their hearts!"

Later, when I was learning the Bible and the commentaries, I very nearly
had a real knife, also of my own making. I found a bit of steel
belonging to my mother's crinoline, and I set it very cleverly into a
piece of wood. I sharpened the steel beautifully on a stone, and
naturally cut all my fingers to pieces.

"See, just see, how he has bled himself, that son of yours," said my
father. He took hold of my hands in such a way that the very bones
cracked. "He's a fine fellow! Heh-heh-heh!"

"Oh, may the thunder strike me!" cried my mother. She took the little
knife from me, and threw it into the fire. She took no notice of my
crying. "Now it will come to an end. Woe is me!"

I soon got another knife, but in reality, a little knife. It had a
thick, round, wooden handle, like a barrel, and a curved blade which
opened as well as closed. You want to know how I came by it? I saved up
the money from what I got for my breakfasts, and I bought the knife for
seven "_groschens_" from Solomon, and I owed him three more
"_groschens_."

Oh, how I loved it, how I loved it. I came home from school black and
blue, hungry and sleepy, and with my ears well boxed. (You see, I had
just started learning the "_Gemarra_" with Mottel, the "Angel of Death."
"If an ox gore a cow" I learnt. And if an ox gores a cow, then I must
get beaten.) And the first thing I did was to take out my pocket-knife
from under the black cupboard. (It lay there the whole day, because I
dared not take it to school with me; and at home no one must know that
I have a knife.) I stroked it, I cut a piece of paper with it, split a
straw in halves, and then cut up my bread into little cubes which I
stuck on the tip of the blade, and afterwards put into my mouth.

Later, before going to bed, I cleaned the knife, and scrubbed it, and
polished it. I took the sharpening stone, which I found in the hayloft,
spit on it, and in silence began to work, sharpening the little knife,
sharpening, sharpening.

My father, his little round cap on his head, sat over a book. He coughed
and read, read and coughed. My mother was in the kitchen making bread. I
did not cease from sharpening my knife, and sharpening it.

Suddenly my father woke up, as from a deep sleep.

"Who is making that hissing noise? Who is working? What are you doing,
you young scamp?"

He stood beside me, and bent over my sharpening-stone. He caught hold of
my ear. A fit of coughing choked him.