Chapter I: Was Left Behind, Gazing Out of the Window at the (5)

At last he had drifted, he hardly knew how, into Massachusetts and had entered the little town of Atbury. Hope had almost left him, and grim thoughts of suicide filled his mind while he wandered aimlessly through the neat and well-kept streets of the town. In the course of his wanderings he saw a wooden building, upon the front of which a large sign proclaimed that within was a carpenter shop, and that the owner’s name was Thomas Jones. Mechanically Isaac entered the large open doorway on his usual quest. He had no anticipation of success; and when Mr. Jones, who was a handsome middle-aged man of typical Yankee appearance and very brusque and short-spoken, returned the usual answer to his timid query, he turned to go away with a sinking heart, in which the dull pain was not perceptibly keener than it had previously been.

But this time an unprecedented incident occurred. A pretty little blond-haired, blue-eyed girl, a mere tot, was standing next to the proprietor when the stranger entered the shop, and she gazed at his handsome though careworn features while he made his pitiable appeal for work, with an expression of evident liking, mingled with sympathy and pity. When he turned to depart, surprise and sorrow showed themselves plainly in the face of the child; and turning to her father—as you have, no doubt, already guessed, sweet reader, it was Alice, Thomas Jones’s only and dearly beloved child—she said: “Why, aren’t you going to give the poor man work, papa? Just see how sad he looks. Don’t let him go.”

“Do you want me to keep him, little one?” asked the father, gazing at the pleading face of his little daughter with amused parental fondness.

“Yes I do, papa,” said Alice. “I think he is a very good man and I want you to keep him.”

“Well,” said Thomas Jones, “for your sake I’ll give him a chance.”

NOTHING PLEASED THEM BETTER THAN A “HORSEY-BACK” RIDE

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Isaac was not yet out of the shop and the loud voice of the master carpenter at once brought him back. He speedily demonstrated his ability in his trade and was retained, his employer impressing upon him that it was the intercession of the little girl which had given him his opportunity. Isaac bowed low before the child with reverential gratitude and imprinted upon her tiny hand a grateful kiss. Thus began their friendship, and it became very warm and sincere indeed. Alice took naturally to the broadshouldered, pleasant-faced young foreigner; and Isaac, who was not only deeply grateful to the child for having steered the almost shipwrecked vessel of his life into the safe harbor of employment and bread, but was also thoroughly social and companionable by disposition, did all in his power to amuse and entertain his young benefactor. They were not allowed to meet during work hours, for Father Jones, though a loving and indulgent parent, was a strict and uncompromising task-master, and would tolerate no unbusiness-like interruptions during the time allotted to work; but during the noonday intermission for meals, when Alice would seek Isaac in whatever part of the town he happened to be employed after the close of work in the late afternoon, when Isaac returned to his master’s house where was his home, they were sure to be together, and would romp and “carry on” to their heart’s content. Nothing pleased them better than a “horsey-back” ride, when Isaac would act as the fiery though remarkably docile steed, and Alice rode her mount in greater security than the most practised equestrienne. Isaac would trot and gallop, and pace and paw, and prance and snort, and whinny and neigh, like the very war-horse of Job, all the time holding his little rider in a firm and loving grasp; while Alice, with streaming locks and flashing eyes, would cry “Gee-up!” and “Whoa!” and pull his hair for reins and belabor his shoulders with her tiny fists, according to the most approved rules of the equestrian art. There were plenty of other forms of amusement as well. Sometimes they would play “blind-man’s buff,” when Isaac would begin the game by permitting himself to be tightly bandaged across the eyes, and would then grope around the room in an endeavor to catch Alice. But somehow or other he was always very clumsy in this game; and Alice never had the least trouble to avoid his aimless reachings out, and would enjoy herself highly, slipping in and out right in front of his very face and touching him on all sides. And when finally his hand would land on Alice, apparently by accident, and capture her, and it would be her turn to submit to be bandaged and to try to capture him, he seemed even clumsier in his movements. He never seemed to know how to evade the “blind man,” but was continually getting in the way; and in two or three minutes at the utmost, Alice’s tiny hands would seize him in their firm grasp, and her shrill cry of triumph would proclaim that he was a prisoner. He also taught Alice some queer Russian games, which were a source of never-failing amazement and amusement (about equally divided) to all the boys and girls in the neighborhood. Then sometimes on a holiday, or when work happened to be slack, they would go out together berrying, and would come home with big canfuls of blackberries, or blueberries, or huckleberries, or raspberries, or some of the other sorts of berries which grew at the roadsides or in the fields, Alice looking very happy, and Isaac rather tired and scratched about the hands; for it was an open secret that while Alice had most of the fun, Isaac had most of the trouble, and worked his very hardest to fill the can with the ripest and finest berries that could be found, so that the expedition should be properly fruitful of results. In these and a hundred other ways Isaac endeavored to please his employer’s little daughter, and his efforts were highly successful, so successful, indeed, that the child grew to look upon him with warm affection, and was never so happy as when in his company.

