“How do we know there’s eleven hundred and one, Sandy, when they all go off at once?—­and yet we certainly do know.”

“Our intellects are a good deal sharpened up, here, in some ways, and that is one of them.  Numbers and sizes and distances are so great, here, that we have to be made so we can feel them—­our old ways of counting and measuring and ciphering wouldn’t ever give us an idea of them, but would only confuse us and oppress us and make our heads ache.”

After some more talk about this, I says:  “Sandy, I notice that I hardly ever see a white angel; where I run across one white angel, I strike as many as a hundred million copper-colored ones—­people that can’t speak English.  How is that?”

“Well, you will find it the same in any State or Territory of the American corner of heaven you choose to go to.  I have shot along, a whole week on a stretch, and gone millions and millions of miles, through perfect swarms of angels, without ever seeing a single white one, or hearing a word I could understand.  You see, America was occupied a billion years and more, by Injuns and Aztecs, and that sort of folks, before a white man ever set his foot in it.  During the first three hundred years after Columbus’s discovery, there wasn’t ever more than one good lecture audience of white people, all put together, in America—­I mean the whole thing, British Possessions and all; in the beginning of our century there were only 6,000,000 or 7,000,000—­say seven; 12,000,000 or 14,000,000 in 1825; say 23,000,000 in 1850; 40,000,000 in 1875.  Our death-rate has always been 20 in 1000 per annum.  Well, 140,000 died the first year of the century; 280,000 the twenty-fifth year; 500,000 the fiftieth year; about a million the seventy-fifth year.  Now I am going to be liberal about this thing, and consider that fifty million whites have died in America from the beginning up to to-day—­make it sixty, if you want to; make it a hundred million—­ it’s no difference about a few millions one way or t’other.  Well, now, you can see, yourself, that when you come to spread a little dab of people like that over these hundreds of billions of miles of American territory here in heaven, it is like scattering a ten-cent box of homoeopathic pills over the Great Sahara and expecting to find them again.  You can’t expect us to amount to anything in heaven, and we don’t—­now that is the simple fact, and we have got to do the best we can with it.  The learned men from other planets and other systems come here and hang around a while, when they are touring around the Kingdom, and then go back to their own section of heaven and write a book of travels, and they give America about five lines in it.  And what do they say about us?  They say this wilderness is populated with a scattering few hundred thousand billions of red angels, with now and then a curiously complected diseased one.  You see, they think we whites and the occasional