curl, and land on the latter's backs, dip and die their swords. The whales shake them off and beat them to death in myriads, to be followed by myriads more, until the sea is red, when suddenly the cavalry swords fly, disappearing in the distance. The Victoria's artillery, the whales, blow themselves weirdly. We go closer to them, too close, as they are a warrior band. A big general opens his mouth towards us, disconcerting to our stomachs. We beat a hasty retreat to a distance, where we watch the camp-followers, a jumbling mass of veritable sea-monsters. When all is quiet, we rise to the surface, to find it quiet there, too. The sun shining brightly on an iceberg, whose edge, sending up a few whale-spouts, resolves it into a fountenous white island. I muse aloud. Does the under-war cause the upper-war, or vice versa? What is war? Oceans, elements, and life as restless as man. Plant life and rocks also struggle in a peeve. Why is war? Resulting only to change. Gods evolution, but a program of variety. I study it, thus, in inspiration, hoping it leads to four destined improvement. I am hearing the word arbitration. Oh, yes, papa! When arbitration stops men's wars, will the elements follow? And what then? End of chapter one. CHAPTER II of ARCTIC A STUDY OF THE MARVELS AT THE NORTH POLE by Anna Adolf The first iceberg is but the precursor of many that block our way, then block the land to perpetual imprisonment, giving us first taste of this speciality of our trip. As we stop a few days in the last place of civilization, we find that we are in the last place of civilization, and that we are in the last place of civilization. Stop a few days in the last place of civilization, we find good entertainment with pleasant people who are willing to aid us in our endeavor for knowledge. Yet solemnly warn us not to dare the dangers ahead. They stalk us with dried meat, supply us with double seal-skin outfits. In fact, seal-skins line our sleigh to aid in keeping us warm. They end by giving us their uttermost paths. Had our home-friends in California been more solicitous and amused themselves less at our expense, at this juncture we would have returned to them, for our hearts are dropping like lead. But our pride aids us, as our eyes bravely scan the pole-star ahead. May, do you want to go home? As I see her wipe the tears out of her big blue eyes. Not I. This is the best part of it. Only the frosty air makes me cry. Do you not want to see your mama? Yes, but I will have so much more to tell her. According to enthusiasm and paramount faith. Polished ice-glass in hand, I firmly wave adieu. In the last few days of our stay have been finished preparations for what, to the nation, is a centennial celebration. A barbecue is held on an ice-glittering plaza. Emerald ice-tables, chamois clothed, hold a wondrous feast. Full reindeer-rigs, the sledge a pastry, great Christmas trees are confections. This now engages the crowds. We rub our hands together and, shall I say it, our noses, and local fashion of good-bye, as our prow points north. We have carefully selected this season of the year, with intent to follow the continual dawn light, night and day, of this region, which, yet faint, is hardly sufficient to keep us moving swiftly. When low, nearer us starts up a bright glare, followed by others, around and ahead, as far as we can see, illuminating the air. They are bonfires of the celebration. Heaps of cones, added to yearly, surround a ring of pine trees, the center a tall hollow trunk as chimney. The glorious flickering of glory, I feel to believe, is miles an extent. Climbing miles up the heavy atmosphere, it is advanced to iceberg peaks, beyond and below the horizon. Visited thus only for ages, do they enclose the pole? Are they the goal we seek? Springing up the crystal shafts and warmth of welcome are reflected back again and beckon us on. Our minds in sublime mood, to silence, are disturbed, as Father suddenly jerks up his head. It is now the red fire of the North. The rare mystery the superstitious ancients believed to be a sign of war, is now solved, and the simple, in fact, is most beautiful of sight. Our path is strangely smooth, as though some hither-tooth sea has congealed, and left a frozen plain, which gives us grateful relief until our direction ceases, and the last marked path stops, and an icy lobe rears high before us. Clamps spurring our wheels, we climb its height, to find a table formation level-graded, an unmistakable sign of ice-locked land, as if an island included in the cold grasp that holds the sea. We do not go far when a pile of ice-rocks hem in a space. We proceed to inspect. Hastily curving by, we are suddenly brushed by a bush, and berries rattle lusciously in our window-pane. Flinging it open, a balmy air salutes us, forcing us out upon a bright-hued snow-flower carpet. What? Berries and spring! In arctic forcing-houses! No cold night to delay matters, as Charlie is about to cram his mouth. But I, unclosely examining, fail to identify them, and jot in my book a new name. Honey-goggies! He looks over to read. Goggies, goggies, gorgeous, please! To woo-a-woo! Waivers our brains, and quivers our eyes, as we see a great white owl perched on our banner, blinking. I see near by an apple vine. I reach out and take a most beautiful red specimen. Before I am aware that it is already in the mouth of a serpent, coiled around the twig. Unconsciously an