Peter lay flat on his back and instantly his world was full of clamour. All
about him insects were stirring, the thin stiff blades of grass were very
faintly rustling, a tiny blue butterfly flew up from the soil into the
bright air--some creature sang a little song that sounded like the faint
melody of a spinet.
"All praising the Lord, I suppose--" Peter listened. "Hymn and glory songs
and all the rest--" Then, clashing, out of the heart of the sky, the
thought followed. "There _must_ be a God"--the tinkling insect told him so.
He gazed into the great sheet of blue above him, so remote, so cruel ...
and yet the tiny blue butterfly flew, without fear, into its very heart.
Peter's soul was drawn up. He swung, he flew, he fled.... Down below, there
on the hard, brown soil his body lay--dust to the dust--there, dead amongst
the singing insects.... He looked down, from his great heights and saw his
body, with its red face and its suit of blue and its up-turned boots, and
here, in freedom his Soul exulted!
"Of course there is a God!"
They are praising him down there--the ground is covered with creatures
that are praising Him. Peter buried his eyes and instantly his soul came
swinging down to him, found his body again, filled once more his veins with
life and sound. After a vast silence he could hear, once more, the life
amongst the grass, the faint rustle of the thin line of foam beneath him,
and could smell the earth and the scent of the seaweed borne up to them
from the sand.
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