He opened his eyes; there were already lights burning. The room was packed with people. Beside him stood all his children, come together to take leave of their father.
He fixed his gaze on the little grandchildren, a gaze of love and gladness.
"Theywill see the happy time," he thought.
He was just going to ask the people to stop lamenting, but at that moment his eye caught the workmen of the evening before.
"Come here, come here, children!" and he raised his voice a little, and made a sign with his head. Peopledid not know what he meant. He begged them to send the workmen to him, and it was done.
He tried to sit up; those around helped him.
"Thank you—children—for coming—thank you!" he said. "Stop—weeping!" he implored of the bystanders. "I want to die quietly—I want every one to—to—be as happy—as I am! Live, all of you, in the—hope of a—good time—as I die—in—that hope. Dear chil—dren—" and he turned to the workmen, "I told you—last night—how man has lived so far. How he lives now, you know for yourselves—but the coming time will be a very happy one: all will be happy—all! Only work honestly, and learn! Learn, children! Everything will be all right! All will be hap——"
A sweet smile appeared on his lips, and Reb Shloimeh died.
In the town they—but what elsecouldthey say in the town of a man who had died without repeating the Confession, without a tremor at his heart, without any sign of repentance? What elsecouldthey say of a man who spent his last minutes in telling people to learn, to educate themselves? What elsecouldthey say of a man who left his whole capital to be devoted to educational purposes and schools?
What was to be expected of them, when his own family declared in court that their father was not responsible when he made his last will?
Forgive them, Reb Shloimeh, for they mean well—they know not what they say and do.
Pen name of Israel Hurewitz; born, 1872, in Gori-Gorki, Government of Mohileff (Lithuania), White Russia; assistant to a druggist at thirteen; went to London at twenty, and, after seven months there, to New York (1893); worked as capmaker; first sketch, "A Sifz vun a Arbeiterbrust"; contributor to Die Arbeiterzeitung, Das Abendblatt, Die Zukunft, Vorwärts, etc.; prolific Yiddish playwright and writer of sketches on New York Jewish life; dramas to the number of twenty-six produced on the stage; collected works, Geklibene Skizzen, 1 vol., New York, 1902, and 2 vols., New York, 1907.
Ask Shmuel, the capmaker, just for a joke, if he would like to come for a picnic! He'll fly out at you as if you had invited him to a swing on the gallows. The fact is, he and his Sarah oncewentfor a picnic, and the poor man will remember it all his days.
It was on a Sabbath towards the end of August. Shmuel came home from work, and said to his wife:
"Sarah, dear!"
"Well, husband?" was her reply.
"I want to have a treat," said Shmuel, as though alarmed at the boldness of the idea.
"What sort of a treat? Shall you go to the swimming-bath to-morrow?"
"Ett! What's the fun of that?"
"Then, what have you thought of by way of an exception? A glass of ice water for supper?"
"Not that, either."
"A whole siphon?"
Shmuel denied with a shake of the head.
"Whatever can it be!" wondered Sarah. "Are you going to fetch a pint of beer?"
"What should I want with beer?"
"Are you going to sleep on the roof?"
"Wrong again!"
"To buy some more carbolic acid, and drive out the bugs?"
"Not a bad idea," observed Shmuel, "but that is not it, either."
"Well, then, whatever is it, for goodness' sake! The moon?" asked Sarah, beginning to lose patience. "What have you been and thought of? Tell me once for all, and have done with it!"
And Shmuel said:
"Sarah, you know, we belong to a lodge."
"Of course I do!" and Sarah gave him a look of mingled astonishment and alarm. "It's not more than a week since you took a whole dollar there, and I'm not likely to have forgotten what it cost you to make it up. What is the matter now? Do they want another?"
"Try again!"
"Out with it!"
"I—want us, Sarah," stammered Shmuel,—"to go for a picnic."
"A picnic!" screamed Sarah. "Is that the only thing you have left to wish for?"
"Look here, Sarah, we toil and moil the whole year through. It's nothing but trouble and worry, trouble and worry. Call that living! When do we ever have a bit of pleasure?"
"Well, what's to be done?" said his wife, in a subdued tone.
"The summer will soon be over, and we haven't set eyes on a green blade of grass. We sit day and night sweating in the dark."
"True enough!" sighed his wife, and Shmuel spoke louder:
"Let us have an outing, Sarah. Let us enjoy ourselves for once, and give the children a breath of fresh air, let us have a change, if it's only for five minutes!"
"What will it cost?" asks Sarah, suddenly, and Shmuel has soon made the necessary calculation.
"A family ticket is only thirty cents, for Yossele, Rivele, Hannahle, and Berele; for Resele and Doletzke I haven't to pay any carfare at all. For you and me, it will be ten cents there and ten back—that makes fifty cents. Then I reckon thirty cents for refreshments to take with us: a pineapple (a damaged one isn't more than five cents), a few bananas, a piece of watermelon, a bottle of milk for the children, and a few rolls—the whole thing shouldn't cost us more than eighty cents at the outside."
"Eighty cents!" and Sarah clapped her hands together in dismay. "Why, you can live on that two days, and it takes nearly a whole day's earning. You can buy an old ice-box for eighty cents, you can buy a pair of trousers—eighty cents!"
"Leave off talking nonsense!" said Shmuel, disconcerted. "Eighty cents won't make us rich. We shall get on just the same whether we have them or not. We must live like human beings one day in the year! Come, Sarah, let us go! We shall see lots of other people, and we'll watch them, and see howtheyenjoy themselves. It will do you good to see the world, to go where there's a bit of life! Listen, Sarah, what have you been to worth seeing since we came to America? Have you seen Brooklyn Bridge, or Central Park, or the Baron Hirsch baths?"
"You know I haven't!" Sarah broke in. "I've no time to go about sight-seeing. I only know the way from here to the market."
"And what do you suppose?" cried Shmuel. "I should be as great a greenhorn as you, if I hadn't been obliged to look everywhere for work. Now I know that America is a great big place. Thanks to the slack times, I know where there's an Eighth Street, and a One Hundred and Thirtieth Street with tin works, and an Eighty-Fourth Street with a match factory. I know every single lane round the World Building. I know where the cable car line stops. But you, Sarah, know nothing at all, no more than if you had just landed. Let us go, Sarah, I am sure you won't regret it!"
"Well, you know best!" said his wife, and this time she smiled. "Let us go!"
And thus it was that Shmuel and his wife decided to join the lodge picnic on the following day.