eave, as unconscious also, is the reptile, who looks at me with kind appreciative eyes. But I drop the apple, and get into the sleigh, quite weak, unable to prevent May from taking and eating another, giving one to father. Seeing me in, Charlie gets ready to enter by loading the bottom. The owl is gone, but approaching is a gorgeous stork of orange plumage. Of camel-size it coolly steps over us, as the rest quickly step in, and we move forward. Seeing this may be a lost Eden, I look curiously to discover the life-tree. To see May and Father, who have turned deathly pale, real in their seats. Stopping quickly, we put snow on their heads, and bind it by leaves of a high shrub we are under. Shuddering they grasp the leaves and their teeth, and swallow the juice, as their breath revives, a red glow on their cheeks. Was it the leaves of healing? Much trampled beneath had given us roadway. As expected, we enter a herd of foxes, who are barking in play, and basking in the unusual light. As all else, unnoticing us, we glide along quite securely. He has studied the lesson of the apple, as he audaciously reaches down and takes one, and calmly eats it in conjunction with the leaves, to my perturbed attention. We reach the edge of the island, and go down to the sea-plane again, which is here more rough and icy waves, making the travel quite difficult. The waves grew larger until mountains high, then lessened, and gradually disappeared, having unfolded to us a frozen storm at sea. The surface is smoother and smoother, so that we start up swiftly. A gale scurries toward us from behind. As it strikes us, Charlie opens valves, and we rise in our seats, unable to contain our ardour, as miles are covered in our extending speed, which continues as the moments and hours pass. Fathers speed-measure marking a mile a second. Hundreds of miles are covered, and the ice is still smooth. Knowing we are not so far away from the peaks that point the pole, we hourly anticipate a view as of mass arriving at sea, but instead we are shocked to see the flame-hued sky settle densely in a fog. So long, our friend, its warmth had melted the congealed air, and now clouds are nautical bearing. Our compass is our sole northly guide. But what? What is the matter with it, that it hangs its head and stops? We are lost. When frenzy now, the hours go by as we circle blindly, when a luminant point attracts us far away. Is it the serried guide-shaft? It is. Famished and cold, our steam spent and wheels broken. We make but slow speech toward the flickering gleam. Attaining it, we have only left us our wings, by which we rise up the cliff-side of the topping pinnacle, to see others, masked and braided in arcaded confusion before us, weakening while above their splintering and crashing avalanches, we drop on the side of the shearest bayonet of all, as hundreds of hues are changing and ranging and glistening sea-waves in a deep, long valley below us. Not long, but a round level-plane, girdled by this ring of bergs that hem it in. Our pained eyes watch father stolidly take our local bearings. Then with him shout, an audible voice, The North Pole. End of Chapter 2. Chapter 3 of Arctic. A Study of the Marvels at the North Pole. By Anna Adolf. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 3. Lead kindly, light. Lead thou me on. The North Star in the heavens. Shining faintly through the half-clear atmosphere has decided us on our locality at the dearly attained goal, costing us friends and country and possibly our lives. The sound of our voices falls dead around and echoes into the deep valley below. No sign of the beautiful city we had fancifully pictured. Thankful to die in the light, with the stars to take our last breath, has only left us. May, complainingly, whimpers, there isn't a pole at all. Nor open sea, growls charlie, hoarsely. The width of the valley determines the flattening of the earth, though, sighs father. Fall dead around, did I say, our voice. I level the glass down the burgside beneath me. I see at the sound a snowy mass turn about, with a human face uplifted toward me. So great the sighs and wondrous fare the countenance, I believe myself deceived, as it quickly turns back. But I see two hands clasp together in signal. Then low organ notes swell from below, which, when loudest groan, suddenly stop, when the sun-inhaling gleam lights a tall spire, supporting a ring of gold points arising from the valley-center, which I now trace for the first time, led to examine the valley around it. I see shapes of domes and walls, signs of a buried city. What are they doing, whirling and shaking? Presto, the snow-canvas rolls off, unveiling a full-fledged and much alive city to my amazed mind. From last extreme of despair, my hope suddenly arise to so sudden a height, I fall forward and cover my eyes to keep my brain intact. The city at last, city of Zion, song of poets and portrait of artists, inspired of its contour and Elysian beauty. Hope raises a hazzana in my breast that is chorused around me, where I now give my attention. The human presence below, with feather-plume robes, so like snow swaying back, is hastening up in giant strides, anxious expectation on his face. As he reaches the ledge on which we lodge, the choral voices around his clothes a throng of people, similar to him, lining all the mountain-sides. Their peyon of praise to their city's prowess ended, with shouts in conversation, they