ar thought that men who renounce the more patent
absurdities of theology are still soaked in the sacramental conception
of reactionary morality whenever it touches the reproduction of the
species. So they hope to maintain our present scheme of mongrel breeding
which is fast blotting out the hard won grains of the tedious climb of
human evolution and riding us for a smash of the fabric of civilization,
because the children of the stupid cannot maintain the structure we have
wrought."

"But surely," I said, "you do not intend to propound such ponderous
biological and sociological doctrines in an autobiography of your
god--if you do so I am sure it will be very dull. I had hoped you had in
mind some readable piece of literary composition."

"So I had; I was not telling you what I intended to write. You asked me
why I wanted to write it. The god who mustn't be laughed at could make
himself very ridiculous by setting down the story of his life. He should
not be a metaphysical concept. I should prefer a nice old man with robe
and halo and whiskers--I am sure he should have whiskers."

"And just when," I asked, "would you have him born?"

"I don't know," replied Spain, "I have stalled on eternity. I find it
quite an awkward span of life to cover in a manuscript."

"Why not dodge the difficulty," I suggested, "by having your story begin
the day after eternity."

Spain turned his gaze upon me with a twinkling light in his eyes. "Young
man," he said, "No wonder you tried to drive an automobile without
gasoline--you are suffering from a touch of genius.

"I shall doubtless need aid," confessed Spain, more cordial, I felt,
than he had previously seemed.

As I caught the flame of enthusiasm in this man's conviction, my heart
warmed to him. I found myself interested in his proposed "Autobiography
of God"--interested and critical. "It might amuse you," I said, "to know
that somewhere among my own writing notes I have this item jotted down.
'A tale that should begin the day after eternity.'"

Dan Spain looked at me, his eyes twinkling, "Not half bad," he said.

And so began an exchange of suggestions, a mutual laying on the table of
the most guarded treasures of one's over-reaching ambitions to write the
impossible.

As the night wore on our wits sharpened each on the other, and before
dawn broke, Dan Spain and I both realized that we had cast in outline
form the skeleton of a most ambitious piece of writing. Then we awoke