Next morning they all rose much earlier than usual on a Sunday, and there was a great noise, for they took the children and scrubbed them without mercy. Sarah prepared a bath for Doletzke, and Doletzke screamed the house down. Shmuel started washing Yossele's feet, but as Yossele habitually went barefoot, he failed to bring about any visible improvement, and had to leave the little pair of feet to soak in a basin of warm water, and Yossele cried, too. It was twelve o'clock before the children were dressed and ready to start, and then Sarah turned her attention to her husband, arranged his trousers, took the spots out of his coat with kerosene, sewed a button onto his vest. After that she dressed herself, in her old-fashioned satin wedding dress. At two o'clock they set forth, and took their places in the car.
"Haven't we forgotten anything?" asked Sarah of her husband.
Shmuel counted his children and the traps. "No, nothing, Sarah!" he said.
Doletzke went to sleep, the other children sat quietly in their places. Sarah, too, fell into a doze, for she was tired out with the preparations for the excursion.
All went smoothly till they got some way up town, when Sarah gave a start.
"I don't feel very well—my head is so dizzy," she said to Shmuel.
"I don't feel very well, either," answered Shmuel. "I suppose the fresh air has upset us."
"I suppose it has," said his wife. "I'm afraid for the children."
Scarcely had she spoken when Doletzke woke up, whimpering, and was sick. Yossele, who was looking at her, began to cry likewise. The mother scolded him, and this set the other children crying. The conductor cast a wrathful glance at poor Shmuel, who was so frightened that he dropped the hand-bag with the provisions, and then, conscious of the havoc he had certainly brought about inside the bag by so doing, he lost his head altogether, and sat there in a daze. Sarah was hushing the children, but the look in her eyes told Shmuel plainly enough what to expect once they had left the car. And no sooner had they all reached the ground in safety than Sarah shot out:
"So, nothing would content him but a picnic? Much good may it do him! You're a workman, and workmen have no call to go gadding about!"
Shmuel was already weary of the whole thing, and said nothing, but he felt a tightening of the heart.
He took up Yossele on one arm and Resele on the other, and carried the bag with the presumably smashed-up contents besides.
"Hush, my dears! Hush, my babies!" he said. "Wait a little and mother will give you some bread and sugar. Hush, be quiet!" He went on, but still the children cried.
Sarah carried Doletzke, and rocked her as she walked, while Berele and Hannahle trotted alongside.
"He has shortened my days," said Sarah, "may his be shortened likewise."
Soon afterwards they turned into the park.
"Let us find a tree and sit down in the shade," said Shmuel. "Come, Sarah!"
"I haven't the strength to drag myself a step further," declared Sarah, and she sank down like a stone just inside the gate. Shmuel was about to speak, but a glance at Sarah's face told him she was worn out, and he sat down beside his wife without a word. Sarah gave Doletzke the breast. The other children began to roll about in the grass, laughed and played, and Shmuel breathed easier.
Girls in holiday attire walked about the park, and there were groups under the trees. Here was a handsome girl surrounded by admiring boys, and there a handsome young man encircled by a bevy of girls.
Out of the leafy distance of the park came the melancholy song of a workman; near by stood a man playing on a fiddle. Sarah looked about her and listened, andby degrees her vexation vanished. It is true that her heart was still sore, but it was not with the soreness of anger. She was taking her life to pieces and thinking it over, and it seemed a very hard and bitter one, and when she looked at her husband and thought of his life, she was near crying, and she laid her hands upon his knee.
Shmuel also sat lost in thought. He was thinking about the trees and the roses and the grass, and listening to the fiddle. And he also was sad at heart.
"O Sarah!" he sighed, and he would have said more, but just at that moment it began to spot with rain, and before they had time to move there came a downpour. People started to scurry in all directions, but Shmuel stood like a statue.
"Shlimm-mazel, look after the children!" commanded Sarah. Shmuel caught up two of them, Sarah another two or three, and they ran to a shelter. Doletzke began to cry afresh.
"Mame, hungry!" began Berele.
"Hungry, hungry!" wailed Yossele. "I want to eat!"
Shmuel hastily opened the hand-bag, and then for the first time he saw what had really happened: the bottle had broken, and the milk was flooding the bag; the rolls and bananas were soaked, and the pineapple (a damaged one to begin with) looked too nasty for words. Sarah caught sight of the bag, and was so angry, she was at a loss how to wreak vengeance on her husband. She was ashamed to scream and scold in the presence of other people, but she went up to him,and whispered fervently into his ear, "The same to you, my good man!"
The children continued to clamor for food.
"I'll go to the refreshment counter and buy a glass of milk and a few rolls," said Shmuel to his wife.
"Have you actually some money left?" asked Sarah. "I thought it had all been spent on the picnic."
"There are just five cents over."
"Well, then go and be quick about it. The poor things are starving."
Shmuel went to the refreshment stall, and asked the price of a glass of milk and a few rolls.
"Twenty cents, mister," answered the waiter.
Shmuel started as if he had burnt his finger, and returned to his wife more crestfallen than ever.
"Well, Shlimm-mazel, where's the milk?" inquired Sarah.
"He asked twenty cents."
"Twenty cents for a glass of milk and a roll? Are you Montefiore?" Sarah could no longer contain herself. "They'll be the ruin of us! If you want to go for another picnic, we shall have to sell the bedding."
The children never stopped begging for something to eat.
"But what are we to do?" asked the bewildered Shmuel.
"Do?" screamed Sarah. "Go home, this very minute!"
Shmuel promptly caught up a few children, and they left the park. Sarah was quite quiet on the way home, merely remarking to her husband that she would settle her account with him later.
"I'll pay you out," she said, "for my satin dress, for the hand-bag, for the pineapple, for the bananas, for the milk, for the whole blessed picnic, for the whole of my miserable existence."
"Scold away!" answered Shmuel. "It is you who were right. I don't know what possessed me. A picnic, indeed! You may well ask what next? A poor wretched workman like me has no business to think of anything beyond the shop."
Sarah, when they reached home, was as good as her word. Shmuel would have liked some supper, as he always liked it, even in slack times, but there was no supper given him. He went to bed a hungry man, and all through the night he repeated in his sleep:
"A picnic, oi, a picnic!"
It was a stifling summer evening. I had just come home from work, taken off my coat, unbuttoned my waistcoat, and sat down panting by the window of my little room.
There was a knock at the door, and without waiting for my reply, in came a woman with yellow hair, and very untidy in her dress.
I judged from her appearance that she had not come from a distance. She had nothing on her head, her sleeves were tucked up, she held a ladle in her hand, and she was chewing something or other.
"I am Manasseh's wife," said she.
"Manasseh Gricklin's?" I asked.
"Yes," said my visitor, "Gricklin's, Gricklin's."
I hastily slipped on a coat, and begged her to be seated.
Manasseh was an old friend of mine, he was a capmaker, and we worked together in one shop.
