The Maccabaean

Jewish Nationalism would be meaningless if it were confined to their native country. They cultivate Jewish Nationalism because they feel that they belong to the Jewish nation which is dispersed throughout the globe. And they show their consistency by attaching themselves to the Zionist Organization which is working for the restoration of the Jewish Nationality in the ancient land of the Jewish people. If the

Ottoman Jews accept the advice of Mr. Zangwill to preserve their Jewish Nationalism they too will perceive that this can only assume its real sense and value by manifesting solidarity with the nationally conscious of the Jewish people in the rest of the world. And as they can help in a special manner to realize the national ideal of their people it is hoped that they will use their privilege worthily and wisely.

WHEN I was a little fellow, I envied King Ahashveros. Not him who lorded it over one hundred and twenty-seven provinces, from Idumea to Kush, but the Ahashveros who was impersonated by our good friend Kopl the Tailor, in a company of Purim players.

And I was also envious of Mordecai, who ranked next to the King, played by Labl the shoemaker, with a flaxen beard and his coat turned inside out; and then Queen Vashti (Motl the carpenter) whose dress was always drawn over a coat and whose beard was hidden under a kerchief to disguise his sex; and there was beautiful Queen Esther (the Shammos) who wore a green apron as a token of royalty; and I must not forget to mention the villainous Haman who always carried a stone on his head.

But above all I envied Fivl the Orphan who appeared in a red shirt as Pious Joseph when the actors produced the "Sale of Joseph." In this drama the brothers would strip Joseph's shirt from his back and throw him into the lion's den. Whereupon little Joseph, that is Fivl, would raise himself on his knees, clasp his hands together and, imploring the angry beasts not to harm him, proceed to sing a song the words and music of which were pathetic in the extreme. And though Fivl was an orphan, a poor little fellow living from hand to mouth, and I a rich man's son, the grandson of Reb Meier, I would have exchanged places with him willingly, if only for Purim.

could be found peering through the window from early morning, watching and waiting for the company of players, whose custom it was to march from house to house followed by a noisy crowd of boys who tagged at their heels in the snow. Being the son of my father, the grandson of Reb Meier, I was denied such freedom, and was kept in the company of grown up people from morning to night, and on Purim had no other fun except that of going to the feast, which my grandfather prepared in honor of Purim, with my father and all my uncles and aunts and cousins.

As we were walking over to grandfather's my father remonstrated, "Why do you hang back so, as restless as a gypsy?" In the distance I saw a group of ragamuf- fins who were watching for the Purim Players.

"He sees the players!" exclaimed my cousin Moses, though he, too, would have been delighted to be in their company.

"Walk ahead there, go!" Reb Itze, my tutor, insisted, prodding me in the small of the back maliciously.

I lowered my eyes and bravely kept up with the rest of the company, deep in gloomy reflections. "Always to be with the grown up folks; always with Reb Itze; mornings, evenings, sabbaths and holidays; always followed by Reb Itze's red nose, which he jams full of snuff, the tyrant; wish't he'd drop dead on the spot!"

II

My grandfather was the richest man in town. In his large dining room, illumined by large silver candlesticks hanging from