HIDDEN BOOKS OF THE BIBLE
Here is the answer to the puzzle printed in the bulletin last week. There are 37 books in it. How did you do?
While motoring in Palestine, I met Chief Mujud, gesturing wildly. His fez, raiment and features were odd. I never saw so dismal a chief. On the market days he pumps alms from every one, a most common practice. A glance shows that he acts queerly. Excuse me for speaking so, but he was showing a crowd how they used to revel at Ionian bout: and the brew seemed bad. A fakir was seated on a hummock, minus hose and skirt, and was wearing as comic a hat as they make. He pointed up eternally to a rudely carved letter J on a high cliff. His hand was still numb. Erst-while he held it thus for days. My companion excitedly cried: “See that J! Oh! Now I know we are near the ancient Ai. Was this Ai a holy place? From answers given everywhere I’ll say not. We asked the age of the big J. “O. Eleven centuries at least.” I knew that in such a jam escort was necessary. Besides our car was stuck in a rut here. So, leaving the sedan I elbowed nearer the fakir. A toothless hag gained access to his side, and paused to rest herself. She hinted, “You have treasure?” To which I retorted: “Not I! Moth, you know, and rust, corrupt earthly store.” Mujud expressed a wish to accompany us, but decreed, “Thy party we will not annex. O dusky chief.” I am at the work of tracing a cargo of lost tobacco. That’s my job. To the chief’s expression over the tobacco loss, I answered, “It would have all gone up in smoke anyway.” My brother is a tramp (rover), B.S. from Harvard, too. His name is Eugene. Sister is nursing him now. They asked, “Where is the prodigal at?” I answered that it used to be incorrect to use “at” that way, but the flu kept Eugene at home this year. It really is too bad, I, a home body, roaming the orient, and he, a tramp, at home in bed.