And I knew that he lived somewhere in the same tenement as myself, but it was the first time I had the honor of seeing his wife.
"Look here," began the woman, "don't you work in the same shop as my husband?"
"Yes, yes," I said.
"Well, and now tell me," and the yellow-haired woman gave a bound like a hyena, "how is it I see you come home from work with all other respectable people, and my husband not? And it isn't the first time, either,that he's gone, goodness knows where, and come home two hours after everyone else. Where's he loitering about?"
"I don't know," I replied gravely.
The woman brandished her ladle in such a way that I began to think she meant murder.
"You don't know?" she exclaimed with a sinister flash in her eyes. "What do you mean by that? Don't you two leave the shop together? How can you help seeing what becomes of him?"
Then I remembered that when Manasseh and I left the shop, he walked with me a few blocks, and then went off in another direction, and that one day, when I asked him where he was going, he had replied, "To some friends."
"He must go to some friends," I said to the woman.
"To some friends?" she repeated, and burst into strange laughter. "Who? Whose? Ours? We're greeners, we are, we have no friends. What friends should he have, poor, miserable wretch?"
"I don't know," I said, "but that is what he told me."
"All right!" said Manasseh's wife. "I'll teach him a lesson he won't forget in a hurry."
With these words she departed.
When she had left the room, I pictured to myself poor consumptive Manasseh being taught a "lesson" by his yellow-haired wife, and I pitied him.
Manasseh was a man of about thirty. His yellowish-white face was set in a black beard; he was very thin, always ailing and coughing, had never learnt to write,and he read only Yiddish—a quiet, respectable man, I might almost say the only hand in the shop who never grudged a fellow-worker his livelihood. He had been only a year in the country, and the others made sport of him, but I always stood up for him, because I liked him very much.
Wherever does he go, now? I wondered to myself, and I resolved to find out.
Next morning I met Manasseh as usual, and at first I intended to tell him of his wife's visit to me the day before; but the poor operative looked so low-spirited, so thoroughly unhappy, that I felt sure his wife had already given him the promised "lesson," and I hadn't the courage to mention her to him just then.
In the evening, as we were going home from the workshop, Manasseh said to me:
"Did my wife come to see you yesterday?"
"Yes, Brother Manasseh," I answered. "She seemed something annoyed with you."
"She has a dreadful temper," observed the workman. "When she is really angry, she's fit to kill a man. But it's her bitter heart, poor thing—she's had so many troubles! We're so poor, and she's far away from her family."
Manasseh gave a deep sigh.
"She asked you where I go other days after work?" he continued.
"Yes."
"Would you like to know?"
"Why not, Mister Gricklin!"
"Come along a few blocks further," said Manasseh, "and I'll show you."
"Come along!" I agreed, and we walked on together.
A few more blocks and Manasseh led me into a narrow street, not yet entirely built in with houses.
Presently he stopped, with a contented smile. I looked round in some astonishment. We were standing alongside a piece of waste ground, with a meagre fencing of stones and burnt wire, and utilized as a garden.
"Just look," said the workman, pointing at the garden, "how delightful it is! One so seldom sees anything of the kind in New York."
Manasseh went nearer to the fence, and his eyes wandered thirstily over the green, flowering plants, just then in full beauty. I also looked at the garden. The things that grew there were unknown to me, and I was ignorant of their names. Only one thing had a familiar look—a few tall, graceful "moons" were scattered here and there over the place, and stood like absent-minded dreamers, or beautiful sentinels. And the roses were in bloom, and their fragrance came in wafts over the fencing.
"You see the 'moons'?" asked Manasseh, in rapt tones, but more to himself than to me. "Look how beautiful they are! I can't take my eyes off them. I am capable of standing and looking at them for hours. They make me feel happy, almost as if I were at home again. There were a lot of them at home!"
The operative sighed, lost himself a moment in thought, and then said:
"When I smell the roses, I think of old days. We had quite a large garden, and I was so fond of it!When the flowers began to come out, I used to sit there for hours, and could never look at it enough. The roses appeared to be dreaming with their great golden eyes wide open. The cucumbers lay along the ground like pussy-cats, and the stalks and leaves spread ever so far across the beds. The beans fought for room like street urchins, and the pumpkins and the potatoes—you should have seen them! And the flowers were all colors—pink and blue and yellow, and I felt as if everything were alive, as if the whole garden were alive—I fancied I heard them talking together, the roses, the potatoes, the beans. I spent whole evenings in my garden. It was dear to me as my own soul. Look, look, look, don't the roses seem as if they were alive?"
But I looked at Manasseh, and thought the consumptive workman had grown younger and healthier. His face was less livid, and his eyes shone with happiness.
"Do you know," said Manasseh to me, as we walked away from the garden, "I had some cuttings of rose-trees at home, in a basket out on the fire-escape, and they had begun to bud."
There was a pause.
"Well," I inquired, "and what happened?"
"My wife laid out the mattress to air on the top of the basket, and they were all crushed."
Manasseh made an outward gesture with his hand, and I asked no more questions.
The poky, stuffy shop in which he worked came into my mind, and my heart was sore for him.
The Ginzburgs' first child died of inflammation of the lungs when it was two years and three months old.
The young couple were in the depths of grief and despair—they even thought seriously of committing suicide.
But people do not do everything they think of doing. Neither Ginzburg nor his wife had the courage to throw themselves into the cold and grizzly arms of death. They only despaired, until, some time after, a newborn child bound them once more to life.
It was a little girl, and they named her Dvoreh, after Ginzburg's dead mother.
The Ginzburgs were both free-thinkers in the full sense of the word, and their naming the child after the dead had no superstitious significance whatever.
It came about quite simply.
"Dobinyu," Ginzburg had asked his wife, "how shall we call our daughter?"
"I don't know," replied the young mother.
"No more do I," said Ginzburg.
"Let us call her Dvorehle," suggested Dobe, automatically, gazing at her pretty baby, and very little concerned about its name.
Had Ginzburg any objection to make? None at all, and the child's name was Dvorehle henceforward. When the first child had lived to be a year old, the parents had made a feast-day, and invited guests to celebrate their first-born's first birthday with them.
With the second child it was not so.
The Ginzburgs loved their Dvorehle, loved her painfully, infinitely, but when it came to the anniversary of her birth they made no rejoicings.
I do not think I shall be going too far if I say they did not dare to do so.
