“I’m sorry to say,” said my father, “that he had appeared to contemplate it prior to my insistence on its immediate removal.” My heart gave a great leap. “Then it’s being taken down?” I cried. But my father stared at me with bulging eyes. My heart fell back again. “I don’t know,” he said. “That’s why I’m preparing my denunciation.” It was a solemn moment. It was perhaps the solemnest moment that either of us had been called upon to experience, and even as I spoke, I felt that we were drawing towards the threshold of one of the greatest issues of our terrestrial life. “Then he refused?” I said. “Let me be quite fair,” said my father. “He rather temporized than actually refused.” I could not help smiling a little sardonically. “The distinction is a fine one,” I said. “I suppose he adduced some grounds?” My father breathed heavily. “He was insolent enough to remind me,” he said, “that it was eight o’clock on Saturday evening and that the bird in question, which had only just been set up, weighed approximately a quarter of a ton. He also suggested that the congregation ought to have an opportunity of inspecting it.” “The congregation?” I cried. “But what has the congregation to do with it? It’s not putting its tongue out at the congregation.” My father inclined his head. “Precisely what I told him,” he said, “but he merely fell back upon his previous argument, that the exposure of the tongue, if indeed it were a tongue, was merely significant of good tidings.” “I see,” I said. “So you gave him an ultimatum?” “I was compelled to,” said my father. “There was no other course. Either it must be removed, I told him, before to-morrow morning or I should publicly denounce it during morning service.” “And what did he say?” I asked. My father made a contemptuous gesture. “Oh, you know what he is,” he replied, “a weed before the rind.” “You mean a reed,” I said. “What did I say?” said my father. “You said a weed,” I said. “I said a weed?” said my father. “A weed before the wind,” I said. “I mean the rind.” “The rind?” said my father. “But that’s wrong.” “Yes. But that’s what you said,” I said. “A weed before the rind?” said my father. “Yes, a transposition,” I explained, “of the initial consonants.” “A transposition?” enquired my father. “Yes, an error in enunciation,” I said, “such as frequently takes place under emotional stress.” “But, I don’t understand,” said my father. “You meant a reed before the wind,” I said. “Well, of course,” said my father. “That’s what I said.” “No, you said a weed,” I said, “a weed before the rind.” “But how can a weed be before the rind?” said my father. “But you didn’t mean that,” I said. “You meant a reed before the wind.” “Well, that’s what he is,” said my father. “That’s just what I say. That’s why he implored me not to make a denunciation.” “But of course you will,” I said. My father nodded. “Immediately after the collection,” said my father, “and before the blessing.”