like a cock, crowing on the dunghill of a tumbled giant. From the middle of Goliath's forehead there issued, like a narwhal's budding horn, a curious excrescence, Was it the embedded pebble? Or perhaps the giant's married life.
". . .with all thine heart," declaimed the Reverend Pelvey, "and with all thy soul, and with all thy might."
No, but seriously, Gumbril reminded himself, the problem was very troublesome indeed. God as a sense of warmth about the heart, God as exultation, God as tears in the eyes, God as a rush of power or thought—that was all right. But God as truth, God as 2+2=4—that wasn't so clearly all right. Was there any chance of their being the same? Were there bridges to join the two worlds? And could it be that the Rev. Pelvey, M. A., foghorning away from behind the imperial bird, could it be that he had an answer and a clue? That was hardly believable. Particularly if one knew Mr. Pelvey personally. And Gumbril did.
"And these words which I command thee this day," retorted Mr, Pelvey, "shall be in thine heart."
Or in the heart, or in the head? Reply, Mr. Pelvey, reply. Gumbril jumped between the horns of the dilemma and voted for other organs,
"And thou shalt teach them diligently to thy children, and shalt talk of them when thou sittest in thine house, and when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou risest up."
Diligently to thy children . . . Gumbril remembered his own childhood; they had not been very diligently taught to him. "Beetles, black beetles"— his father had a really passionate feeling about the
