th the public life of the beach. I admired greatly our
shining soda fountain, the rows of sparkling glasses, the pyramids of
oranges, the sausage chains, the neat white counter, and the bright
array of tin spoons. It seemed to me that none of the other
refreshment stands on the beach--there were a few--were half so
attractive as ours. I thought my father looked very well in a long
white apron and shirt sleeves. He dished out ice cream with
enthusiasm, so I supposed he was getting rich. It never occurred to me
to compare his present occupation with the position for which he had
been originally destined; or if I thought about it, I was just as well
content, for by this time I had by heart my father's saying, "America
is not Polotzk." All occupations were respectable, all men were equal,
in America.

If I admired the soda fountain and the sausage chains, I almost
worshipped the partner, Mr. Wilner. I was content to stand for an hour
at a time watching him make potato chips. In his cook's cap and apron,
with a ladle in his hand and a smile on his face, he moved about with
the greatest agility, whisking his raw materials out of nowhere,
dipping into his bubbling kettle with a flourish, and bringing forth
the finished product with a caper. Such potato chips were not to be had
anywhere else on Crescent Beach. Thin as tissue paper, crisp as dry
snow, and salt as the sea--such thirst-producing, lemonade-selling,
nickel-bringing potato chips only Mr. Wilner could make. On holidays,
when dozens of family parties came out by every train from town, he
could hardly keep up with the demand for his potato chips. And with a
waiting crowd around him our partner was at his best. He was as voluble
as he was skilful, and as witty as he was voluble; at least so I
guessed from the laughter that frequently drowned his voice. I could
not understand his jokes, but if I could get near enough to watch his
lips and his smile and his merry eyes, I was happy. That any one could
talk so fast, and in English, was marvel enough, but that this prodigy
should belong to _our_ establishment was a fact to thrill me. I had
never seen anything like Mr. Wilner, except a wedding jester; but then
he spoke common Yiddish. So proud was I of the talent and good taste
displayed at our stand that if my father beckoned to me in the crowd
and sent me on an errand, I hoped the people noticed that I, too, was
connected with the establishment.

And all this splendor and