Well, one night—it was always night, except when I was rushing by some star that was occupying the whole universe with its fire and its glare—light enough then, of course, but I necessarily left it behind in a minute or two and plunged into a solid week of darkness again. The stars ain’t so close together as they look to be. Where was I? Oh yes; one night I was sailing along, when I discovered a tremendous long row of blinking lights away on the horizon ahead. As I approached, they begun to tower and swell and look like mighty furnaces. Says I to myself— “By George, I’ve arrived at last—and at the wrong place, just as I expected!” Then I fainted. I don’t know how long I was insensible, but it must have been a good while, for, when I came to, the darkness was all gone and there was the loveliest sunshine and the balmiest, fragrantest air in its place. And there was such a marvellous world spread out before me—such a glowing, beautiful, bewitching country. The things I took for furnaces were gates, miles high, made all of flashing jewels, and they pierced a wall of solid gold that you couldn’t see the top of, nor yet the end of, in either direction. I was pointed straight for one of these gates, and a-coming like a house afire. Now I noticed that the skies were black with millions of people, pointed for those gates. What a roar they made, rushing through the air! The ground was as thick as ants with people, too—billions of them, I judge. I lit. I drifted up to a gate with a swarm of people, and when it was my turn the head clerk says, in a business-like way— “Well, quick! Where are you from?” “San Francisco,” says I. “San Fran—_what_?” says he. “San Francisco.” He scratched his head and looked puzzled, then he says— “Is it a planet?” By George, Peters, think of it! “_Planet_?” says I; “it’s a city. And moreover, it’s one of the biggest and finest and—” “There, there!” says he, “no time here for conversation. We don’t deal in cities here. Where are you from in a _general_ way?” “Oh,” I says, “I beg your pardon. Put me down for California.” I had him _again_, Peters! He puzzled a second, then he says, sharp and irritable— “I don’t know any such planet—is it a constellation?” “Oh, my goodness!” says I. “Constellation, says you? No—it’s a State.” “Man, we don’t deal in States here. _Will_ you tell me where you are from _in general—at large_, don’t you understand?” “Oh, now I get your idea,” I says. “I’m from America,—the United States of America.” Peters, do you know I had him _again_? If I hadn’t I’m a clam! His face was as blank as a target after a militia shooting-match. He turned to an under clerk and says— “Where is America? _What_ is America?” The under clerk answered up prompt and says— “There ain’t any such orb.”