turns there are niches in which the living spirit of Allah is ever present. Here, then, I prostrate me and read a few Chapters of my Holy Book. After which I resign myself to my eternal Mother and the soft western breezes lull me asleep. Yea, and even like my poor brother Muslim sleeping on his hair-mat in a dark corner of his airy Mosque, I dream my dream of contentment and resignation and love.
“See the ploughman strutting home, his goad in his hand, his plough on his shoulder, as if he had done his duty. Allah be praised, the flowers in the terrace-walls are secure. That is why, I believe, my American brother Thoreau liked walls with many gaps in them. The sweet wild daughters of Spring can live therein their natural life without being molested by the scythe or the plough. Allah be praised a hundred times and one.”