on one of the danish islands, where old thingsteads, the judgment seats of our forefathers, loom up in the cornfields, and mighty trees raise their heads above the beech forests, there lies a little town of low houses with red roofs. in one of these houses strange things were being prepared on the open stove, over the coals and embers. there was boiling in test tubes, mixing and distilling, and pounding of drugs in mortars. an elderly man was in charge of everything.

"one must be careful and do the right thing," he said. "yes, the right, the correct thing; the truth in each created thing, we must recognize and keep hold of."

in the living room sat the mother with her two sons - still young, with mature thoughts. their mother had always taught them about right and reason, and to hold fast to truth, which she said is the face of god in this world.

the elder of the boys looked bright and alert; he liked to read about the forces of nature, of suns and stars - no fairy tale could give him greater joy. oh, how wonderful to be able to go on voyages of discovery, or to discover how to imitate birds' wings and fly! yes, these were the great things to find! father was right and mother was right; truth holds the world together.

the younger brother was more quiet and lived entirely in his books. if he read of jacob, and how he clad himself in sheepskins to resemble esau and thus cheat him of his birthright, the boy would clench his tiny fists in anger against the deceiver. if he read of tyrants and of all the injustice and wickedness that reigned in the world, tears would come into his eyes. thoughts of the right, the truth that should and someday would triumph, moved him profoundly.

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