Around it dance its gay planets as it sits and beams warmly upon their atlas garniture—a round crystal-globed lamp. I see a marking on the disc. Does it designate a disturbance within? It grows and changes. Would that some astronomer were here. The globe in which I sit is steady in its motion, but the marking on the sun changes oft. I look up toward the earth flame to see coming from its side more coals and smoke; also so far one side as to clear its blaze safely, is a huge mass—yes, ice—coming swiftly directly over me. Having collected all this hard winter, it has rolled over the edge of Arc to complete my destruction for my daring temerity. Resolving to retain consciousness, I look downward at the sun spot. It has changed; is changing, as does the ice-mass above me. Can that mass, in eclipse from the light above, be the spot? I believe it is, and that it will now strike us. Hitting only on the edge of our anchor, ice, it spins the globe off into space, over and over, vapor spouts adhering. But I have seen behind us a slim stationary object. Is it? Oh, is it a fixture to hold the earth flame? Relieved of our heavy ice we gravitate to it (as the ice-mass evaporates, filling the interior with Aurora prisms. These escaping at both northern and southern zone outlet, are certain proof of the attending phenomena). Sliding along its length we curve toward the side of the earth which I shall hope soon to see. Coming at last far away, like a cloud, now to it, we dip down (or the rod fixture on which we slide, as though some inner electric lode drew us). This quite mysterious direction engages my study as we pass under the earth-crust, as it, China-lantern transparent like, curves by above us as if in a rim. I study; why the crust of the earth turns round and round, and not the rod! Surely no earthly lantern is so elaborately constructed. Engaged in study I find myself outside. The rod arises now in height of location and branches to each side of the crust-rim, fork like. Extending, we go out, out toward the sun. As we lightly bound hither and thither, side and about, I catch a backward glance of the continent America. Tears fill my eyes. As I press them out I see approaching a white cliff on the rod, covering its width. This side are crowding a swarm of tiny people absorbed in dislodging a huge boulder of which the ground is covered. Clinging about them is a semi-transparent vapor that floats and densifies, collecting over their heads. They jump into the air, whirl over harlequin like and descend to push again the boulder. No sign of vegetation; there must be no air. Can the vapor be their breath? Why does it not float away? In the globe I have tubes to my nose that supply my breath.