If upon this earth we ever have a glimpse of heaven,it is when we pass a home in winter, at night,and through the windows, the curtains drawn aside,we see the family about the pleasant hearth; the old lady knitting; the cat playing with the yarn;the children wishing they had as many dolls or dollars or knivesor somethings, as there are sparks going out to join the roaring blast;the father reading and smoking, and the clouds rising like incense from the altar of domestic joy. I never passed such a house without feeling thatI had received a benediction.
In Istanbul I met a man who said he knew beyond a doubt that God was a cat. I asked why he was so sure, and the man said, "When I pray to him, he ignores me. "