prepare to descend. Nearly running over us, babes to them in sighs. They at last spy us, as the first kneels in adoration, his hands over us in protection and token of possession. With tender emotion he assays to our quiet alarm, managing at last to emit words that sounded like, Welcome, unions! For a moment I wonder if other Americans are here, lost before us. Then we bow low in reply, assured of our trust in him. He takes charge and lifts us from our ruined vehicle to another standing near, which is no less than a giant white albatross, one of many now being mounted by the throng. Robes are drawn about us after we are presented to a lady, also in charge. Who with less success attempts the words he first used. Being quite among friends, as he lifts a feather-tufted guiding wand resting on the bird's head, I turn to the lady by my side, whose first glance as though in bitterness before our arrival has changed to liveliest sociability and gestures, nods and smiles upon May, who is cuddled in her lap. With womanly curiosity I assay to learn the city's name. Understanding my desire, she assay to reply in cordial, harmonious tones. Ark! Farther inquiry in my eyes I get the farther delineation. It circles aurora, meaning, no doubt, the electric center. I scant with this, I scan the dimensions growing as we approach, and ride high above the snowy pinions of the bird throng, clouding the air. Courts are numerous, covered with great glass domes and domes rolled back. As we turn down to one of these, I hear Father whisper to our host, How do you know English? With effort he kindly gives the following. My father, when younger, explored a great deal upon the iceberg sea around. Venturing too far one day, he became lost in an island-garden to find cramped there people like you, who fed and cared for him. How simple his kindness is in gratitude! But where are the people? Father farther inquired. I do not know. He became lost from them to find his own city. Alighting we are led through conservatory halls to an apartment like Hall. Of great magnificence it is quite home-like, with great cushion strone about that are like seats for the great people, but beds in size for us. I fall upon one, and am soon fast asleep. Awaking partially a melody is soothing my senses. Getting up I see a fountain whence issues the sounds. In it I bathe face and hands. When the water, acting medicinal, I feel revived and buoyant. Also quite hungry. Father and Charlie are talking. The latter ending with—it suits me. May still asleep, talk spasmodically. Oh, auntie, oh, mama. At the last a pain enters my heart. Never more to leave. Opening her eyes she slowly takes in the situation. Seeing the pain in my face she throws her arms around my neck and says gently, No matter, auntie, it is a sweet place here, anyway. 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 of our mouths, cup and all. I taste and find it palatable. Our appetite satisfied, out wheels the table, making May 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. May, down last, remain seated on it, when it starts around the room with her, pure wedding and mazy figures, giving its occupant mazy face. When stopped, the host whistles to bring from a corner two great white mice, kitten-size. As each whirls his fingers, they fall to the floor, a green-swored. 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 have an inattainment that is funny, oh so funny. The host, in gleeful impulse, elects to take me. Raising me on his hand, he asks my name. Charlie, quite diverted, gives it. Anna. Oh, you are angel, Anna. When Charlie 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 Charlie 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. May, 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, as we move swiftly along as on a track. May asks ingeniously for our bearer's name. He gives it an arc language, what sounds to us like show-off, which we now shall call him. Then looking to my bearer, he says, She is Aunt Robert, 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 clearly 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 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 nearby, May 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 gate. I suddenly remember May's hassock, but she is watching Charlie, 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 discomforture, our chairs opposite, we are treated at the last to a grand bounce that sends us into each other's arms so close. Had May not been held firm, she would have fallen in our convulsion of mirth. We lose no time in getting down and close to our bearers. Aunt Robert, 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 an 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 Psy as he watches the dawn that beckons to arise instead of sleep, I assay 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. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of Arctic A study of the marvels of the North Pole by Anna Adolf. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 4 Knowest thou the house? On columns rest its pile, its halls are gleaming, and its chambers smile. Gerta Waking early, my prayer goes up to God. With my whole consciousness born intact. So when we miss a link to our self-calculated program of events, we look to him, the holder of the links of us, his marionettes below. Charlie 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 intent 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 wall. 