Nor was Alice the only one who regarded Isaac with affection. Her parents were almost equally warm in their sentiments. Thomas Jones thought much of him because he was a thorough master of his trade, tremendously strong, and absolutely faithful and reliable. Any task assigned to him, however arduous, was always performed with scrupulous exactness and conscientiousness, and no complaint or objection ever escaped his lips. Mrs. Jones liked him because he was sober, polite, and cleanly in his habits, and because he took such pains to please and amuse her little daughter. To be sure, there were some points about him which they did not exactly like, but his many good qualities counterbalanced these defects. One of these points was that he would not labor on the Sabbath or Jewish holidays. This difficulty had arisen the very first week of his employment, but the superior character of his work had induced Mr. Jones then to retain him, and afterward he had grown accustomed to dispensing with the services of Isaac on Saturdays or on any other day when he declared the rules of his religion required abstention from labor. Another matter which seemed very peculiar to both Mr. and Mrs. Jones was that, although Isaac boarded with them, he never ate flesh in any form and refused to partake of many other dishes which appeared on their table. But, as the Joneses were kind-hearted and tolerant people, and had besides a genuine liking for Isaac, they overlooked these matters, and, if they reflected on them at all, merely thought them the natural result of his religious views.

Many were the arguments which the Joneses had with some of their neighbors on account of Isaac and the peculiar position which he occupied in their household. Bigotry and narrow-mindedness are not unknown even in free America, where, theoretically, a man’s race and religion should have no influence, favorable or unfavorable, upon the opinion which is held concerning him, and where, if anywhere, the principle enunciated by the rabbis in the Talmud should prevail—“Thy deeds shall recommend thee, thy deeds shall condemn thee.” Some of the good Christian people of Atbury, who thought, like Sancho Panza, that the most essential characteristic of a Christian was a sound hatred of the Jews, could not conceal their amazement, nay, their righteous indignation, that a Jew should be a favored member of a Christian household, and, worse yet, the trusted friend and companion of a little Christian maiden.

“How can you permit an unbeliever to dwell in your home?” they would say, with much show of holy horror. “Aren’t you afraid that in course of time he may seduce you or your little daughter, with specious reasoning, away from the true faith, and lead you into the error of Judaism?” But the Joneses would only laugh at these pious apprehensions and answer that Isaac never spoke to them on religious subjects; that, while he was undoubtedly sincerely religious in his own way, he never obtruded his views on others; and that, in fact, it would not have been a bad thing if some people whom they knew would have imitated him in this particular.

The neighbors would then try another tack, in which they hoped to be more successful. “How can you trust Alice to such a person?” they would ask, with the solemn air of those who warn friends against impending dangers which they are rashly incurring. “Aren’t you afraid that he may do her some harm? You never can tell what such a Jew might do. Why, in some parts of Europe they even accuse them of slaying Christian children in order to use their blood for the Passover. It isn’t safe to leave Alice in his charge.”

