And our little baby body is a little functioning organism, a little developing machine or instrument or organ, and our little baby mind begins to stir with all our wonderful psychical beginnings. And so we are in bud.

But it won’t do. It is too much of a Pisgah sight. We overlook too much. Descendez, cher Mo�se. Vous voyez trop loin. You see too far all at once, dear Moses. Too much of a bird’s-eye view across the Promised Land to the shore. Come down, and walk across, old fellow. And you won’t see all that milk and honey and grapes the size of duck’s eggs. All the dear little budding infant with its tender virginal mind and various clouds of glory instead of a napkin. Not at all, my dear chap. No such luck of a promised land.

Climb down, Pisgah, and go to Jericho.