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. Inbound saucy. That is what we nickname May. 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 Charlie? Looking around. Gone out, I reply. I am going to catch him. So am I. She calls him Charlie 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 is sedate, I watch him as he walks down the hall and disappears. And trying to find Charlie, we find ourselves in the city street. May, dear, today 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 Hindu custom. A lady and gentleman 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 as 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 this court. This is only an art 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 Emmy founder, Asbury, was lame, so could not dance, therefore we preach it down. Saucy as a piscable 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 so 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, to the crowds drawn to the riverside, for the purpose obligatory in their sweltering climate? Are not all church-rights illustrative of adaptations of the one worship, spirit, and truth? These thoughts adding so much of scriptural interpretation of new modes, adding therefore new programs 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 Charlie by my side, who has overheard all and coaches me. Do make the earth a church as these people do. The noon hour arrived. Refreshments of light and solid food are passed to all. Not having gotten over the impression of its being a church, may, who had not questioned the explanation, turns and says, Aunty, it is a sacrament. The little gum-paste cups hold drink. I do not think it will harm me. A sacrament? Would that all churches would give each Sunday a substantial 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 quite at ease, as I eat prayerfully until satisfied. Then, looking around at the beaming social faces, I suddenly take a distrust and grasp may's hand. Child, this is a saloon! In great trepidation. No, Aunty, 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 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, and Robert 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 and one. I am quite converted, and wish ours at home would become the same. But Charlie, who is still by my side, impatiently waiting to get my full attention, remarks jokingly. Little folk should keep out of the parlours. 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 tonight we will attend the parlor. And the mask, meditatively. Mask? 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 and 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 an 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 in this heterogeneous crowd. A Catholic crosses himself. A shaker shakes. A dervish howls. Buddhists, Muhammetans, and Confucians appear. Closing my eyes. I wonder, could they not, one in 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 Charlie coming back. He stops short at my expression. What are you now conjuring up? He asks. I told him that I had no idea what he was doing. A church, where all kinds of people worship in one building. Very good. When we get back home, we will get one up. Call it a church fair, or carnival of churches, each in all sects to have a booth of their own. The Hindus would put up an ox as a symbol, the Muhammetans, 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 all together, 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 principles they symbolize aid in its several good, and one church building. I look prayerfully to him and say regretfully, but you do not believe that 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 Jews 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 away briskly. 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 Showoff, who now appears. How long do these churches hold open? Always, with God's 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 and hot-anger? He turns partly to me to see what I am asking, then understanding me, he answers gravely. Freeze them. Aunt Robot, 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 Charlie brings forth the mask. 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 in nobling dancing as consistent as in nobling singing, he has no patience with my doubts. What am I to do? I ask in prayer. Silent, a gentle whisper breathes an 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? It's omission of condemnation. Can I burnish and enlarge my consecration to thee, oh God, in gay circles? Dost thou truly love, also, happy faces? At the hall, we don our costumes and are shone into a green bower, so banked with trees, shrubs, and plants. There seem no space for guests. These, I soon discover, in costume, 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 noted. 