Then I fainted.  I don’t know how long I was insensible, but it must have been a good while, for, when I came to, the darkness was all gone and there was the loveliest sunshine and the balmiest, fragrantest air in its place.  And there was such a marvellous world spread out before me—­such a glowing, beautiful, bewitching country.  The things I took for furnaces were gates, miles high, made all of flashing jewels, and they pierced a wall of solid gold that you couldn’t see the top of, nor yet the end of, in either direction.  I was pointed straight for one of these gates, and a-coming like a house afire.  Now I noticed that the skies were black with millions of people, pointed for those gates.  What a roar they made, rushing through the air!  The ground was as thick as ants with people, too—­billions of them, I judge.

I lit.  I drifted up to a gate with a swarm of people, and when it was my turn the head clerk says, in a business-like way—­

“Well, quick!  Where are you from?”

“San Francisco,” says I.

“San Fran—­what?” says he.

“San Francisco.”

He scratched his head and looked puzzled, then he says—­

“Is it a planet?”

By George, Peters, think of it!  “Planet?” says I; “it’s a city.  And moreover, it’s one of the biggest and finest and—­”

“There, there!” says he, “no time here for conversation.  We don’t deal in cities here.  Where are you from in a general way?”

“Oh,” I says, “I beg your pardon.  Put me down for California.”

I had him again, Peters!  He puzzled a second, then he says, sharp and irritable—­

“I don’t know any such planet—­is it a constellation?”

“Oh, my goodness!” says I.  “Constellation, says you?  No—­it’s a State.”

“Man, we don’t deal in States here.  Will you tell me where you are from in general—­at large, don’t you understand?”

“Oh, now I get your idea,” I says.  “I’m from America,—­the United States of America.”

Peters, do you know I had him again?  If I hadn’t I’m a clam!  His face was as blank as a target after a militia shooting-match.  He turned to an under clerk and says—­

“Where is America?  What is America?”

The under clerk answered up prompt and says—­

“There ain’t any such orb.”

“Orb?” says I.  “Why, what are you talking about, young man?  It ain’t an orb; it’s a country; it’s a continent.  Columbus discovered it; I reckon likely you’ve heard of him, anyway.  America—­why, sir, America—­”

“Silence!” says the head clerk.  “Once for all, where—­are—­you—­ from?”

“Well,” says I, “I don’t know anything more to say—­unless I lump things, and just say I’m from the world.”

“Ah,” says he, brightening up, “now that’s something like!  What world?”