Dvorehle was an uncommon child: a bright girlie, sweet-tempered, pretty, and clever, the light of the house, shining into its every corner. She could be a whole world of delight to her parents, this wee Dvorehle. But it was not the delight, not the happiness they had known with the first child, not the same.Thathad been so free, so careless. Now it was different: terrible pictures of death, of a child's death, would rise up in the midst of their joy, and their gladness suddenly ended in a heavy sigh. They would be at the height of enchantment, kissing and hugging the child and laughing aloud, they would be singing to it and romping with it, everything else would be forgotten. Then, without wishing to do so, they would suddenly remember that not so long ago it was another child, also a girl, that went off into just the same silvery little bursts of laughter—and now, where is it?—dead! O how it goes through the heart! The parents turn pale in the midst of their merrymaking, the mother's eyes fill with tears, and the father's head droops.
"Who knows?" sighs Dobe, looking at their little laughing Dvorehle. "Who knows?"
Ginzburg understands the meaning of her question and is silent, because he is afraid to say anything in reply.
It seems to me that parents who have buried their first-born can never be really happy again.
So Dvorehle's first birthday was allowed to pass as it were unnoticed. When it came to her second, it was nearly the same thing, only Dobe said, "Ginzburg, when our daughter is three years old, then we will have great rejoicings!"
They waited for the day with trembling hearts. Their child's third year was full of terror for them, because their eldest-born had died in her third year, and they felt as though it must be the most dangerous one for their second child.
A dreadful conviction began to haunt them both, only they were afraid to confess it one to the other. This conviction, this fixed idea of theirs, was that when Dvorehle reached the age of their eldest child when it died, Death would once more call their household to mind.
Dvorehle grew to be two years and eight months old. O it was a terrible time! And—and the child fell ill, with inflammation of the lungs, just like the other one.
O pictures that arose and stood before the parents! O terror, O calamity! They were free-thinkers, the Ginzburgs, and if any one had told them that they were not free from what they called superstition, that the belief in a Higher Power beyond our understanding still had a root in their being, if you had spoken thus to Ginzburg or to his wife, they would have laughed at you, both of them, out of the depths of a full heart and with laughter more serious than many another's words. But what happened now is wonderful to tell.
Dobe, sitting by the sick child's cot, began to speak, gravely, and as in a dream:
"Who knows? Who knows? Perhaps? Perhaps?" She did not conclude.
"Perhaps what?" asked Ginzburg, impatiently.
"Why should it come like this?" Dobe went on. "The same time, the same sickness?"
"A simple blind coincidence of circumstances," replied her husband.
"But so exactly—one like the other, as if somebody had made it happen on purpose."
Ginzburg understood his wife's meaning, and answered short and sharp:
"Dobe, don't talk nonsense."
Meanwhile Dvorehle's illness developed, and the day came on which the doctor said that a crisis would occur within twenty-four hours. What this meant to the Ginzburgs would be difficult to describe, but each of them determined privately not to survive the loss of their second child.
They sat beside it, not lifting their eyes from its face. They were pale and dazed with grief and sleepless nights, their hearts half-dead within them, they shed no tears, they were so much more dead than alive themselves, and the child's flame of life flickered and dwindled, flickered and dwindled.
A tangle of memories was stirring in Ginzburg's head, all relating to deaths and graves. He lived through the death of their first child with all details—his father's death, his mother's—early in a summer morning—that was—that was—he recalls it—as though it were to-day.
"What is to-day?" he wonders. "What day of the month is it?" And then he remembers, it is the first of May.
"The same day," he murmurs, as if he were talking in his sleep.
"What the same day?" asks Dobe.
"Nothing," says Ginzburg. "I was thinking of something."
He went on thinking, and fell into a doze where he sat.
He saw his mother enter the room with a soft step, take a chair, and sit down by the sick child.
"Mother, save it!" he begs her, his heart is full to bursting, and he begins to cry.
"Isrolik," says his mother, "I have brought a remedy for the child that bears my name."
"Mame!!!"
He is about to throw himself upon her neck and kiss her, but she motions him lightly aside.
"Why do you never light a candle for my Yohrzeit?" she inquires, and looks at him reproachfully.
"Mame, have pity on us, save the child!"
"The child will live, only you must light me a candle."
"Mame" (he sobs louder), "have pity!"
"Light my candle—make haste, make haste—"
"Ginzburg!" a shriek from his wife, and he awoke with a start.
"Ginzburg, the child is dying! Fly for the doctor."
Ginzburg cast a look at the child, a chill went through him, he ran to the door.
The doctor came in person.
"Our child is dying! Help save it!" wailed the unhappy mother, and he, Ginzburg, stood and shivered as with cold.
The doctor scrutinized the child, and said:
"The crisis is coming on." There was something dreadful in the quiet of his tone.
"What can be done?" and the Ginzburgs wrung their hands.
"Hush! Nothing! Bring some hot water, bottles of hot water!—Champagne!—Where is the medicine? Quick!" commanded the doctor.
Everything was to hand and ready in an instant.
The doctor began to busy himself with the child, the parents stood by pale as death.
"Well," asked Dobe, "what?"
"We shall soon know," said the doctor.
Ginzburg looked round, glided like a shadow into a corner of the room, and lit the little lamp that stood there.
"What is that for?" asked Dobe, in a fright.
"Nothing, Yohrzeit—my mother's," he answered in a strange voice, and his hands never ceased trembling.
"Your child will live," said the doctor, and father and mother fell upon the child's bed with their faces, and wept.
The flame in the lamp burnt brighter and brighter.
Despite the fact of the winter nights being long and dark as the Jewish exile, the Breklins go to bed at dusk.
But you may as well know that when it is dusk outside in the street, the Breklins are already "way on" in the night, because they live in a basement, separated from the rest of the world by an air-shaft, and when the sun gathers his beams round him before setting, the first to be summoned are those down the Breklins' shaft, because of the time required for them to struggle out again.
The same thing in the morning, only reversed. People don't usually get up, if they can help it, before it is really light, and so it comes to pass that when other people have left their beds, and are going about their business, the Breklins are still asleep and making the long, long night longer yet.
If you ask me, "How is it they don't wear their sides out with lying in bed?" I shall reply: Theydorise with aching sides, and if you say, "How can people be so lazy?" I can tell you, They don't do it out of laziness, and they lie awake a great part of the time.
What's the good of lying in bed if one isn't asleep?
There you have it in a nutshell—it's a question of the economic conditions. The Breklins are very poor, their life is a never-ending struggle with poverty, and they have come to the conclusion that the cheapest way of waging it, and especially in winter, is to lie inbed under a great heap of old clothes and rags of every description.
Breklin is a house-painter, and from Christmas to Purim (I beg to distinguish!) work is dreadfully slack. When you're not earning a crooked penny, what are you to do?
In the first place, you must live on "cash," that is, on the few dollars scraped together and put by during the "season," and in the second place, you must cut down your domestic expenses, otherwise the money won't hold out, and then you might as well keep your teeth in a drawer.
