tell another story. But although I am not a
woman, I did finally look, and as soon as I did he
went right into another story.

Said he, ``I will tell you a story now which I
reserve for my particular friends.'' When he
emphasized the words ``particular friends,'' I
listened, and I have ever been glad I did. I really
feel devoutly thankful, that there are 1,674 young
men who have been carried through college by
this lecture who are also glad that I did listen.
The old guide told me that there once lived not
far from the River Indus an ancient Persian by
the name of Ali Hafed. He said that Ali Hafed
owned a very large farm, that he had orchards,
grain-fields, and gardens; that he had money at
interest, and was a wealthy and contented man.
He was contented because he was wealthy, and
wealthy because he was contented. One day
there visited that old Persian farmer one of these
ancient Buddhist priests, one of the wise men of
the East. He sat down by the fire and told the
old farmer how this world of ours was made.
He said that this world was once a mere bank of
fog, and that the Almighty thrust His finger into
this bank of fog, and began slowly to move His
finger around, increasing the speed until at last
He whirled this bank of fog into a solid ball of
fire. Then it went rolling through the universe,
burning its way through other banks of fog, and