Avanel and I are in the spirit on this evening. We walk, as though upon carpets of glory, and we hear from the black lips of the humble earth the cry: “Springfield Awake, Springfield Aflame.” The old giant toy globe, that used to be in the center of this field, is long gone. And where it stood, there has come up, since The Golden Book appeared, a great Apple-Amaranth Vine, coming as it were, like Jack’s beanstalk, suddenly. It is autumn and the whole air is fragrant with the honey of the fruit of this Apple-Amaranth, and bees are busy with the rich fruit. Every highest, furtherest bud that opens day after tomorrow, or in a thousand years, will flash with a spark and a flame, that has climbed up hundreds and thousands of miles from the roots that touch all the gardens of our city, up the old streets of Heaven, where this vine blooms today. In the twinkling of an eye, while the star chimes of Springfield are ringing new tunes, from the dimmest stars of the blue, from east, west, north and south, magic boats sweep down to the Amazonian field. It is happiness to be even the oldest of the prophets, who wait exhausted, after ages of service, praying and dreaming, stretched out on the decks of their swift boats, consumed with beautiful sorrow and hope. The honey of each different Amaranth, growing through the stars, has burnt all the strength of their bodies away, yet it gives to them stronger courage, hour by hour. When it touches their lips, all else is vanity. It is the live coal from the altar and is their new Heaven. The boats are now above the field, and some of them have rested near the earth, and some of the prophets are standing round the tree. Among them is that wild ancient man Isaiah. He gathers the whole company of Springfield people who are there on the edges of the field. Then there join, from the invisible world, many of the long dead Saints of Springfield and many saints from other capitals of this land. Isaiah speaks to us in words, such as he spoke to the Jews, when the earthly Jerusalem had fallen, but they are words that shall ever be new till the last millennium is achieved. He stretches forth his hand and blesses our kneeling company and, with the honey of this new Amaranth Flower still burning on his lips, like visible fire, he cries in a loud voice his old prophecies of the coming of the restored and redeemed Zion. Avanel and I are now in our ship above the town, and looking down on the sea of dim fleets. Avanel whispers: “There are prophets in those boats from all the hermit caves and all the shrines in the moon and all the planets and all the suns. There are prophets that once walked the innermost streets of the far jungles of Heaven. “Yet the song that comes up from that sea and shakes our sails is: ‘Springfield Awake, Springfield Aflame,’ because the song and heart and blood of any prophet are for the city that will receive them.”