But you may neither eat nor drink, nor live at all to mention—if it's winter, the money goes all the same: it's bitterly cold, and you can't do without the stove, and the nights are long, and you want a lamp.
And the Breklins saw that their money wouldnothold out till Purim—that their Fast of Esther would be too long. Coal was beyond them, and kerosene as dear as wine, and yet how could they possibly spend less? How could they do without a fire when it was so cold? Without a lamp when it was so dark? And the Breklins had an "idea"!
Why sit up at night and watch the stove and the lamp burning away their money, when they might get into bed, bury themselves in rags, and defy both poverty and cold? There is nothing in particular to do, anyhow. What should there be, a long winter evening through? Nothing! They only sat and poured out the bitterness in their heart one upon the other,quarrelled, and scolded. They could do that in bed just as well, and save firing and light into the bargain.
So, at the first approach of darkness, the bed was made ready for Mr. Breklin, and his wife put to sleep their only, three-year-old child. Avremele did not understand why he was put to bed so early, but he asked no questions. The room began to feel cold, and the poor little thing was glad to nestle deep into the bedcoverings.
The lamp and the fire were extinguished, the stove would soon go out of itself, and the Breklin family slept.
They slept, and fought against poverty by lying in bed.
It was waging cheap warfare.
Having had his first sleep out, Breklin turns to his wife:
"What do you suppose the time to be now, Yudith?"
Yudith listens attentively.
"It must be past eight o'clock," she says.
"What makes you think so?" asks Breklin.
"Don't you hear the clatter of knives and forks? Well-to-do folk are having supper."
"We also used to have supper about this time, in the Tsisin," said Breklin, and he gave a deep sigh of longing.
"We shall soon forget the good times altogether," says Yudith, and husband and wife set sail once more for the land of dreams.
A few hours later Breklin wakes with a groan.
"What is the matter?" inquires Yudith.
"My sides ache with lying."
"Mine, too," says Yudith, and they both begin yawning.
"What o'clock would it be now?" wonders Breklin, and Yudith listens again.
"About ten o'clock," she tells him.
"No later? I don't believe it. It must be a great deal later than that."
"Well, listen for yourself," persists Yudith, "and you'll hear the housekeeper upstairs scolding somebody. She's putting out the gas in the hall."
"Oi, weh is mir! How the night drags!" sighs Breklin, and turns over onto his other side.
Yudith goes on talking, but as much to herself as to him:
"Upstairs they are still all alive, and we are asleep in bed."
"Weh is mir, weh is mir!" sighs Breklin over and over, and once more there is silence.
The night wears on.
"Are you asleep?" asks Breklin, suddenly.
"I wish I were! Who could sleep through such a long night? I'm lying awake and racking my brains."
"What over?" asks Breklin, interested.
"I'm trying to think," explains Yudith, "what we can have for dinner to-morrow that will cost nothing, and yet be satisfying."
"Oi, weh is mir!" sighs Breklin again, and is at a loss what to advise.
"I wonder" (this time it is Yudith) "what o'clock it is now!"
"It will soon be morning," is Breklin's opinion.
"Morning? Nonsense!" Yudith knows better.
"It must be morning soon!" He holds to it.
"You are very anxious for the morning," says Yudith, good-naturedly, "and so you think it will soon be here, and I tell you, it's not midnight yet."
"What are you talking about? You don't know what you're saying! I shall go out of my mind."
"You know," says Yudith, "that Avremele always wakes at midnight and cries, and he's still fast asleep."
"No, Mame," comes from under Avremele's heap of rags.
"Come to me, my beauty! So he was awake after all!" and Yudith reaches out her arms for the child.
"Perhaps he's cold," says Breklin.
"Are you cold, sonny?" asks Yudith.
"Cold, Mame!" replies Avremele.
Yudith wraps the coverlets closer and closer round him, and presses him to her side.
And the night wears on.
"O my sides!" groans Breklin.
"Mine, too!" moans Yudith, and they start another conversation.
One time they discuss their neighbors; another time the Breklins try to calculate how long it is since they married, how much they spend a week on an average, and what was the cost of Yudith's confinement.
It is seldom they calculate anything right, but talking helps to while away time, till the basement begins to lighten, whereupon the Breklins jump out of bed, as though it were some perilous hiding-place, and set to work in a great hurry to kindle the stove.
Born, 1876, in Kaidanov, Government of Minsk (Lithuania), White Russia; traditional Jewish education; self-taught in Russian language; teacher at fifteen, first in Kaidanov, then in Minsk; first poem published in Perez's Jüdische Bibliothek, in 1891; served in the army, in Kovno, for four years; went to Warsaw in 1900, and to New York in 1911; Yiddish lyric poet and novelist; occasionally writes Hebrew; contributor to Spektor's Hausfreund, New York Abendpost, and New York Arbeiterzeitung; co-editor of Das zwanzigste Jahrhundert; in 1903, published and edited, in Cracow, Das jüdische Wort, first to urge the claim of Yiddish as the national Jewish language; publisher and editor, since 1911, of Dos neie Land, in New York; collected works (poems and tales), 4 vols., Warsaw, 1908-1912.
Lebele is a little boy ten years old, with pale cheeks, liquid, dreamy eyes, and black hair that falls in twisted ringlets, but, of course, the ringlets are only seen when his hat falls off, for Lebele is a pious little boy, who never uncovers his head.
There are things that Lebele loves and never has, or else he has them only in part, and that is why his eyes are always dreamy and troubled, and always full of longing.
He loves the summer, and sits the whole day in Cheder. He loves the sun, and the Rebbe hangs his caftan across the window, and the Cheder is darkened, so that it oppresses the soul. Lebele loves the moon, the night, but at home they close the shutters, and Lebele, on his little bed, feels as if he were buried alive. And Lebele cannot understand people's behaving so oddly.
It seems to him that when the sun shines in at the window, it is a delight, it is so pleasant and cheerful, and the Rebbe goes and curtains it—no more sun! If Lebele dared, he would ask:
"What ails you, Rebbe, at the sun? What harm can it do you?"
But Lebele will never put that question: the Rebbe is such a great and learned man, he must know best. Ai, how dare he, Lebele, disapprove? He is only a little boy. When he is grown up, he will doubtless curtain the window himself. But as things are now,Lebele is not happy, and feels sadly perplexed at the behavior of his elders.
Late in the evening, he comes home from Cheder. The sun has already set, the street is cheerful and merry, the cockchafers whizz and, flying, hit him on the nose, the ear, the forehead.
