Now, if we look on another side of the ball, we shall see no ponds,
but something very dreary. I am afraid you won't like it. A great
plain of sand,--sand like that on the seashore, only here there is no
sea,--and the sand stretches away farther than you can see, on every
side; there are no trees, and the sunshine beats down, almost burning
whatever is beneath it.

Perhaps you think this would be a grand place to build sand-houses.
One of the little sisters lives here; and, when you read of her, you
will know what she thinks about it. Always the one who has tried it
knows best.

Look at one more side of my ball, as it turns around. Jack Frost must
have spent all his longest winter nights here, for see what a palace
of ice he has built for himself. Brave men have gone to those lonely
places, to come back and tell us about them; and, alas! some heroes
have not returned, but have lain down there to perish of cold and
hunger. Doesn't it look cold, the clear blue ice, almost as blue as
the air? And look at the snow, drifts upon drifts, and the air filled
with feathery flakes even now.

We won't look at this side longer, but we shall come back again to see
Agoonack in her little sledge. Don't turn over yet to find the story;
we shall come to it all in good time.

Now, what do you think of my ball, so white and cold, so soft and
green, so quiet and blue, so dreary and rough, as it floats along in
the sweet blue air, with the flocks of white clouds about it?

I will tell you one thing more. The wise men have said that this earth