But when they came with this argument they received a fitting response, which was not lacking either in clearness or emphasis. The Joneses, particularly Mrs. Jones, told them that they might be at better business than calumniating one of whom they knew no evil; that Isaac was the kindest, best-hearted, most devoted fellow in the world; that he was deeply grateful to Alice because she had been the means of saving him from starvation, and, as for her being in any danger at his hands, why they, the Joneses, were convinced that he would at any time be ready to give his life rather than see a hair of her head harmed.

Sooner than any one anticipated the opportunity came which demonstrated that Isaac was indeed ready to lay down his life to save his little friend from harm. A few days after an unusually warm debate of the kind outlined above between Thomas Jones and an especially zealous neighbor, who had warned Isaac’s employer that all kinds of dreadful things would certainly happen if this unholy friendship were permitted to continue, Jones summoned Isaac to him. “Come here, you Jew!” he said half jocularly, half angrily, for the remembrance of the uncharitable words of his officious neighbor was still strong in him. “I want to show you what I think of you.” Isaac at once advanced and waited with deferential air for the further words of his employer. “I’ve got a job in the outskirts of the town,” continued Jones, gazing with satisfaction at the brawny figure and submissive attitude of his most reliable workman, “and, as I can’t spare any men from the other work, I’m going to put the whole thing in your hands. There’s a little cottage on the Prentice place that’s got to be jacked up to make room for the masons to build a new foundation, and then all the board work and carpentering generally must be renovated and fixed up. I’ve sent up all the necessary wood already, so you can go right up and attend to the whole job alone. When you get there you can see for yourself what is to be done, and if you don’t understand anything, why, just ask old man Prentice, and he’ll tell you what to do.”

Isaac picked up his box of tools and was about to depart when little Alice, who had been listening to the words of her father, skipped up and, laying her hand on Isaac’s arm, asked eagerly: “Won’t you take me along, Isaac? I want to be with you when you’re doing the work.”

“Ask your papa, Alice,” said Isaac, smiling pleasantly at his little friend. “If he will let you go, then I’ll be glad to take you.”

Alice did not need to ask her father, for the latter, without giving her the opportunity to speak, at once gave her the desired permission. “Yes, indeed, you can go with Isaac,” he said, with rather more emphasis than was apparently necessary. “I’ll just show those numbskull bigot neighbors of mine what I think of their fanatical suspicions and insinuations. Just trot along, little one, and I wish you lots of pleasure seeing Isaac at work.”

