t him sleepily. Then
the bird closed its eye with a certain weary resignation, put its head
back under its wing, and relaxed comfortably in the grass.

Quimbleton was no very acute student of nature, but this seemed very
odd to him. And then, examining the lower limbs of the tree, he uttered
an exclamation. He swung himself up into the oak and shook one of the
branches. Five other birds plopped comfortably into the grass and
rested as easily as the first. He examined them one by one. They were
all sound asleep.

"Most amazing!" he said. "My dear, we will have to take up nature
study. I am really ashamed of my ignorance. I always thought that owls
were the only birds that slept by day."

Theodolinda was looking at the five small bodies. She raised one of
them gently, and sniffed gingerly.

"Virgil," she said solemnly, "this is not mere slumber. These birds are
drunk!"

Quimbleton was about to speak when a grasshopper went by like an
airplane, zooming in a twenty-foot leap. A bee sagged along heavily in
an irregular zig-zag, and a caterpillar, more agile and purposeful than
any caterpillar they had ever seen, staggered swiftly across a carpet
of moss.

The same thought struck them simultaneously, and at that moment
Theodolinda noticed a small white signboard affixed to a tree-trunk in
the grove. They ran to it, and saw in neat lettering:

TO THE PERPETUAL SOUSE, ONE MILE

"Bless me!" cried Quimbleton. "What a stroke of luck! You know old
Bleak wrote us when we were in Rio that he had been installed in his
temple, but he didn't say where it was. Let's toddle up and have a look
at him. That's why the bus acted so queerly. No wonder: we were
probably flying in alcohol vapor."

They walked through the grove and emerged upon a lawn that sloped
gently upward. At the brow stood a beautiful little temple of Greek
architecture. As they approached they read, carved into the marble
architrave:

AEDES TEMULENTI PERPETUI
E PLURIBUS UNUM

The little porch, under the marble columns, was cool and shady. A
signboard said: Visiting Hours, Noon to Midnight. Quimbleton looked at
his watch. "It's not noon yet," he said, "but as we're old friends I
dare say he'll be willing to see us."

Pushing through a slatted swinging door of beautifully carved bronze,
they found themselves in a charmingly furnished reference library.
There were lounges and deep leather chairs, and ash trays for smokers.
Quimbleton, who was som