He would like to play about a bit in the street, let them have supper without him, but he is afraid of his father. His father is a kind man when he talks to strangers, he is so gentle, so considerate, so confidential. But to him, to Lebele, he is very unkind, always shouting at him, and if Lebele comes from Cheder a few minutes late, he will be angry.
"Where have you been, my fine fellow? Have you business anywhere?"
Now go and tell him that it is not at all so bad out in the street, that it's a pleasure to hear how the cockchafers whirr, that even the hits they give you on the wing are friendly, and mean, "Hallo, old fellow!" Of course it's a wild absurdity! It amuses him, because he is only a little boy, while his father is a great man, who trades in wood and corn, and who always knows the current prices—when a thing is dearer and when it is cheaper. His father can speak the Gentile language, and drive bargains, his father understands the Prussian weights. Is that a man to be thought lightly of? Go and tell him, if you dare, that it's delightful now out in the street.
And Lebele hurries straight home. When he has reached it, his father asks him how many chapters he has mastered, and if he answers five, his father humsa tune without looking at him; but if he says only three, his father is angry, and asks:
"How's that? Why so little, ha?"
And Lebele is silent, and feels guilty before his father.
After that his father makes him translate a Hebrew word.
"TranslateKimlùnah!"
"Kimlùnahmeans 'like a passing the night,'" answers Lebele, terrified.
His father is silent—a sign that he is satisfied—and they sit down to supper. Lebele's father keeps an eye on him the whole time, and instructs him how to eat.
"Is that how you hold your spoon?" inquires the father, and Lebele holds the spoon lower, and the food sticks in his throat.
After supper Lebele has to say grace aloud and in correct Hebrew, according to custom. If he mumbles a word, his father calls out:
"What did I hear? what? once more, 'Wherewith Thou dost feed and sustain us.' Well, come, say it! Don't be in a hurry, it won't burn you!"
And Lebele says it over again, although heisin a great hurry, although he longs to run out into the street, and the wordsdoseem to burn him.
When it is dark, he repeats the Evening Prayer by lamplight; his father is always catching him making a mistake, and Lebele has to keep all his wits about him. The moon, round and shining, is already floating through the sky, and Lebele repeats the prayers, and looks at her, and longs after the street, and he gets confused in his praying.
Prayers over, he escapes out of the house, puzzling over some question in the Talmud against the morrow's lesson. He delays there a while gazing at the moon, as she pours her pale beams onto the Gass. But he soon hears his father's voice:
"Come indoors, to bed!"
It is warm outside, there is not a breath of air stirring, and yet it seems to Lebele as though a wind came along with his father's words, and he grows cold, and he goes in like one chilled to the bone, takes his stand by the window, and stares at the moon.
"It is time to close the shutters—there's nothing to sit up for!" Lebele hears his father say, and his heart sinks. His father goes out, and Lebele sees the shutters swing to, resist, as though they were being closed against their will, and presently there is a loud bang. No more moon!—his father has hidden it!
A while after, the lamp has been put out, the room is dark, and all are asleep but Lebele, whose bed is by the window. He cannot sleep, he wants to be in the street, whence sounds come in through the chinks. He tries to sit up in bed, to peer out, also through the chinks, and even to open a bit of the shutter, without making any noise, and to look, look, but without success, for just then his father wakes and calls out:
"What are you after there, eh? Do you want me to come with the strap?"
And Lebele nestles quietly down again into his pillow, pulls the coverlet over his head, and feels as though he were buried alive.
The largest fair in Klemenke is "Ulas." The little town waits for Ulas with a beating heart and extravagant hopes. "Ulas," say the Klemenke shopkeepers and traders, "is a Heavenly blessing; were it not for Ulas, Klemenke would long ago have been 'äus Klemenke,' America would have taken its last few remaining Jews to herself."
But for Ulas one must have the wherewithal—the shopkeepers need wares, and the traders, money.
Without the wherewithal, even Ulas is no good! And Chayyim, the dealer in produce, goes about gloomily. There are only three days left before Ulas, and he hasn't a penny wherewith to buy corn to trade with. And the other dealers in produce circulate in the market-place with caps awry, with thickly-rolled cigarettes in their mouths and walking-sticks in their hands, and they are talking hard about the fair.
"In three days it will be lively!" calls out one.
"Pshshsh," cries another in ecstasy, "in three days' time the place will be packed!"
And Chayyim turns pale. He would like to call down a calamity on the fair, he wishes it might rain, snow, or storm on that day, so that not even a mad dog should come to the market-place; only Chayyim knows that Ulas is no weakling, Ulas is not afraid of the strongest wind—Ulas is Ulas!
And Chayyim's eyes are ready to start out of his head. A charitable loan—where is one to get a charitable loan? If only five and twenty rubles!
He asks it of everyone, but they only answer with a merry laugh:
"Are you mad? Money—just before a fair?"
And it seems to Chayyim that he really will go mad.
"Suppose you went across to Loibe-Bäres?" suggests his wife, who takes her full share in his distress.
"I had thought of that myself," answers Chayyim, meditatively.
"But what?" asks the wife.
Chayyim is about to reply, "But I can't go there, I haven't the courage," only that it doesn't suit him to be so frank with his wife, and he answers:
"Devil take him! He won't lend anything!"
"Try! It won't hurt," she persists.
And Chayyim reflects that he has no other resource, that Loibe-Bäres is a rich man, and living in the same street, a neighbor in fact, and thatherequires no money for the fair, being a dealer in lumber and timber.
"Give me out my Sabbath overcoat!" says Chayyim to his wife, in a resolute tone.
"Didn't I say so?" the wife answers. "It's the best thing you can do, to go to him."
Chayyim placed himself before a half-broken looking-glass which was nailed to the wall, smoothed his beard with both hands, tightened his earlocks, and then took off his hat, and gave it a polish with his sleeve.
"Just look and see if I haven't got any white on my coat off the wall!"
"If you haven't?" the wife answered, and began slapping him with both hands over the shoulders.
"I thought we once had a little clothes-brush. Where is it? ha?"
"Perhaps you dreamt it," replied his wife, still slapping him on the shoulders, and she went on, "Well, I should say you had got some white on your coat!"
"Come, that'll do!" said Chayyim, almost angrily. "I'll go now."
He drew on his Sabbath overcoat with a sigh, and muttering, "Very likely, isn't it, he'll lend me money!" he went out.
On the way to Loibe-Bäres, Chayyim's heart began to fail him. Since the day that Loibe-Bäres came to live at the end of the street, Chayyim had been in the house only twice, and the path Chayyim was treading now was as bad as an examination: the "approach" to him, the light rooms, the great mirrors, the soft chairs, Loibe-Bäres himself with his long, thick beard and his black eyes with their "gevirish" glance, the lady, the merry, happy children, even the maid, who had remained in his memory since those two visits—all these things together terrified him, and he asked himself, "Where are you going to? Are you mad? Home with you at once!" and every now and then he would stop short on the way. Only the thought that Ulas was near, and that he had no money to buy corn, drove him to continue.
