Robet—I say in my mind—weep not. There are fairies around. I look up to see Show Off in front of me. “What,” he says, “come to school?” “Yes,” I answer vaguely, seeing no sign of such institution. He slides back of me in the foliage, a door revealing a busy scene: Men, women and children are scattered about, variously occupied. Some are writing upon sheets of transparent material. The pictured script, which subjected to a solution, is shrunk to microscopic dimensions. Other occupations are on each side, extending in a line. On the farther side of each room are windows looking outside. The school rooms being divided from the inner halls and libraries by the umbrageous alley, in which we sit. Wheeling my seat ahead (which goes, tree and all, as though one piece on rollers) Show Off explains: “This school or fair, as Charley calls it, (would I could take it home for exhibition) is devoted to silk.” I see in process of construction pictures, screens, garments, carpets (which I had taken for sward) with American articles devised from Charley’s lectures. These last are brought out to me for my benefit. A worker hands me a glass of water, which another puts a bouquet of flowers into, on which lights a canary and sings a song, as a fuzzy dog puts up his paws at my side. All are silk. Down spinning comes a spider. I did not like its looks. It opens its mouth saying: “Come into my parlor.” I turn away saying: “No American parlor this, but fairyland, sung of poets and imagined in spirit by painters. As I become absent-minded, Show Off closes the doors and leaves me alone.” I look straight up into the sky, thinking of the button, when an odd little sky speck attracts my inquisitiveness, for it is growing larger very last, as it no doubt is coming down very fast. Strangely heavy for a fleecy cloud, which it looks to be. Down to the opening, through to the tower top it stops by my side. The cloud is off, as out steps father and Saucy, and I spring convulsively to my feet off the rock I had leaned on in case. Holding my hands together Mae quiets my nerves. “O, auntie,” with glowing cheeks and shining eyes of sky angel. “Did you not know they do this here? See, this is the string of the cloud balloon I hold.” “But Mae, the Traveler is up there and is not friendly.” “O, Grandpa has been civilizing him, so I have asked him to the wedding.” “How is that?” “Serpenta is his niece, so he might as well come and be reconciled. Won’t there be an explosive,” she adds gleefully. “Now Grandpa and Auntie,” as she sits down by my side, “take up your bill of fare, and while we dine, we will talk of going home.” A table in our midst has been spread, a la American. “Bill of fare?” I query. “Yes, that menu by your plate.” I had taken it for a leaf decoration. It is named at the top _A Leaf From Webster_. Webster’s dictionary? It is the first page of S as that initial heads each dish. Sabine-fish, sacar-game, saccharine-pastry, sack-drink.