er. As I gazed it
seemed to me I would be drawn down by the resistless fascination of
terror. I grasped Wauna and she gently turned my face to the smiling
landscape behind us. Hills and valleys, and sparkling cities veiled in
foliage, with their numberless parks and fountains and statues sleeping
in the soft light, gleaming lakes and wandering rivers that glittered
and danced in the glorious atmosphere like prisoned sunbeams, greeted us
like the alluring smile of love, and yet, for the first time since
entering this lovely land, I felt myself a prisoner. Behind me was an
impassable barrier. Before me, far beyond this gleaming vision of
enchantment, lay another road whose privations and dangers I dreaded to
attempt.

I felt as a bird might feel who has been brought from the free expanse
of its wild forest-home, and placed in a golden cage where it drinks
from a jeweled cup and eats daintier food than it could obtain in its
own rude haunts. It pines for that precarious life; its very dangers and
privations fill its breast with desire. I began to long with unutterable
impatience to see once more the wild, rough scenes of my own nativity.
Memory began to recall them with softening touches. My heart yearned for
my own; debased as compared with Mizora though they be, there was the
congeniality of blood between us. I longed to see my own little one
whose dimpled hands I had unclasped from my neck in that agonized
parting. Whenever I saw a Mizora mother fondling her babe, my heart
leapt with quick desire to once more hold my own in such loving embrace.
The mothers of Mizora have a devotional love for their children. Their
smiles and prattle and baby wishes are listened to with loving
tenderness, and treated as matters of importance.

I was sitting beside a Mizora mother one evening, listening to some
singing that I truly thought no earthly melody could surpass. I asked
the lady if ever she had heard anything sweeter, and she answered,
earnestly:

"Yes, the voices of my own children."

On our homeward journey, Wauna took me to a lake from the center of
which we could see, with our glasses, a green island rising high above
the water like an emerald in a silver setting.

"That," said Wauna, directing my attention to it, "is the last vestige
of a prison left in Mizora. Would you like to visit it?"

I expressed an eager willingness to behold so curious a sight, and
getting into a small pleasure boat, we started toward it. Boa