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 Charlie, a mosquito song in glee, a note like saucy, a wasp with saucy eyes, show off, show off, 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 cockaneal. Standing under an umbrella tree, I was darned by a needle to a branch, a hopper hopped to a sheaf of wheat, ladybugs minced, graybeard stalked around. A black-coated beetle handed me, as a weevil, a rose-conserve, saying, a flower for you. I accepted it, making room for him by my side. But soon the hostess, bringing me a big bug, who asked a promenade, replying to him, May be the beetle gets up and snaps spitefully away. I could see no harm as the hour 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 of 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 now 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 lined 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 down and covered trenches. Charlie 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 socially 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 lessons of him to regard his dignity, comes up and snaps his ears playfully. The fire darts from his eyes, 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 indict some deed of evil intent. Seeing Charlie 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 Ropet never get married? She is going to be, when her lover comes down, out of the sky. This mysterious news sets Charlie off into a roar of laughter, so I proceed. What does he do in the sky? Ride about on a star? Yes, and fishes down below with a line for past time. 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 Charlie, 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. I hate 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 go to dreamland. In a vision, a mighty angel descends from God, down through the open dome, and takes us by our wingtips 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 Robert. Half uncertain, as half awake, I hum to myself the tune of home sweet home. When Robert 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 May. When you were in delirium, you talked such strange talk. You raised up once and asked us, What is in heaven? I humoured 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. While all regard me lovingly, a golden point of light enters the room, dropping at my feet, causing consternation in the rest. Show-off hurries out and brings a tablet. Reading it, they point excitedly to me. The sun burst growing, they gaze and stupor. Not until it lessens and departs do they regain composure. When I ask, what is it? Robert answering, a prophecy, this sign that has never been just this way before, heralds a new era in Ark, a new people, a new land. The latter a necessity, as Ark is just evenly full. My overbalanced visionary tendency becomes imbued with a new power. I rise in the air spiritually out of the open dome, ascend to the high-posted golden points, still glowing, my soul having left material enclosure in the centre, and look down a cavity miles wide in extent whence drops the last golden ray. A black cloud receives it, a glint of silver lining, and all is opaque. I open my eyes to see Savant added to the circle. He was called, maybe, at my faint. But what is strange? He seems to know where I had spiritually gone, and more is expecting some revelation from me. I only slowly shake my head when he abruptly turns away. My new spiritual power says of him, he is the greatest of living. I note where he disappears to sometimes search him out. The new telepathic condition I had suddenly gone into does not entirely leave me, but takes a new form, that of outwardly statue, or marble state. Seeming cold and rigid to others, I see intuitively into their minds, read their thoughts and wishes. I am conscious at times of miraculous ability, as though I could put forth my hand, and command, omniscient like. As Robert tenderly teaches us arcways and diversions, I see the adaptation in foreknowledge, and surprise her in the rest, so that they are getting in awe of me and are carefully respectful of my person. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of Arctic A Study of the Marvels at the North Pole by Anna Adolf. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 5 In the Depths May goes out everywhere, often alone, finding the new ways and amusements of the city. When she finds one she thinks I will enjoy, she hurries home all out of breath, to take me or tell me. She has been hunting around the halls today, as if there were hidden mysteries close by. I do believe she has found one. Her hair flying and eyes dancing, I go to meet her to see what it is, getting some emotion in my own frame. Come in here, auntie, and there I go like a lamb. It is a glass entry of some sort. I will stop to explain what I call glass, as it is not exactly, but some transparency quite serving the purpose. May pull certain knobs and lets in what? Water. Auntie, this is bath day. We have on bath rags. Put on this helmet with its tubes above for breathing. I do so as the water deepens. She opens a gate now, and a flood rushes in and takes us off our feet, which we regain by use of our elastic breathing tubes. We pass through the gate to all the glories of the sea, a sea bath, sea mosses under our feet, shells piled in heaps, fern trees waving. May dashes out and hides from view. I discover her, but cannot hold her with my wet hands. We hear a song. In the door of a crystal grotto stands a mermaid. Come into my bower, and I will give you amber. I am a sister of seven who combs her long hair in the deep. Ascending steps of dainty harp-shell, we tread an anemone carpet where is a crowd of people. Games are in order on rock ruby stands, in which I become engrossed, as a sister plays a cameo mandolin, another singing a rollicking song of the sea, ending in sobs, for those who have come down in ships. There is sea dancing, liquid symphony. I see Charlie in