Suddenly in his mind rushed a picture that took place in his boyhood, when he was five years old, thirty-odd years ago in Poland where he was born. Then the story came… five years old, and here a troupe of traveling Gypsies and they always travel, they have no place where they can remain forever, and they stopped in his father’s courtyard for a drink of water. This giant of a Gypsy, fantastically, marvelous man, with a short-cropped beard that was brilliant and fiery, fiery red, and he drew from that well a bucket of water. With his feet wide apart he took it as easily as you would take a cup of tea, and held it to his mouth and drank from that wonderful pail of cold water, and it dribbled down his red beard. And this little boy, five years old, was intrigued. When he was finished with his water and placed the pail down, he bent over that well and held the side of the well, and peered into the very depths of it. The little boy was so curious he tried to climb up the side of the well to see what this giant of a Gypsy was looking at. Then the Gypsy saw the little boy and with a big smile on his face he scooped him up in his arms and asked him, “Do you know who lives in there?” The little boy nodded his head. “No, he didn’t.” He said, “God lives there.” Then he picked him up in his arms, and pushed him over that well and said, “Look!” The little boy said, “Why, it’s me!” Then the Gypsy said, “Ah! Now you know where God lives.”167 ¶11