CHAPTER VI.
THE GARDEN OF TRUTH AND THE PERFECT FATHER It was a different summer from those that had gone before it.
A little passionate Protestant had sallied out to make bed with the gods; and the souls of such the just gods do truly take into certain shining realms whither poor involatile bodies of flesh may not follow.

The requirement is that one feel his own potential godship enough to rebel.
For, having rebelled, he will assuredly venture beyond mortal domains into that garden where stands the tree of Truth--this garden being that one to the west just beyond the second fence (or whichever fence); that point where the mortal of invertebrate soul is beset with the feeling that he has already dared too far--that he had better make for home mighty quick if he doesn't want Something to get him.

The essence of this decision is quite the same whether the mortal be eight years old or eighty.

Now the Tree of Truth stands just over this line at which all but the gods' own turn to scamper back before supper.

It is the first tree to the left--an apple-tree, twisted, blackened, scathed, eaten with age, yet full of blossoms as fresh and fertile as those first born of any young tree whatsoever.