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.”