“Their morality does seem to have reached rather a low ebb, I must confess,” replied Father TIME.

“Nothing like this on our Earth, anyhow,” continued Mr. Punch, with a satisfied sigh of relief.  “But come, we’ll hear what the whole people say of themselves.  See here’s a chance.  I believe there’s a lot of them over there singing their National Anthem.”

They listened as Mr. Punch spoke.  He was right.  There was a vast crowd collected outside one of the principal buildings on the other side of the square, and they were clearly finishing some popular anthem in chorus, for, as Father TIME and Mr. Punch paused to listen, the well-known familiar refrain—­

  “Never, never, never,
  Shall be slaves!”

smote their ear.

“Capital!  Capital!” cried Mr. Punch, approaching the throng.  “We’ll have that again.”  He turned his ring once more as he spoke, and the mob responded by shouting their second verse.

  “Fool!  Mercurius! 
    Of greed thy sons are slaves;
  And they ever, ever, ever—­
    Shall be knaves!”

“Come,” cried Mr. Punch, “I think that judgment of themselves out of their own mouths settles the matter!  I have done with them.  Come, let us seek some healthier place.  Up we go!”

He seized hold of Old Father TIME as he spoke, and bounded with him upwards suddenly into space.  In another minute they were in search of a brighter, a better, and a truer world.

[Illustration]

* * * * *

VISIT TO JUPITER.

Father TIME with his glorious guide dropped gently down.  They found themselves in the centre of a bare expanse of dry, grassy country, broken here and there by sand-hills.  On their right was the sea, dotted with ships.  Parties of men in red coats, and carrying in their hands curiously-shaped sticks, were walking about in all directions.  They all looked very earnest, some of them were gloomy, some positively furious.  Occasionally they stopped, placed themselves in an uncouth straddle-legged attitude, whirled their sticks, looked eagerly towards the horizon, and then marched on again as solemnly as before.  One party in particular attracted the attention of Father TIME.  It was a large, mixed gathering of men, and women, and children.  They all moved or stood at a respectful distance from the central figure, a benevolent-looking gentleman, with a flowing white beard.  He too wore a red coat, and carried a stick.  A crowd of attendants bearing more sticks followed him.

[Illustration]

“Let me explain,” said the Arch-Provider of Merriment to his companion, “this ground is known as Links; the game of ‘Golf’ is being played.  These gentlemen are golfers.  The sticks they carry are called clubs.  That bearded old gentleman is the King of Jupiter, FOOZLER THE FIFTH.  He is playing his morning round.  I will introduce you.”