HIDDEN BOOKS OF THE BIBLE
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.