University of Virginia Library

VIII

Heaven.

Smug saints with ill-fitting halos and imitation

wings, singing meaningless hymns which Priscilla had heard countless times before.

Sleek prosaic angels flying aimlessly around playing stale songs on sickly yellow harps.

Three of the harps badly out of tune; two strings missing on another.

Moses, a Jew.

Methuselah, another Jew. Old and unshaven.

Priscilla threw herself on a cloud, sobbing.

"Well, sister, what seems to be the matter here?''

She looked up; she saw a sympathetic stranger looking down at her.

"Because you know, sister,'' he went on, "if you don't like it here you can always go back any time you want to.''

"Do you mean to say,'' gasped Priscilla, "that I can return to earth?''

"You certainly can,'' said the stranger. "I'm sort of manager here, and whenever you see any particular part of the earth you'd like

to live in, you just let me know and I'll arrange it.''

He smiled and was gone.