Thus duly authorized and permitted, Isaac and Alice went off together to the scene of his solitary task, which they reached in about half an hour. The Prentice place was a little farm of two or three acres, in the centre of which stood the cottage. It was not a very large structure, but Isaac’s practised eye at once perceived that his employer had set him a task sufficient to try the strength of three men. Old man Prentice was of the same opinion, and very emphatically expressed his dissatisfaction that Jones had sent only one man to do the work of three. Nothing daunted, however, Isaac at once set about the performance of his task. The first thing to do was to lift the structure, which was done by means of appliances called jacks. Isaac inserted one of the jacks under each of the four corners of the house and screwed it up until that part of the building was elevated to the desired height. In the mean while Alice stood near her favorite and watched him at his arduous task, chatting and prattling all the while with the careless innocence of childhood; and Isaac, though engrossed in his labor, did not fail to answer her childish queries, and kept his little friend interested and amused. All went well until Isaac came to the fourth and last corner and proceeded to jack it up as he had done the others. Here, by some miscalculation, he raised the corner a foot or so more than was necessary. At once the frame structure began to careen. Isaac instantly perceived that the building would certainly topple to the ground, and a pang of agony shot through his heart as he thought of the loss which his mistake, unaccountable even to himself, would cause. His next thought was to save himself from harm; but, as he turned to flee from under the falling structure, what horrible sight met his eyes! Little Alice, petrified apparently by fright, was standing motionless under the tottering building. A sickening picture flashed up instantly before his mental retina of her little body lying crushed and bleeding under the ruins of the building, its life crushed out by the overwhelming weight. How could he save her? She was too far away for him to seize her and flee with her to safety, neither would it avail aught to shout to her to flee. Before she could have recovered control of her faculties and impelled her limbs to motion, the blow would have fallen and all would be over. There was but one way to save Alice, and, though Isaac knew it meant almost certain death for himself, he instantly determined to do it. Placing his powerful shoulders under the tilting woodwork, he shouted in a great and terrible voice to Alice to run—run for her life. For a minute or so he stood, like fabled Atlas upholding the world, supporting with his tremendous strength the falling structure, while his muscles stood out like whipcords and the sweat of agony poured all over his body. In that minute Alice recovered herself and toddled out of harm’s way. A second later the heavy framework crushed out the man’s strength and bore him to the ground with a sickening thud, while the harsh crackling of the beams and boards as they were torn from their fastenings mingled with his awful shriek. He did not need to lie there long. Poor little Alice, with an intelligence beyond her years, ran to seek help from the neighbors; but her frenzied efforts were not necessary. The frightful crash of the falling building and the fierce, agonized shriek of the stricken victim had aroused all the neighborhood, and from all sides assistance speedily came. The united efforts of old man Prentice and a number of laborers who hastened from a neighboring field speedily succeeded in removing the mass of beams and boards and odds and ends of woodwork from the body of Isaac, and tenderly they laid him upon a temporary couch formed of their coats. He was crushed and maimed and bloody, every limb broken, and his features disfigured almost beyond recognition, but he was conscious and a happy smile played upon his face when he saw that Alice had escaped all injury and was safe and sound.

“Come to me, little darling,” he said, in barely audible tones, gazing wistfully at the child-friend for whom he had given his life; “come and bid me good-bye, for I feel that I must go. I do not complain because God is calling me away, but I am glad your young life is spared to be a joy to yourself and your dear parents for many years to come.” And his young friend, with strangely grave and solemn face, went to her dying protector and clasped his hand and kissed his blood-stained and distorted features, and called him her own dear Isaac, and begged him not to die, while the strong men who stood around bowed their heads in reverent sorrow and silently wept. Then they bore him home, and Alice’s parents, when they heard the story of what he had done, knew not of which feeling their hearts were fuller—of gratitude that their darling daughter was safe or of admiration for the pure and self-sacrificing friendship which Isaac had so heroically displayed and sorrow for his untimely end. He had relapsed into semi-consciousness and lay for several hours without speaking on his couch. Then he stirred uneasily and feebly beckoned to his employer, indicating that he desired to communicate something to him. Thomas Jones, who had not left the room since first Isaac had been brought home, at once went to the bedside, and putting his ear to the mouth of the dying man, heard him say in a feeble voice: “Dear master, promise me one favor. I die a Jew. Have me laid away among my people.”

And Thomas Jones answered: “Isaac, I promise.”

A look of infinite content and gratitude lit up Isaac’s face. Then, rising slightly on his side, he recited in Hebrew, in a clear though feeble voice, the words of the Jewish ritual for the dying: “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one. Blessed be the glorious name of Thy kingdom for ever and ever. Into Thy hands I deliver my spirit. Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord, God of truth.” And so he passed away.

Every year, on the anniversary of Isaac’s death, Alice, now a maiden ripening into womanhood, visits Isaac’s grave in the Jewish cemetery in Boston in which he rests; and if sincere tears and true sorrow are acceptable in the sight of God, then is her offering indeed acceptable and holy.