his native element, precluding tears or weeping for joy. We round out on a tower-top, and board a nautilus with unfurled sail. We ride over a goldfish-guilt-edged school, and a bank of red sea-berries that, holly-like, call up to us, Merry Christmas! Furling our sail, we drop down into the entry, which we empty, and strange, our garments are dry. We emerge among our friends. A sweep of robes is so close passing me. I look up at the colossal face. It is robert, but a strained, nervous look forbids me to follow. Toppling upon the hem of her robe, I am carried per force into her company. She stops in a conservatory, where one grand tree is growing, and bends down a branch. I look to see it, and all the trees transcribed with names, a veritable tree-family. More distraught, she speaks in a loud-pitched voice, down into the face of Charlie, who has followed me, seeing him not. Have you a pedigree? He colors up and wrath, then takes a tablet from my chattelain, and places it in her hand, which awakes her. Smiling, she says, I did not mean you. Charlie, reacting from anger to hilarity, seizes a twig, crying, I will write a pedigree, as a red pollen drops, touching upon my cheeks. They need it, he says, and goes for May, who now comes, and soon she glows like an Indian. When he is gone, May, in order for ablution, opens nearby a door that is outwardly a picture. More mystery. Can it be the secret sanctum of savante that I have so vainly hunted? Father sits in an easy chair, deeply engaged with a pictured script. I look around, but see no books or apparatus, a cheerful, cozy room only. I look over Father's shoulder as he turns the papyrus leaf, holding it over a microscope. I catch sight of the meaning. Giving a sudden cry, he arouses to my presence. He takes me on his knee, and we follow together the tiny pictured lines of a story. A naan, a kitten purrs by me. I look up and see the host intently reading my expression in his own absorbed, telepathic style. Genially smiling, he takes my two hands, and kneeling, places them on his head, thus confessing his service to my will. Though in my new normal state, I feel to deprecate myself, and smile in humblest mode as he rises and sits next to us in similar seat. Before we turn to our occupation, an incandescent glow falls upon the page, causing us to raise our eyes quite wonderingly. The light emanates quite mysteriously from Robert, whom I had not before observed as thus illumined. I see in her hand a lighted lantern, which she is studying, or the shining words upon it, that these latter are possibly a code of rules as determined by her action. Sinking down at Savant's feet, she asks, Do give me some new plan for court today? I will give you one, speaks up father. She turns full to him. It is lawyer, a word signifying welfare. I was aware my English language was prolific of varied meanings. I am pleased to hear this development. Law, he continues, transposed is well. Ur is fair. Miss Robert has caught his idea, and elaborates it. When I go into court, the good word shall be welfare. When I come out, farewell, and is gone. Dear Robert, what is her secret sorrow that she hides in her tender breast? Her genial soul should have no rebuff. Why is her intended away, as I have heard? Quite changeable in mood, as a show-off her great chum, who gets it from his mother, the latter a triplet sister with Robert, and now on a visit to the other triplet sister. We now give attention to the story before us, but so loudly sounds a refrain in my ears. Savant before you is the greatest of living, until I become impatient and ask, how great! refrains back to me. What can it mean? I will treat him to some unsettled points in spiritual doctrine, to test his lore. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of Arctic A Study of the Marvels at the North Pole by Anna Adolf This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 6 Immortality of the soul is a universal instinct. Philip Schaeff DD Looking to where he sits, I study one in my mind, an observed father sees my abstraction. I can tell by a wrinkling around his eyes, he is preparing himself for enjoyment of the debate. What is the breath of life, I at last ask ingeniously? I can answer that. I have found it out since I have been here. That is an easy question. It is my dear electricity, which we assimilate into spirit. Simple an explanation. The electric soul batteries of our organization, thus supplied by God, the maker of souls, drawn in with our breath. Quite suavely preaches my father to me. Yes, but there are two electricities. How can we take both and live? There are two electricities assuredly. They assimilate. The assimilation is life. I feel dubious, but see clearer as he proceeds. The earth has negative electricity. The other positive, or masculine, comes from the sun, uniting to life. Suddenly I burst out. That makes the sun our father. Pray, who is God who made the sun? The eye wrinkle deepens. In that case, our grandfather. I scorned a smile. Does this soul-life have bodily sense after death? I again venture a second question. Yes, and bodily sustenance in the air. Where is body material, though invisible? I clasp my hands to my head and rush out of the room. But close behind me is Savant, who is pleased to wish more acquaintance. I overcome my awe, but do not care to inquire on abstruse subjects. We go out into the street and traverse its length, before I am