. My early letters to my Russian
friends were filled with boastful descriptions of these glories of my
new country. No native citizen of Chelsea took such pride and delight
in its institutions as I did. It required no fife and drum corps, no
Fourth of July procession, to set me tingling with patriotism. Even
the common agents and instruments of municipal life, such as the
letter carrier and the fire engine, I regarded with a measure of
respect. I know what I thought of people who said that Chelsea was a
very small, dull, unaspiring town, with no discernible excuse for a
separate name or existence.

The apex of my civic pride and personal contentment was reached on the
bright September morning when I entered the public school. That day I
must always remember, even if I live to be so old that I cannot tell
my name. To most people their first day at school is a memorable
occasion. In my case the importance of the day was a hundred times
magnified, on account of the years I had waited, the road I had come,
and the conscious ambitions I entertained.

I am wearily aware that I am speaking in extreme figures, in
superlatives. I wish I knew some other way to render the mental life
of the immigrant child of reasoning age. I may have been ever so much
an exception in acuteness of observation, powers of comparison, and
abnormal self-consciousness; none the less were my thoughts and
conduct typical of the attitude of the intelligent immigrant child
toward American institutions. And what the child thinks and feels is a
reflection of the hopes, desires, and purposes of the parents who
brought him overseas, no matter how precocious and independent the
child may be. Your immigrant inspectors will tell you what poverty the
foreigner brings in his baggage, what want in his pockets. Let the
overgrown boy of twelve, reverently drawing his letters in the baby
class, testify to the noble dreams and high ideals that may be hidden
beneath the greasy caftan of the immigrant. Speaking for the Jews, at
least, I know I am safe in inviting such an investigation.

Who were my companions on my first day at school? Whose hand was in
mine, as I stood, overcome with awe, by the teacher's desk, and
whispered my name as my father prompted? Was it Frieda's steady,
capable hand? Was it her loyal heart that throbbed, beat for beat with
mine, as it had done through all our childish adventures? Frieda's
heart did throb that day, but not with my emotions. My