before; that the assembled guest were now attending her funeral instead of her marriage. He was visibly moved by this sad story. "Was her name Leah?" he asked with a quivering voice. He followed the procession to the cemetery, and when the Rabbi in the course of his eulogy mentioned the name of the deceased, the Lunatic rushed to the edge of the newly-dug grave, to the amazement of the mourners, and gazing with glazed eye at the coffin in the grave exclaimed, hoarsely, "No, no, Her name is Leah,—Leah is her name!" Ever since that incident he ceased wandering about the graves, but visited daily the grave of that one girl. "Just as crazy as ever," said the townspeople, and shook their heads.
It is a number of years since I have left my native town. Recently a friend of mine came from that neighborhood. In the course of our conversation I inquired about the Lunatic. “Oh,” said he with a wave of his hand: “he disappeared in the winter of 1900, and no one knows with certainty what become of him. But the following spring. when the snow melted away, a body was found in the cemetery, decayed beyond recognition.”
Poor fellow! Perhaps it was he; perhaps he fell asleep during one of his daily visits and was covered with snow. No one in our town knew where he came from, and no one knows where he went to.
The Call
A clear, frosty winter’s night, and a small village fast asleep. The moon floats serenely in a clear blue sky and throws a pallid light upon the small, bent wooden shanties. Only the chimney of the one large factory of the village, and the steeple of the church, penetrate the sky, and raise black shadows.
Below the thousands of twinkling stars the frozen snow crystals return myriads of beams that shimmer and shiver in the air, which is cold and rigid. There is no move-
ment. The wooden shanties bend to the ground, asleep, perhaps dreaming, and black darkness looks out of their windows.
From one of the windows a weak, trembling light makes its way into the darkness. A stifled, whimpering voice is heard, that of a sick child, waking and crying. Then one hears the regular tap of the cradle, which moves with a monotonous beat. The voice is finally hushed, and the clatter of the cradle ceases.
Once more the Night reigns supreme, and, closely within its embrace, the World is silent, as if afraid to speak in the presence of the beautiful Queen of the Night.
Only the impudent Town-clock is not awed by the silence. Every quarter of an hour he announces, in a brief laconic report, the time of night, how late it is, how long the Night will be mistress of the World.
The Town-clock is known as an impudent instrument. Pure reason created him, and gave him his weapons: twelve figures, two hands and a bell. "You cover your eyes; you do not wish to see,—then hear!"
—Clang!...Clang!...It has struck four.
But the Night does not seem to understand the Town-clock's language, and as if she were convinced that she will reign forever, she covers the World with a silent, mystical mantle.
The people of the village have been fast asleep, in a deep, after-midnight sleep. They rest their weary limbs on what ever resting p:ace they can secure. The young people are asleep on half-broken beds, and they lie close together in order to warm up their cold limbs. The old people shiver over the cooling ovens. In the Jewish homes, the ovens are deserted, but before it, huddled and pressed together, like goods packed in a case, in -curious sleep-benches, hands and feet interwoven, are to be seen a few small, pale childish faces peeping out, and skull- caps are thrown about. But all the faces, in the beds and on the ovens, in Jewish as well as in Christian homes, a strange contentment rules, and through their noses they snore out a sort of song of praise to the Good and Merciful Creator who has created