manded. The Chazan’s voice creaked and he stammered like a raw student, but he took the do. “Take it with more courage, four-quarters time,” Yossel commanded, listening very attentively. The Chazan took the note. “Now, pardon me, take the re.” The Chazan took the note tremulously, “ré-ré-ré !”
The singer stood meditating, deep in thought, and soon in a tragic voice exclaimed, "Lost !"
"And really forever, forever ?"
“What then? You aren't a boy to get another voice. At your time of life there is no help for it.”
The Chazan dropped his tuning fork, covered
his face with his hands, and fell to the table weeping like a child.
The next day the entire community knew that the Chazan had lost his voice.
“A rumpus for nothing,” said the inn-keeper, a reputable householder of the town. “When it comes to the next holiday, the congregation won’t be kept so long with his singing. I assure you, I wouldn’t exchange a bitter onion for his entire voice.”
LOUIS LIPSKY.
[Adapted]
The Folk Songs of our People
Many German societies are doing individual work for the wider circulation of Jewish folk lore, the better to strengthen the hold of the movement on the life of the Jewish people. No excuse is needed for giving a few old folk songs which have been printed by a well known Zionist society of Berlin. The first is entitled
Dem Mihlner's Thraeren.
Vergangen sind schon gar viele Jahre, Seit meine Muehle treibt am Bach . . . Es dreh'n sich die Raeder, es gehen die Jahre, Ich bin schon alt und mued und schwach.
Die Stunden verrinnen, ich will mich besinnen, Hab' ich je gehabt ein stueckchen Glueck? Es dreh'n sich die Raeder, es gehen die Jahre, Keine Antwort bringt der Wind zurueck.
Meine treue Minzi, mein Kind, mein Sprinzi, O welch ein Jammer, welch ein Schreck ! Es dreh'n sich die Raeder, es gehen die Jahre, Mit ihnen ginget ihr hinweg.
Von Glueck geschieden bin ich geblieben, Ohn' Weib, ohn' Kind, geblieben allein, Es dreh'n sich die Raeder, es gehen die Jahre, Ach, ohne Ende, ohne Ziel.
Wiegenlied.
Schlaf, mein Voegelein, Mach zu die Aeugelein, Schlaf, mein Kindchen, schlaf . . .
Der Schlaf, der gute, wie ein treuer Hueter Haelt dich bis Frueh in Ruh; Mit seinen Fluegelchen, Ueber dem Wiegelchen Deckt er still dich zu.
Schlaf in Freuden, Kennst noch kein Leiden, Schlaf, mein suesses Kind. Mach zu die Aeugelein, Mein teures Voegelein, Schlafe wohl mein Kind. . .