"He won't lend anything—it's no use hoping." Chayyim was preparing himself as he walked for the shock of disappointment; but he felt that if he gave way tothat extent, he would never be able to open his mouth to make his request known, and he tried to cheer himself:
"If I catch him in a good humor, he will lend! Why should he be afraid of lending me a few rubles over the fair? I shall tell him that as soon as ever I have sold the corn, he shall have the loan back. I will swear it by wife and children, he will believe me—and I will pay it back."
But this does not make Chayyim any the bolder, and he tries another sort of comfort, another remedy against nervousness.
"He isn't a bad man—and, after all, our acquaintance won't date from to-day—we've been living in the same street twenty years—Parabotzker Street—"
And Chayyim recollects that a fortnight ago, as Loibe-Bäres was passing his house on his way to the market-place, and he, Chayyim, was standing in the yard, he gave him the greeting due to a gentleman ("and I could swear I gave him my hand," Chayyim reminded himself). Loibe-Bäres had made a friendly reply, he had even stopped and asked, like an old acquaintance, "Well, Chayyim, and how are you getting on?" And Chayyim strains his memory and remembers further that he answered on this wise:
"I thank you for asking! Heaven forgive me, one does a little bit of business!"
And Chayyim is satisfied with his reply, "I answered him quite at my ease."
Chayyim resolves to speak to him this time even more leisurely and independently, not to cringe before him.
Chayyim could already see Loibe-Bäres' house in the distance. He coughed till his throat was clear, stroked his beard down, and looked at his coat.
"Still a very good coat!" he said aloud, as though trying to persuade himself that the coat was still good, so that he might feel more courage and more proper pride.
But when he got to Loibe-Bäres' big house, when the eight large windows looking onto the street flashed into his eyes, the windows being brightly illuminated from within, his heart gave a flutter.
"Oi, Lord of the World, help!" came of its own accord to his lips. Then he felt ashamed, and caught himself up, "Ett, nonsense!"
As he pushed the door open, the "prayer" escaped him once more, "Help, mighty God! or it will be the death of me!"
Loibe-Bäres was seated at a large table covered with a clean white table-cloth, and drinking while he talked cheerfully with his household.
"There's a Jew come, Tate!" called out a boy of twelve, on seeing Chayyim standing by the door.
"So there is!" called out a second little boy, still more merrily, fixing Chayyim with his large, black, mischievous eyes.
All the rest of those at table began looking at Chayyim, and he thought every moment that he must fall of a heap onto the floor.
"It will look very bad if I fall," he said to himself, made a step forward, and, without saying good evening, stammered out:
"I just happened to be passing, you understand, and I saw you sitting—so I knew you were at home—well, I thought one ought to call—neighbors—"
"Well, welcome, welcome!" said Loibe-Bäres, smiling. "You've come at the right moment. Sit down."
A stone rolled off Chayyim's heart at this reply, and, with a glance at the two little boys, he quietly took a seat.
"Leah, give Reb Chayyim a glass of tea," commanded Loibe-Bäres.
"Quite a kind man!" thought Chayyim. "May the Almighty come to his aid!"
He gave his host a grateful look, and would gladly have fallen onto the Gevir's thick neck, and kissed him.
"Well, and what are you about?" inquired his host.
"Thanks be to God, one lives!"
The maid handed him a glass of tea. He said, "Thank you," and then was sorry: it is not the proper thing to thank a servant. He grew red and bit his lips.
"Have some jelly with it!" Loibe-Bäres suggested.
"An excellent man, an excellent man!" thought Chayyim, astonished. "He is sure to lend."
"You deal in something?" asked Loibe-Bäres.
"Why, yes," answered Chayyim. "One's little bit of business, thank Heaven, is no worse than other people's!"
"What price are oats fetching now?" it occurred to the Gevir to ask.
Oats had fallen of late, but it seemed better to Chayyim to say that they had risen.
"They have risen very much!" he declared in a mercantile tone of voice.
"Well, and have you some oats ready?" inquired the Gevir further.
"I've got a nice lot of oats, and they didn't cost me much, either. I got them quite cheap," replied Chayyim, with more warmth, forgetting, while he spoke, that he hadn't had an ear of oats in his granary for weeks.
"And you are thinking of doing a little speculating?" asked Loibe-Bäres. "Are you not in need of any money?"
"Thanks be to God," replied Chayyim, proudly, "I have never yet been in need of money."
"Why did I say that?" he thought then, in terror at his own words. "How am I going to ask for a loan now?" and Chayyim wanted to back the cart a little, only Loibe-Bäres prevented him by saying:
"So I understand you make a good thing of it, you are quite a wealthy man."
"My wealth be to my enemies!" Chayyim wanted to draw back, but after a glance at Loibe-Bäres' shining face, at the blue jar with the jelly, he answered proudly:
"Thank Heaven, I have nothing to complain of!"
"There goes your charitable loan!" The thought came like a kick in the back of his head. "Why are you boasting like that? Tell him you want twenty-five rubles for Ulas—that he must save you, that you are in despair, that—"
But Chayyim fell deeper and deeper into a contented and happy way of talking, praised his business more and more, and conversed with the Gevir as with an equal.
But he soon began to feel he was one too many, that he should not have sat there so long, or have talked in that way. It would have been better to have talked about the fair, about a loan. Now it is too late:
"I have no need of money!" and Chayyim gave a despairing look at Loibe-Bäres' cheerful face, at the two little boys who sat opposite and watched him with sly, mischievous eyes, and who whispered knowingly to each other, and then smiled more knowingly still!
A cold perspiration covered him. He rose from his chair.
"You are going already?" observed Loibe-Bäres, politely.
"Now perhaps I could ask him!" It flashed across Chayyim's mind that he might yet save himself, but, stealing a glance at the two boys with the roguish eyes that watched him so slyly, he replied with dignity:
"I must! Business! There is no time!" and it seems to him, as he goes toward the door, that the two little boys with the mischievous eyes are putting out their tongues after him, and that Loibe-Bäres himself smiles and says, "Stick your tongues out further, further still!"
Chayyim's shoulders seem to burn, and he makes haste to get out of the house.
It is three months since Yainkele and Berele—two brothers, the first fourteen years old, the second sixteen—have been at the college that stands in the town of X—, five German miles from their birthplace Dalissovke, after which they are called the "Dalissovkers."
