laughter was the enemy that was doomed to come against Thlūnrāna through her southward gate (that was named the Gate of the Doom), and it is of the gods but dwells with man.
A Losing Game
Once in a tavern Man met face to skull with Death. Man entered gaily but Death gave no greeting, he sat with his jowl morosely over an ominous wine.
“Come, come,” said Man, “we have been antagonists long, and if I were losing yet I should not be surly.”
But Death remained unfriendly, watching his bowl of wine and gave no word in answer.
Then Man solicitously moved nearer to him and, speaking cheerily still, “Come, come,” he said again, “you must not resent defeat.”
And still Death was gloomy and cross and sipped at his infamous wine and would not look up at Man and would not be companionable.
But Man hated gloom either in beast or god, and it made him unhappy to see his adversary’s discomfort, all the more because he was the cause, and still he tried to cheer him.
“Have you not slain the Dinatherium?” he said. “Have you not put out the Moon? Why! you will beat me yet.”
And with a dry and barking sound Death wept and nothing said; and presently Man arose and went wondering away; for he knew not if Death wept out of pity for his opponent, or because he knew that he should not have such sport again when the old game was over and Man was gone, or whether because perhaps, for some hidden reason, he could never repeat on Earth his triumph over the Moon.
Taking Up Picadilly
Going down Picadilly one day and nearing Grosvenor Place I saw, if my memory is not at fault, some workmen with their coats off—or so they seemed. They had pickaxes in their hands and wore corduroy trousers and that little leather band below the knee that goes by the astonishing name of “York-to-London.”
They seemed to be working with peculiar vehemence, so that I stopped and asked one what they were doing.
“We are taking up Picadilly,” he said to me.
“But at this time of year?” I said. “Is it usual in June?”
“We are not what we seem,” said he.
“Oh, I see,” I said, “you are doing it for a joke.”
“Well, not exactly that,” he answered me.
“For a bet?” I said.
“Not precisely,” said he.
And then I looked at the bit that they had already picked, and though it was broad daylight over my head it was darkness down there, all full of the southern stars.
“It was noisy and bad and we grew aweary of it,” said he that wore corduroy trousers. “We are not what we appear.”
They were taking up Picadilly altogether.
After the Fire
When that happened which had been so long in happening and the world hit a black, uncharted star, certain tremendous creatures out of some other world came peering among the cinders to see if there were anything there that it were worth while to remember. They spoke of the great things that the world was known to have had; they mentioned the mammoth. And presently they saw man’s temples, silent and windowless, staring like empty skulls.
“Some great thing has been here,” one said, “in these huge places.” “It was the mammoth,” said one. “Something greater than he,” said another.
And then they found that the greatest thing in the world had been the dreams of man.
The City
In time as well as space my fancy roams far from here. It led me once to the edge of certain cliffs that were low and red and rose up out of a desert: a little way off in the desert there was a city. It was evening, and I sat and watched the city.
Presently I saw men by threes and fours come softly stealing out of that city’s gate to the number of about twenty. I heard the hum of men’s voices speaking at evening.
“It is well they are gone,” they said. “It is well they are gone. We can do business now. It is well they are gone.” And the men that had left the city sped away over the sand and so passed into the twilight.
“Who are these men?” I said to my glittering leader.
“The poets,” my fancy answered. “The poets and artists.”
“Why do they steal away?” I said to him. “And why are the people glad that they have gone?”
He said: “It must be some doom that is going to fall on the city, something has warned them and they have stolen away. Nothing may warn the people.”
I heard the wrangling voices, glad with commerce, rise up from the city. And then I also departed, for there was an ominous look on the face of the sky.
And only a thousand years later I passed that way, and there was nothing, even among the weeds, of what had been that city.
The Food of Death
Death was sick. But they brought him bread that the modern bakers make, whitened with alum, and the tinned meats of Chicago, with a pinch of our modern substitute for salt. They carried him into the dining-room of a great hotel (in that close atmosphere Death breathed more freely), and there they gave him their cheap Indian tea. They brought him a bottle of wine that they called champagne. Death drank it up. They brought a newspaper and looked up the patent medicines; they gave him the foods that it recommended for invalids, and a little medicine as prescribed in the paper. They gave him some milk and borax, such as children drink in England.
Death arose ravening, strong, and strode again through the cities.
The Lonely Idol
I had from a friend an old outlandish stone, a little swine-faced idol to whom no one prayed.
And when I saw his melancholy case as he sat cross-legged at receipt of prayer, holding a little scourge