THE SCISSORS-GRINDER

“Scissors to grind! Knives, axes, or saws to sharpen! Everything made as sharp as new!” This is the cry, uttered in a clear and cheerful voice, which is frequently heard in the alleys and back yards as well as the streets and avenues of that vast and densely populated section of the American metropolis known as the great East Side. The man who utters it is an unusually agreeable, as well as active and energetic, representative of the classic trade of scissors-grinding. He is a pleasant-faced, good-humored young fellow, with light-brown hair and rounded, open countenance, from which a pair of bright blue eyes gaze at you with a frank and sympathetic expression. His shabby clothes hang most gracefully on his lithe and erect, not over tall figure; his motions have a sort of trained elegance about them, and when he stands before you with his grinding machine on his back, he seems not so much an humble sharpener of domestic utensils, but rather some strange sort of soldier, and the machine upon his back some peculiar and unusual engine of warfare. He is very well liked in the entire district, and his popularity brings in sufficient trade to insure him a very fair living. When his clear and musical cry is heard anywhere in the neighborhood, the customers pour forth from the many-storied tenements, the cellar dwellings (I had almost written cave dwellings, which term would hardly have rendered me liable to a suit for libel if I had used it), and the little shops and stalls which abound everywhere in the vicinity. Soon he is surrounded by a motley throng—Jews, Italians, Poles, Bohemians, men, women, and children, all sorts and conditions of mankind—who bring him a miscellaneous collection of invalid table knives, dilapidated carving knives, superannuated scissors, and antediluvian saws, all of which he is expected to heal and to restore to their pristine brightness and sharpness.

THE SCISSORS GRINDER

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But, though our friend is well known and popular in the district, he is nevertheless unknown. By this paradoxical statement is meant that, although the scissors-grinder is personally a familiar and well-esteemed figure, nothing is known by the vast bulk of his constituents and customers of his connections, his history, or his antecedents. This is nothing strange or unusual in that section. People are not, as a rule, curious concerning each other on the East Side. The inhabitants are mostly not native to the soil, but are a chance aggregation from all the countries of the civilized world, driven from their native habitats by the storm and stress of harsh experiences and brought together in the New World by the glittering attractions of the Golden Land. It is not always advisable under such circumstances to be over-inquisitive concerning the past history of one’s neighbors and friends, and therefore the dwellers on the East Side are discreetly devoid of curiosity, and are quite content if the people with whom they associate are, in their present stage of life, decent and well behaved. That is why no one knows (or knew until recently) anything about the scissors-grinder—his history, his family, or even his name. Nevertheless his story came out some time ago, and it proved to be, what no one would have anticipated from the scissors-grinder’s blithe and pleasant appearance, a real moral tragedy, a tale of blind, mediæval oppression, of high ambition suddenly blasted, of strange and sublime heroism. It came out through Mendel Greenberger.

Mendel, who keeps a little optician shop in Orchard Street near Grand, is considerable of a character himself, and, unlike the majority of the denizens of the region, is gifted with a lively curiosity concerning the persons with whom he comes in contact. Mendel has travelled pretty much all over the world, and has acquired in the course of his wanderings the knowledge of a dozen or more languages and of at least three trades. But what he most prides himself on is his _menschenkenntniss_, that is, his ability to recognize at a glance the origin of strangers whom he sees for the first time, and to classify them according to the racial, religious, and social elements or subdivisions thereof to which they belong. This he infers from the appearance, conduct, and speech of the individuals concerned, and, in particularly interesting cases, he manages to have them reveal their names and other personal details of interest, but without asking direct questions, which he thinks impertinent.