Yainkele is a slight, pale boy, with black eyes that peep slyly from beneath the two black eyebrows. Berele is taller and stouter than Yainkele, his eyes are lighter, and his glance is more defiant, as though he would say, "Let me alone, I shall laugh at you all yet!"
The two brothers lodged with a poor relation, a widow, a dealer in second-hand goods, who never came home till late at night. The two brothers had no bed, but a chest, which was broad enough, served instead, and the brothers slept sweetly on it, covered with their own torn clothes; and in their dreams they saw their native place, the little street, their home, their father with his long beard and dim eyes and bent back, and their mother with her long, pale, melancholy face, and they heard the little brothers and sisters quarrelling, as they fought over a bit of herring, and they dreamt other dreams of home, and early in the morning they were homesick, and then they used to run to the Dalissovke Inn, and ask the carrier if there were a letter for them from home.
The Dalissovke carriers were good Jews with soft hearts, and they were sorry for the two poor boys, whowere so anxious for news from home, whose eyes burned, and whose hearts beat so fast, so loud, but the carriers were very busy; they came charged with a thousand messages from the Dalissovke shopkeepers and traders, and they carried more letters than the post, but with infinitely less method. Letters were lost, and parcels were heard of no more, and the distracted carriers scratched the nape of their neck, and replied to every question:
"Directly, directly, I shall find it directly—no, I don't seem to have anything for you—"
That is how they answered the grown people who came to them; but our two little brothers stood and looked at Lezer the carrier—a man in a wadded caftan, summer and winter—with thirsty eyes and aching hearts; stood and waited, hoping he would notice them and say something, if only one word. But Lezer was always busy: now he had gone into the yard to feed the horse, now he had run into the inn, and entered into a conversation with the clerk of a great store, who had brought a list of goods wanted from a shop in Dalissovke.
And the brothers used to stand and stand, till the elder one, Berele, lost patience. Biting his lips, and all but crying with vexation, he would just articulate: "Reb Lezer, is there a letter from father?"
But Reb Lezer would either suddenly cease to exist, run out into the street with somebody or other, or be absorbed in a conversation, and Berele hardly expected the answer which Reb Lezer would give over his shoulder:
"There isn't one—there isn't one."
"There isn't one!" Berele would say with a deep sigh, and sadly call to Yainkele to come away. Mournfully, and with a broken spirit, they went to where the day's meal awaited them.
"I am sure he loses the letters!" Yainkele would say a few minutes later, as they walked along.
"He is a bad man!" Berele would mutter with vexation.
But one day Lezer handed them a letter and a small parcel.
The letter ran thus:
"Dear Children,
Be good, boys, and learn with diligence. We send you herewith half a cheese and a quarter of a pound of sugar, and a little berry-juice in a bottle.
Eat it in health, and do not quarrel over it.
From me, your father,Chayyim Hecht."
That day Lezer the carrier was the best man in the world in their eyes, they would not have been ashamed to eat him up with horse and cart for very love. They wrote an answer at once—for letter-paper they used to tear out, with fluttering hearts, the first, imprinted pages in the Gemoreh—and gave it that evening to Lezer the carrier. Lezer took it coldly, pushed it into the breast of his coat, and muttered something like "All right!"
"What did he say, Berele?" asked Yainkele, anxiously.
"I think he said 'all right,'" Berele answered doubtfully.
"I think he said so, too," Yainkele persuaded himself. Then he gave a sigh, and added fearfully:
"He may lose the letter!"
"Bite your tongue out!" answered Berele, angrily, and they went sadly away to supper.
And three times a week, early in the morning, when Lezer the carrier came driving, the two brothers flew, not ran, to the Dalissovke Inn, to ask for an answer to their letter; and Lezer the carrier grew more preoccupied and cross, and answered either with mumbled words, which the brothers could not understand, and dared not ask him to repeat, or else not at all, so that they went away with heavy hearts. But one day they heard Lezer the carrier speak distinctly, so that they understood quite well:
"What are you doing here, you two? What do you come plaguing me for? Letter? Fiddlesticks! How much do you pay me? Am I a postman? Eh? Be off with you, and don't worry."
The brothers obeyed, but only in part: their hearts were like lead, their thin little legs shook, and tears fell from their eyes onto the ground. And they went no more to Lezer the carrier to ask for a letter.
"I wish he were dead and buried!" they exclaimed, but they did not mean it, and they longed all the time just to go and look at Lezer the carrier, his horse and cart. After all, they came from Dalissovke, and the two brothers loved them.
One day, two or three weeks after the carrier sent them about their business in the way described, the twobrothers were sitting in the house of the poor relation and talking about home. It was summer-time, and a Friday afternoon.
"I wonder what father is doing now," said Yainkele, staring at the small panes in the small window.
"He must be cutting his nails," answered Berele, with a melancholy smile.
"He must be chopping up lambs' feet," imagined Yainkele, "and Mother is combing Chainele, and Chainele is crying."
"Now we've talked nonsense enough!" decided Berele. "How can we know what is going on there?"
"Perhaps somebody's dead!" added Yainkele, in sudden terror.
"Stuff and nonsense!" said Berele. "When people die, they let one know—"
"Perhaps they wrote, and the carrier won't give us the letter—"
"Ai, that's chatter enough!" Berele was quite cross. "Shut up, donkey! You make me laugh," he went on, to reassure Yainkele, "they are all alive and well."
Yainkele became cheerful again, and all at once he gave a bound into the air, and exclaimed with eager eyes:
"Berele, do what I say! Let's write by the post!"
"Right you are!" agreed Berele. "Only I've no money."
"I have four kopeks; they are over from the ten I got last night. You know, at my 'Thursday' they give me ten kopeks for supper, and I have four over.
"And I have one kopek," said Berele, "just enough for a post-card."
"But which of us will write it?" asked Yainkele.
"I," answered Berele, "I am the eldest, I'm a first-born son."
"But I gave four kopeks!"
"A first-born is worth more than four kopeks."
"No! I'll write half, and you'll write half, ha?"
"Very well. Come and buy a card."
And the two brothers ran to buy a card at the postoffice.
"There will be no room for anything!" complained Yainkele, on the way home, as he contemplated the small post-card. "We will make little tiny letters, teeny weeny ones!" advised Berele.
"Father won't be able to read them!"
"Never mind! He will put on his spectacles. Come along—quicker!" urged Yainkele. His heart was already full of words, like a sea, and he wanted to pour it out onto the bit of paper, the scrap on which he had spent his entire fortune.
They reached their lodging, and settled down to write.
Berele began, and Yainkele stood and looked on.
"Begin higher up! There is room there for a whole line. Why did you put 'to my beloved Father' so low down?" shrieked Yainkele.