ee them starve on the
way. Or they praised her for a brave pilgrim, and expressed confidence
in her ability to cope with gendarmes and ticket agents, and blessed
her with every other word, and all but carried her in their arms.

At the station the procession disbanded and became a mob. My uncle and
my tall cousins did their best to protect us, but we wanderers were
almost torn to pieces. They did get us into a car at last, but the
riot on the station platform continued unquelled. When the warning
bell rang out, it was drowned in a confounding babel of
voices,--fragments of the oft-repeated messages, admonitions,
lamentations, blessings, farewells. "Don't forget!"--"Take care of--"
"Keep your tickets--" "Moeshele--newspapers!" "Garlick is best!" "Happy
journey!" "God help you!" "Good-bye! Good-bye!" "Remember--"

The last I saw of Polotzk was an agitated mass of people, waving
colored handkerchiefs and other frantic bits of calico, madly
gesticulating, falling on each other's necks, gone wild altogether.
Then the station became invisible, and the shining tracks spun out
from sky to sky. I was in the middle of the great, great world, and
the longest road was mine.

* * * * *

Memory may take a rest while I copy from a contemporaneous document
the story of the great voyage. In accordance with my promise to my
uncle, I wrote, during my first months in America, a detailed account
of our adventures between Polotzk and Boston. Ink was cheap, and the
epistle, in Yiddish, occupied me for many hot summer hours. It was a
great disaster, therefore, to have a lamp upset on my writing-table,
when I was near the end, soaking the thick pile of letter sheets in
kerosene. I was obliged to make a fair copy for my uncle, and my
father kept the oily, smelly original. After a couple of years'
teasing, he induced me to translate the letter into English, for the
benefit of a friend who did not know Yiddish; for the benefit of the
present narrative, which was not thought of thirteen years ago. I can
hardly refrain from moralizing as I turn to the leaves of my childish
manuscript, grateful at last for the calamity of the overturned lamp.

Our route lay over the German border, with Hamburg for our port. On
the way to the frontier we stopped for a farewell visit in Vilna,
where my mother had a brother. Vilna is slighted in my description. I
find special mention of only two things, the horse-cars and the
booksto