attracted by a special diversion. Entering a hall to rest, we are witness, to me, of an utterly and at first inconceivable exhibit unheard of before novelty. It is the paradoxic act of concert or opera, without sound, seen and not heard. Upon the stage are rows of lights, reflections, graded in size like the strings of a harp. Raising and lowering these, and varying figure by skillful players, constituted the performance. It is the changing, not unison melodies in grave or gay parts, or intermingling, swaying my emotions. I lean back in rapture. I am studied by my escort, who has been addicted thus since first he looked at me. The green sword beneath our feet, as on all floors, prevents the unpleasant custom of stamping. Soon the walls moved in and out, portraying drama. A row of graded boys and girls also, carrying dolls and wickers that they stood up against the walls, bowed their heads and waved their hands in pantomime melody. Marching away, the boys carried the dolls. We were quite diverted, laughed heartily, stamping on the sword floor that produced no sound. We will tell May about this, I remarked. Let's go home and send her here. We hurried to the palace to find her under a devan with her head out, though covered by the flowing grove of a doll, mother-bunch, into which her hands had been made. Charlie has to keep the boys away, who are greatly mystified as interested, while he is asking questions, answered by bowing or head shaking of the sorceress. Suddenly he answers for the doll in ventriloquism, from which they back in amazement. When it is over and May released, so great is their awe of us, I seek to enhance it. I take my watch and convince them that it is alive. This quite overcomes them. I turn to see Charlie, slowly at first, then swifter, nod his head up and down, as though some unusual resolve was engrossing his calculations. Soon I find out. Coming around me he says, I feel a call in my soul to initiate this people to serve our God. I will take this almighty dollar. Suiting in action he goes through his wizard tricks. We are tired before they. Do tell us some more, they ask. The next day they are still curious and keep us engaged in exhibit. We advert to our railroads, telephones, etc., to their confusion, as they have no samples. Catching in their perplexity some similarity to our own achievements, they bring forward and strive to teach us how they move articles by a solution. Chairs and streetcars in their wizard propulsion are solved. Is it a vegetable or mineral? It is animal. Their explanation has greatly confounded us. We get it from a fish, which the vent found when he was last over the ice. He saw the ice strangely cracking to find the queer fish. Grasping it, there was an explosion of sound. He brought some home, but they are hard to raise. Finding us continue in solicitude to understand, they treat us in exchange of our revelations. Our story reminds them of when to match it. One day, explaining to Robert how unit ladies make themselves young looking by cosmetics and pencils, she says briskly, I will take you to-morrow where they make themselves old and wise looking. You will be pleased, it is a fine city. After dinner we go. Arriving I see the houses are crackled in straight or curved lines of beautiful design. Lines are the fashion. The costume was striped in pattern. The suede carpet was stems in graceful arrangement. The table for light refreshments was a single piece, curving in rings from top face to cake, and lower fruit trays down to numberless seals, all curls of its octopus dimensions. As Robert says, the special fat and face garniture of the ladies, as well as the gents, was aged penciling in lines. The marks of wisdom sit quaintly on young brows. Drooping mouths are traced to upward curve. Sad eyes smile, laughing are deepened in thought. The ribbon-dressed babies are ribbed into similar hammocks, to be swung back and forth. Their mode of worship at court was to stand in straight lines, like soldiers of God. Their games are sticks, kindergarten, which they also work into ingenious devices of cabinets and stands. The arches of apartments decorated thus. They're adieu with straightening of the fingers. When on our way home, I kiss-rope it. My statue-sense is wearing away. Still yet, I seem to see the past and future, interior of minds. An aura-cathode light clarifies. I ask to answer my own questions. Are spirits before birth individuals? No, only in bulk, combining chemically at birth. Danger in this life. Are there dangers in the next? There are. I listen to myself, statue-like. At last I ask Savant, what is it? He is as puzzled as I, and questions me on my church faith. I tell him about Adam and Jesus, the latter to tell us all mysteries when he comes in the clouds. He is immensely interested. I get my Bible and read to him, day after day, much affected one day. He looks up to ask, May not the God have sent this upon you to make you his second forerunner? Is the secret solved? Am I the herald's searchlight to his path? And is he the Savant, my mission aide? Nearby me, concealed by art-screen, I hear a sob, and see a yellow gleam of hair drop on a loving shoulder. Sassy sobs up to a face, thinking deeply. Charley, coaxing. What shall we do? Will she go up into the sky? A jerk of the shoulder straightens up the head, and sobers the grotesque grief of its face. No, you do not know her. She is smart, I allow, but