The Shamir
IT was the Friday morning immediately after Passover, and the house of Rav Schmool was basking peacefully in the morning sunshine. His wife, the rebbitzin, was gone into the Lane to purchase the fish which, later in the morning, she was to stew and fry,- not according to ritual, but, what is of importance, according to custom. His daughter, the only other person resident in the house, was taking her class in the Board school in the Commercial Road; the charwoman not being expected until early in the afternoon, it fell out that this Friday morning, Dr. Samuel Ludwiki better known to the neighborhood at large as 'rav Schmool,' was busy writing in his study.
For some time he sat at his desk covering sheet after sheet of foolscap with his close, crabbed writing; but at length he put down his pen, and gazing complacently at his work, "I think that will do for Kalkowsky," he murmured to himself, stroking his long beard in obvious good humour. "Yes, I hardly think his theory has a leg to stand on."
"Well! I wish you'd get on yours and help me out!" interjected, not very elegantly, a shrill voice from the neighborhood of a pile of books on the tomestrewn floor.
The rabbi's hand fell. The house, as he well knew, was perfectly empty. Then whence this remarkable and inexplicable exclamation? Who could it be, asking his assistance? Someone was, apparently, in his study, but how in the world did they get there without his knowledge? and supposing, that, by some superhuman (as it seemed to the rabbi) feat, they had got in, where could they be concealed?—for the small room, completely walled round with books as it was, offered not the least crack or cranny as hiding-place. These were some of the thoughts that, in the briefest imaginable time, ran through the old man's mind. But he had scarcely time to formulate them, and allow an idea
to become an opinion, when, a moment later, his eye caught sight of a tower of books in the far corner, swaying like a willow in a gale, and then, almost immediately a large volume of Avicenna toppled, balanced, and fell with a heavy thud into the middle of the room.
Readers with book-becrowded library floors will recollect that, under such circumstances, this is not a very exceptional occurence and in the rav's study it was so frequent, that after but a second's hesitation, he took up his pen to go on writing, quite- or almost- persuaded that he had overheard voices in the street without, when, without the least warning, the folio of the Arabian Philosopher's works flew open, and at the same instant, something alighted on his desk; actually, indeed, on his manuscript, as he could feel by its trembling.
The rabbi was really alarmed by this time and was looking around for a hammer, or heavy book, with which to crush the small, barley-corn-like thing lying on the paper before him, when he heard the same voice which had previously cried out, addressing him no less flippantly.
"For a philosopher and a student of the Talmud, you seem a trifle dense," it remarked. "Here am I, have been shut up in that Avicenna ever since it was published in 1648 and in this room itself for the last three years, without your being any the wiser, and although I have called, and tried to make you hear every day, I have not until this moment, succeeded. Oho!" and it rolled over sorrowfully.
"My dear Sir," began the rabbi; and then paused. What was he to say? and who could he be talking to?
"Well? Don't 'dear Sir' me, for I won't have it. I have been shut up quite long enough, too and now I intend to have a fine, gay time, in spite of your long face and grave airs. What have you to say now, eh?" and it turned a somersault on the paper.
"If you gave me some explanation,"