The Maccabaean

I.

IN the center of the market place of a small Russian town lay an old Log, slowly rotting away. From all appearances it was as dead as, one might say, a door nail. But on a quiet Summer evening, when the moon and the stars are napping behind a cloud, the old witch, Hocus Pocus, brings the old Log to life again with incantations and magic.

It is said that there is an old Log in Egypt which rises every morning with the Sun, and gives voice to most wonderful music when the Sun prepares to retire.

But the Log I am speaking of does not sing. It is a teller of tales.. What I know of the little half-buried Russian town was told to me by my friend, the Log, who becomes very communicative when all is quiet in his vicinity. He usually begins his stories with himself. He is a natural artist in this, for all good stories must begin with oneself; the divine center of every being is himself, and the rest of the world merely circles about him.

My friend, the Log, was once a strong tree, rearing his head in a dense forest. His roots forced their way deep into the ground and his branches penetrated the skies. But he aspired to be above all his fellows. He pushed his branches upward, above the forest, until it seemed to him that just one more stretch and the saucer of the world, the sky, would drop upon his crest and crown him with a halo. He lived well in the Forest. He had a thousand leaves or more that drank in the air. He had many roots to gather up sap and salt to give him strength. And for diversion, there were bird concerts in his branches and the clouds went through evolutions and dances in the heavens. He heard symphonies and operas, and when the clouds were driven about by the wind they formed pictures.

That was in the Summer. When Winter came the tree was covered with a white mantle and fell into a doze. He dreamed of a world beyond him. And once, while thus asleep, he heard a heavy thud—"truk-truk"—and muttered in his sleep, "Is this thunder or an ax in my side? Is it I or my neighbor? But before he could tell, he was stretched out at length on the snow.

He swooned, and slept and dreamed. In his sleep he felt that he was lost; that a new life was about to open before him. He felt that he would never again live in his forest or thrive among his fellows, but would be compelled to live amid alien surroundings forever.

Was it a dream? He dreamed that he had become the mast of a ship and scudded along with the sea monster on the great ocean. He beheld the world in all its splendor. He never saw his Forest, but never forgot it, and when he neared the shore he—now the mast—bowed and greeted his old home.. And the wind brought the scent of leaves, the perfume of flowers, and on board the ship there was a caged bird that sang. Thus he dreamed, while the ax of the Forest Despoiler tore into his sides, cutting the fiber. He mused: Other trees had been cut down, broken into kindling wood and burned to ashes, and their ashes had been scattered to the four corners of the world—but he would become a mast.

When he recovered he was a beam built into a house, suffocating in the darkness. He swooned away again and fell into a dreamless, hopeless sleep that had no comfort in it.

And so he slept—was it a century or more?—until he found himself again disturbed by a blow, and was immersed in a sea of fire, and there were flames about him, and tongues of fire licked him. "This is my death," he thought; "I am now in hell." The house was afire.

And the world rolled on. The erstwhile tree soon lumbered the road where the market place had been set up, and he lay there, rotting. But even in his decay the days of his usefulness were not over. It was he that gave sustenance to the wood-house. Servants wrenched large pieces from his sides, and the town clerk used him for toothpicks. When a peddler or beggar came to the town and found no lodging, the Log was his couch. And the night watchman stretched himself out on the Log and passed the night on his bosom.

II.

A bright Summer morning.

You hear laughter and snatches of song, shrieks and cries. It is the children, who rush out of doors, half naked, chewing voraciously large pieces of bread. They gather about the Log.

With them play is an imitation of the life their fathers and mothers live.

As bride and bridegroom they ride on sticks to the wedding ceremony. They kiss in secret and exchange presents. If the bride is displeased with the value of the presents a pebble is added, a piece of glass, green or blue, or another chicken feather.. And if the presents are not sufficient, you have a case for the Beth Din and there are arguments and fines.

As man and wife they quarrel and scold, and when they have finished with each other, they turn to the children and scold them—the children of wood and rags. And what if the children will not obey, will not study, will not be pious, will not wash their hands before breakfast? When the children are so unruly, in they disgust they turn and play store.

They are busy selling at various prices. The vendor exclaims: "See what heavy expenses we have! There is license fee, bribe money, pay for the Hebrew teacher, rent, and then to marry off the children—just think of that!" And they haggle and bargain with such earnestness that the Log is much concerned.

A funeral! A cat's funeral! Did it die or was it murdered?

And as the funeral procession is about to turn the corner, the watchman comes up and the children scatter.

At noon the Log is occupied by young matrons, with a mixture of waifs. When the weather is pleasant, they wear white jackets and colored handkerchiefs about their necks. They do not like to be accused of frittering away their time, so they bring their knitting with them, and thus between labor and gossip they pass a pleasant hour.