not so smart as she thinks. I feel so funny as I listen. She is weak yet from her illness is all. Oh! ejaculate Sassy as she relapses to her usual self. Something rustles under my feet. I pick up a piece of American newspaper. Sassy says behind me. That was around my lunch, Mama put up. She is still looking, I suppose. Deeply sighing. I carefully read each precious word. A short but torn excerpt on science contains this. I said one good thing of the soul, that it was electrified after death. I am at sea. It was not Savantslore, but my father's who deceived me. I go to him with the scrap. He reads and smiles, then takes up a leaf near him. Holding it over a microscope, I see on it a picture of cloud lightning, taking a spirit to the sky. A wielder of that lightning concealed a far off. I am at sea again. I take to studying the leaves myself, seeing how useless to questions of ant. Charlie and May, too, study with me. Still, the latter jealously watches of ant, whose modes and agencies are new. Though I see magnetism appear at times, I cannot tell how produced. He works in an alcove one side. Every morning I am a fixture here, studying, marking a place on the register to visit in the afternoon. So safe am I, now a citizen. I often go alone. Charmed as Van Winkle, stay long away. I am surprised they show no solicitude. May, one time, is absent a week. Alarmed, I go to savant. He takes the register telephones of her position. Then, in a shining leaf, shows me and picture what has passed to her. I feel to get up and hug him, but hug Charlie, who is calm. You would better go after her, he says. Why, I know all she does. Yes, but you should direct what she does, wisely. I look to the leaf. A new impress is coming. Behind her, as she is backing unconsciously toward it, is an open crevice trench in use by a workman. I startle the air with a screamed savant. Call me, says Charlie authoritatively, who looks on the plate to call savant himself. The latter seeing the dilemma, without leaving his laboratory, touches a button that closes the crevice behind May, as she steps on it safely. I hug Charlie convulsively. End of Chapter Six Chapter Seven of Arctic A Study of the Marvels at the North Pole by Anna Adolf This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter Seven Logic is logic, that's what I say. OWH My husband, always so loving, so bonny and practical, has been sober and long-faced, no shadow of a smile. No hop, skip, and jump, like saucy May. Even she, he passes absent-minded. If she pulls his sleeve, he does not heed. So she follows him around to find what the matter is. As she makes a good bodyguard, I leave her to watch him. He has just come out of savant's room. Absorbed in some papers he carefully carries in his hand. Assorting them as he noiselessly walks along. The genius behind failing to get a peep at their contents. Hearing me approach, he hastens to conceal them in the shrubbery, disappearing himself. Saucy, having lost him, takes up with me, and we run out and up the street, looking in at the various places. Seeing familiar faces at a crowd at an opera house, we join them. Seeing us, the crowd gives way and gets up in front, where we become the sinister of the audience, the performance not having commenced, who look from us to the stage, as if in connection, enigmatic to us. Puzzled no longer, we see Charlie come out and take position as speaker. Our mouths, as well as our eyes, open in wonder. What will happen next? With preoccupied bearing, he explains our discovery of iron, that raised man from savagery to civilization, build ships and houses. It was well we were before him, and appreciated his discourse. The home reminiscence starts the old pain. For the audience do not understand a word he says, but connecting his gestures, they oddly imitate the latter. He turns to us and changes to an abstruse subject, not at all congenial to him. Americans concede three natures to man, and five senses. I will show him to possess seven natures, each represented by a sense. We are quite attentive. Touch first by his palm, denoting his acquiring nature. I clap my hands, taste second by his tongue, denoting his sustenance nature. I mused myself. Do we kiss because we are cannibals, and would like to eat the one we kiss? Social third by his lips, denoting his impress nature. Oh yes, that is why we kiss. Vibrative fourth his ear, denoting his emotional nature. I think him quite a phrenologist. May is some dazed. Atmospheric fifth by his nose, denoting his steam nature. May sends up a prolonged shout. Solar sixth by his eyes, denoting his mental nature. I shake my finger at him, sole by his hair, denoting electric spirit nature. I come to my feet, raising both hands as he proceeds. The hair is covering, or ornament of the head, has not received sufficient dignity. As telegraph lines of divine construction communicates with God, raises its value. I place my hands on each of his shoulders as he finishes impressively. Above the mind, summit of senses, its own power has revealed it, even to sight. Remembering him coming out of Savant's studio, I am not surprised, but I continue the thread. Does this theory contravene the immortality of the soul, teach disillusion with the body? Oh no. The operator back of the telegraph machine does not integrate with the machine. The telegraph wires down. Do not signify the operator to be in the same condition. End of chapter 7