When the scissors-grinder began to come into the neighborhood and Mendel began to give him employment in his vocation, he at once recognized that here was an interesting and extremely puzzling personality. It was a real problem of the kind Mendel Greenberger loved to solve, but it defied his powers of analysis and classification. For the life of him he could not make out who or what the handsome, pleasant-spoken young man, with the lowly trade apparently so unsuited for him, was. His type was absolutely non-distinctive. As far as appearance went there was no telling whether he was Jew or Gentile, and no reason to assign him to any one European nation rather than another. His conduct and manner were just as little guide, for, though polite and manifestly well-bred, he had no mannerisms of any kind. Baffled by his inability to “locate” his new acquaintance by these usually infallible indications, Mendel resorted to the expedient of addressing him in various languages. But here Mendel “tripped up,” so to speak, even more emphatically than before. The scissors-grinder spoke, with one exception, every European language which Mendel did, but with superior accent and correcter grammar. His English was that of one to the manner born, though devoid of either Cockney accent or Yankee twang; his French would have done credit to any _boulevardier_; his German was as faultlessly exact in construction and pronunciation as that of any compatriot of Goethe or Schiller; and as for Italian, Spanish, Russian, Polish, and Hungarian, to say nothing of the minor tongues, Bohemian, Roumanian, Servian, Greek, Turkish, he spoke them all with perfect ease and fluency. It mattered not in what tongue the puzzled Mendel addressed him, the scissors-grinder always answered in the same, but without betraying any surprise and as though it were the natural and to-be-expected thing to speak any and every idiom in existence. But, as already stated, there was one exception to the polyglot ability of the scissors-grinder. He did not know Yiddish, for when Mendel addressed him in that tongue, he did not understand him well and answered in German, the tongue most nearly related to the dialect of the Jews of the Slavonic lands, and without using any Hebrew words or phrases with which even the German Jews habitually interlard their speech. Mendel had to confess to himself that the scissors-grinder was an enigma, which even he, with his great knowledge of human beings, could not solve. Of two things, however, he felt certain: first, that the scissors-grinder was originally of far higher social station than his humble vocation would suggest, for his manners and bearing, and, above all, his extraordinary linguistic attainments, were only explainable on the ground of refined surroundings and the best of education; secondly, that he was no Jew, for his ignorance of Yiddish and Hebrew and his manifest unfamiliarity with Jewish ideas and usages showed conclusively that he had had no Jewish bringing up nor had ever associated intimately with Jewish circles.

Mendel at first conjectured that the scissors-grinder was a nobleman of some European nation, who had been compelled to leave his native land for a political or other reason, and was obliged to support himself by his own labor in exile. Noblemen in exile do not, however, usually select a vocation requiring as much skill and industry and withal so low in the social scale as scissors-grinding, so on second thought Mendel abandoned this conjecture as untenable, and, not being able to set up any more satisfactory one, found himself, as far as this question was concerned, _vis à vis de rien_. Not feeling able to remain in this condition, he cast about for other means of solving the problem and gratifying his curiosity. He determined to ask the scissors-grinder’s name. Names, it is true, may be assumed, but Mendel thought that even an assumed name would be some sort of clew to its bearer’s identity, for it would, at least, indicate to what nation or class the bearer considered himself and desired to have others consider him as belonging. Accordingly when next the scissors-grinder appeared in the neighborhood of Mendel’s shop and was bringing back finely renovated the penknife which Mendel had given him to sharpen, the latter remarked: “Fine weather we are having to-day, Mr. ——!” and paused with expectant air.

“My name,” said the scissors-grinder quietly, “is Eliezer Schwartzfeld.”

Mendel gazed at him in undisguised astonishment. “That sounds extremely Jewish,” he said. “You are not one of the chosen people, are you?”

“Yes, I am a Jew,” answered the scissors-grinder, with just a suggestion of a smile at Mendel’s evident surprise; “a Russian Jew at that, too.”

Mendel’s astonishment increased to a degree that was absolutely comical. Here was an utterly inexplicable case. It was not that the scissors-grinder’s physiognomy did not contain a feature that suggested the Semite—that was common enough, especially among Russian Jews; but what might be called the psychology of the case was utterly baffling to Mendel. He had often met Jews that were well educated and spoke a number of languages with fluency, but in all his experience he had never come across one who had not at least some, however slight, acquaintance with the Jewish mother tongues, Yiddish or Hebrew. He had frequently come in contact with Jews, well and gently reared in their native lands, who had been forced by adverse circumstances to earn their bread by humble labor in America; but they had invariably found employment in some one of the so-called “Jewish” branches of industry, tailoring, cloak-making, cigar-packing, or the like, which open at least the door to a future as an independent manufacturer or merchant. But something so plebeian and hopeless as scissors-grinding, and embraced, too, by a man of evident refinement—why, that was utterly anomalous, unheard of! He gazed at the scissors-grinder without uttering a word, but with eyes which told unmistakably their tale of amazement.

