the fellows have something to drink and eat.”
A few minutes after it was served, the bottles and plates were empty.
"Feitze, charge it to this nobleman, Moshe. We have spent, Moshe, one rouble, which is charged to you.` This is the treat you give as you commence work, it is also for teaching you; the devil knows for what else! You musn't think it much. Good fellows leave more than three roubles with our mistress here. You can ask of them," he said, pointing to the company of laborers.
“I, well—what have I—I believe—sure, I can understand that they spend more,” stammered Moshe. But how he was to break the news to Sarah, he could not think; to spend a whole rouble in
(To be continued)
drinks! On this amount he could live three days.
Chaim David disturbed his thoughts.
“Foolish man, you will see how we live, how much money we spend- in drinks. Do you remember,” he said, turning to those present, “how we spent 19 roubles in one night in drink, three of us? What am I saying? That is not so!” Chaim David got excited. “I’d rather tell you what happened last week. You wouldn’t believe that it is possible to drink so much. I myself” (swearing by his children) “have drank three bottles of schnapps and half a pint on top of it. When Long Solomon began to work—” Here they all began to tell stories about drunkards who could drink “rivers of liquors.” And this was Mo- she’s first lesson in his new employment.
In the Sephiroth
WHEN I think of thee, O Zion, Glory of the Holy Land; Recollecting thee as city Chartered by Jehovah’s hand; Thy gates of pearl, thy walls of gold, By sage and prophet long foretold; I do wonder—I know not why—How camest thou so low to lie?
When I think of thee, O Zion, Of thy renown, of thy great fame; When my lips the word do whisper, Mentioning thy Holy Name. Name pronounced by many a tongue In reverent accents often sung; Name so cherished, tell me why, Recalling thee, my heart doth sigh?
“What if strangers do me honor, Carry my banner and call me free: What if Gentiles “Allelujah,” “Amen shout and swear by me? When those children I call mine List not, and ‘bide across the line? This is the reason I bitterly cry,” Thus sadly Zion doth reply.
Can a mother forget her own, Her only son, her bosom child? Will other children satisfy The craving for the first that smiled? Will ever multitudes replace The laugh that lit the cradled face? Never, never will Zion rest Until her own are in her nest.