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11 - Baron Trump's Marvellous Underground Journey · Classic Adventure Books Collection

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  Chapter eleven, Pleasant days passed among the Miccamenckees, and wonderful things seen by
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  us, The Spectral Garden and a description of it, Our meeting with Damoisel
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  Blowstone, and what came of it. From now on, Lord Bulgar and
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  I made ourselves perfectly at home among the Macamckees. One of the royal barges
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  was placed at our disposal, and when we were tired of walking about and
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  gazing at the wonders of this beautiful city of the underworld, we stepped aboard
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  our barge and were rowed hither and thither on the Glassy River. And if
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  I had not seen it myself, I never would have believed that any kind
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  of shell fish could ever be taught to be so obliging as to swim to
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  the surface and offer one of their huge claws for our dinner, politely dropping
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  it in our hand the moment we laid hold of it. On one of
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  the river banks, I noticed a long row of wooden compartments, looking very
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  much like a grocer's bins. But you may think how amused Bulgar and I
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  were upon coming closer to this long row of little houses, to find that
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  they were turtle nests, and that quite a number of the turtles were sitting
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  comfortably in their nests, busy laying their eggs, which, let me assure
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  you, with the most dainty tidbits I ever tasted, I think I informed
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  you that the river flowing through Gaullalland was fairly swarming with delicious fish, the
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  carp and sole being particularly delicate in flavor. And, knowing as I did,
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  what a tender hearted folk the Macamenkes are, I had been not a
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  little puzzled in my mind as to how they had ever been able to summon
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  up courage enough to drive a spear into one of these fish, which were
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  as tame and playful as a lot of kittens or puppies, and followed our
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  bargs hither and thither, snapping at the food we tossed to them, and
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  leaping into the air, where they glistened like burnished silver as the white lights
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  sparkled on their scales. But the mystery was solved one day when I saw
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  one of the fishermen decoying a score or more fish into a sort of pen,
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  shut off from the river by a wire netting. Scarcely had he closed
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  the gates, when to my amazement, I saw the fish, one after
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  the other, come to the surface and float about on their side stone dead.
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  This little baron explained, the man in charge is the death chamber.
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  Hidden at the bottom of this dark pool lie several electric eels of great size
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  and power. And when our people went a fresh supper of fish, we
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  simply opened these gates and decoy a shoal of them inside by tossing their favorite
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  food into the water. The executioners are awaiting them, and in a few
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  instants the fish, while enjoying their repast and suspecting no harm, are painlessly
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  put to death, as thou hast seen. One part of the city of
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  the Transparent Folk which attracted Bulgar and me very much was the Royal Gardens.
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  It was a weird and uncanny place, and upon my first visit I walked
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  through its paths and beneath its arbors, upon my toes and with bated breath,
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  as you might steal into some bit of fairyland, looking anxiously from side
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  to side, as if at every step you expected some sprite or goblin to
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  trip you up with a tough spider web, or brush your cheeks with their
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  cold and satiny wings. Friends, you must first be told that with the
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  loss of sunshine and the open air, the flowers and shrubs and vines of
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  this underground world gradually parted with their perfumes and colors, their leaves and petals
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  and stems and tendrils, growing paler and paler in hue, like lovelorn maids
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  whose sweethearts had never come back from the war. Month by month, the
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  dark greens, the blush pinks, the golden yellows, and the deep blues
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  pined away, longing for the lost sunshine and the wooing breeze they loved so
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  dearly, until at last transformation was complete, and there they all stood or
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  hung, bleached to utter whiteness, like those fantastic clumps of flowers and wreaths
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  of vines which the feathery snow of April builds in the leafless shrubs and trees.
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  I cannot tell you, dear friends, what a strange feeling came over
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  me as I stepped within this spectral garden, where ghost like vines clung in
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  fantastic forms and figures to the dark trellises, and where tall lilies whiter than
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  the down of eider stood bolt upright like spirits doomed to eternal silence, denied
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  even the speech of perfume, and were huge clusters of snowy chrysanthemums, fluffy
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  feathery forms seemed, pressing their soft bodies together like groups of banished celestials,
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  in a sort of silent despair, as they felt the warmth and glow of
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  sunlight, slowly and gradually quitting their souls. Where lower down great roses with
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  snowy petals whiter than the sea shells, hung motionless, bursting open with eager
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  effort, as if listening for some signal that would dissolve the spell put upon
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  them and give them back the sunshine and with it their color and their perfume.
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  Where lower still beds of violets, bleached white as fleecy clouds, seemed
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  wrapt in silent sorrow at loss of the heavenly perfume which had been theirs on
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  earth. Where above the lily's heads shot long, slender spectral stalks of sunflowers,
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  almost invisible, loaded at their ends with clusters of snowy flowers, thus
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  spended like white faces looking down through the silent air and waiting, waiting for
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  the sunshine that never came, and higher still, all over and above,
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  these spectral flowers, entwining and in wrapping and falling, festooned and garland wies,
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  crept and ran like unto long lines of escaping phantoms, ghostly vines with
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  ghostly blossoms, bent and twisted and wrapped and coiled into a thousand strange and
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  fantastic forms and figures which the white light, with its inky shadows, made
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  alive and half human, so that movement and voice alone were needful to make
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  this garden seem peopled with sorrowing sprites, banished to these subterranean chambers for strange
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  misdeeds done on Earth, and condemned to wait ten thousand years ere sunlight and
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  their color and their perfume should be given back to them again. While strolling
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  through the Royal gardens one day, Bulgar suddenly gave a low cry and bounded
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  on ahead, as if his eyes had fallen upon the familiar form of some
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  dear friend. When I came up with him, he was crouching beside the
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  damosel Glowstone, who seated on one of the garden benches, was caressing Bulgar's
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  head and ears with one of her soft hands with its filmy like skin,
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  while the other held its black fan pressed tightly against her bosom. She looked
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  up at me with her crystal eyes and smiled faintly. As I drew near
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  thou seest little Baron, she murmured, Lord Bulgar and I have not forgotten
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  each other since our presentation at court. I had been going through and through
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  my mind in search of some reason for Bulgar's sudden affection for Damosel Glowstone,
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  but had found none. I was the more perplexed as she was, but
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  the maid of honor, while the fair Princess Cristelina sat on the very steps
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  of the throne. But I said nothing save to reply that I was greatly
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  pleased to see it, and to add that where Bulgar's love went, mine
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  was sure to follow, O, little Baron, if I could but believe
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  that sighed the fair Damosel, thou mayst, said I, indeed, thou
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  mayst. Then if I may, little Baron, she replied, I will,
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  and Prithee come and sit beside me here only till I bid thee look
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  not through me. Dost promise I do, fair Damosel, was my answer,
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  and thou Lord Bulgar, lie there at my feet, she continued,
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  And keep thy wise eyes fixed upon me in thy keen ears wide open,
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  little Baron. If both thine and our worlds were filled with sorrowing hearts,
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  mine would be the heaviest of them all. Listen, oh, listen to
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  the sad, sad tale of the sorrowing maid with a speck in her heart.
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  And when thou knowest all, give me of thy wisdom. End of
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  chapter eleven.