Once I was asked, "What's a gian'?" I said, "A
very, very big man." "Big as you?" "Far bigger." "How bigger? Has he got
legs, and heads, and--and things like that?" "We'll see. When I stand on
this chair I'm as big as a giant," but it was all of no avail, and only
after Teddy had seen a huge, knock-kneed being in a penny show did he
understand what a giant could be like. Then he asked for giant stories
on all occasions.
It struck me that I was neglecting Teddy's religious education. Hundreds
and thousands of such little fellows in and about London have no notion
of a God, or any ruling power save the policeman. I had a dark mind to
deal with, and Teddy's questions fairly beat me. Of course I took the
old orthodox ideas, and tried to make them simple, but Teddy posed me
like this:
"Do God live in a sky?"
"Far away. Yes; well, say in the sky."
"Where does he hang up his coat when he goes to his bed?"
What on earth was a poor, distracted loafer to say? I could not deal
with Jesus, for I saw that Teddy did not understand goodness.
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