“You are surprised,” said the latter, “I suppose, because I, though a Jew, do not speak Yiddish, and because I found nothing better to do than to sharpen scissors and knives. Let me tell you my story and you will wonder no longer. I can recollect very little of my earliest childhood. My mother must have died, I think, when I was hardly more than an infant, for all I can recollect of her is a picture, very dim and faint, of a sweet, motherly face bending over me and of a tender, loving voice calling me darling and dove. My father, too, must have left this earth when I was only about four or five years of age. My memories of him, too, are few and indistinct. I can recall that I was a very small child in charge of an old, cross-tempered woman, a Jewess, I think, who treated me with a strange alternation of cruelty and kindness. My father used to visit me at rare intervals in this place, and bring me sweetmeats and little presents, and I can remember that on these occasions he was always dressed in a brilliant uniform, which filled my childish heart with admiration and awe. My most distinct recollection concerning my father is of the circumstances attending his death. He was brought to the house one day with blood-stained bandages around his head and breast and with face ghastly pale. They laid him upon a couch, and for several days physicians came to treat him, and men dressed in even brighter and finer uniforms than his came to visit him, and some of them chucked me under the chin and called me a fine little fellow. Then one day he called me to his bedside and said to me, in such a faint voice that I had to put my ear to his mouth in order to catch his words: ‘Eliezer, my darling boy, I am going to die and must leave you alone in the world. But I have spoken to good people, and they have promised me to care for you and to see that you are educated to become what your father was—a soldier—but a higher and nobler one than he could be. Always be good and honorable in all your doings, and above all, my son, never forget, wherever you may be or whatever you may become, that you are a Jew, as your father was, and never permit anything to swerve you from your faithfulness to the holy traditions of our religion and people.’ Then he kissed me on my brow, and, child though I was, I knew that something dreadful was going to happen, and burst forth into an agony of bitter weeping that shook my little frame convulsively. That same night he died, and the day after the next he was taken away in the midst of a great concourse of people, among whom were many Jewish men and women whom I knew not, and who wept and cried aloud as they accompanied the funeral procession. There was also a long line of soldiers, who marched with flags draped and guns reversed, and in front of whom went musicians and drummers with crape-covered drums, who played together a sad, funereal strain as they marched. I was left behind, gazing out of the window at the funeral procession as long as it was in sight, weeping as though my very heart would break and feeling that I was left all alone now in the world, without friend, protector, or well-wisher. But the same afternoon a kindly spoken, friendly looking officer, attired in a brilliant uniform, came to my lodgings, told the old woman who had charge of me that he was Col. Ivan Mentchikoff, and that he had been appointed legal guardian of Corporal Schwartzfeld’s son and had come to take me away. I noticed that the old woman did not seem satisfied, and grumbled something to herself with a discontented air, but she did not audibly object, but took the money which the colonel offered her. She then packed together my little belongings, carried them down to the carriage which was waiting at the door, and the colonel and I entered and drove off to the railroad station, whence we left for the colonel’s home, which was in the town of Yellisavetgrad, many miles away. I remained with the family of the colonel for eight or nine years. I was treated with the utmost kindness—in fact, in all regards, except one, exactly like the children of the family. Colonel Mentchikoff was very particular in regard to the education of his children. He kept the best of private tutors for all subjects, and was especially insistent that they should learn all the chief European languages, a knowledge of which, he declared, was essential to a Russian gentleman. I had, of course, the advantage of all this, the same as all the others, and I quickly discovered that I had a special linguistic talent, and, while I easily kept pace with the Mentchikoff boys and girls in all the subjects of instruction generally, as regards the acquisition of languages I was so superior that I could not be compared with them at all. It was no trouble at all to me to acquire a new language; the forms seemed to impress themselves naturally on my mind, and my memory retained with the greatest ease the multitudes of new terms and expressions which each tongue presented.