Hidden among the following fictional story are 37 books of the Bible.  Just for fun, see if you can find them.

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.

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