The centerpiece is a large “sweet-pea”cock, flanked by “chick”weed on each side, “butter”cup, “pica”lily and “pitcher”plant have places. Alarm at my heart at the solemn tolling bell had hastened my feet hither. To find a scenic banquet is somewhat puzzling. The usual ascending glow, with its usual reversal of shadows, is augmented by the added source, in new portraiture, adding to the picturesqueness of the occasion. Taught at home that all people without Christ are barbaric, I was expecting an abject worship of the disturbed elements. Instead I am pleased as surprised to find it an inspiration of interest only. I look to get their knowledge of the phenomena. For its solution I have left home and risked my life. That they fear it not, is evident. Instead they love and reverence its benefaction to them—lighting and warming their homes all winter; their winter daylight—as Roban said, in their interior winter quarters. Unusually quiet this season so far, but this is to outdo all, make up for lost time, unprecedented in grandeur. That they understand it I am solicitous to know. I could catch a word now and then. I could understand in the voluble tonic, stream of talk I read from their gestures and expressive faces some meaning of their patriotic interest. The morning banquet at an end, all sit back in their seats and look at Savant as though some special ceremony is to ensue. Thoroughly excited, I see him hold a state book and read: “We receive again God’s sign of the disturbance of aurora—our beautiful mother in the earth—who gathers us each winter around her fireside to comfort us in its warm beams.” “What is aurora?” “Yearly we ask this question. None have answered us. We yearly invite our subjects to explore her confines, whence she lights her beacon. We invite now.” “Who will descend the Glory Hall to pay devoirs to the country’s goddess.” I had followed him quite plainly. When he stopped, in the silence that followed a great light filled my eyes, as the idea that engendered it filled my mind. I a“rose” in my seat, which latter is a rose vine—insignia of aurora—which word I hear in suppressed intuition in application to myself as a branch of bloom settles on my head wreath-like. Raising my hands in acceptance of the undertaking, they look calmly at me, incredulous, when I speak in full earnest tones: “I will go, God of the universe, Creator of aurora has led me hither for that purpose.” Sitting again, they are convinced, and much upset in their calculations, that I so small should answer the great request. In their surprise I get full revenge of all I have been subject of so long. Now, all look at Savant, which occasions me to do the same. The phenomenal wave of thought, individual to him, wraps his countenance in stormy struggle. He speaks: “We cannot accept, in duty to guest and stranger.” But I gesture firmly.