w it lying on its poor face, killed, broken,
shattered, and smashed for evermore!

"There is an end to the clock!" said my father, white as the wall. He
hung his head, wrung his fingers, and the tears came into his eyes. I
looked at my father and wanted to cry, too.

"There now, see, what is the use of fretting to death?" said my mother.
"No doubt it was so decreed and written down in Heaven that to-day, at
that particular minute, our clock was to find its end, just (I beg to
distinguish!) like a human being, may God not punish me for saying so!
May it be an Atonement for not remembering the Sabbath, for me, for
thee, for our children, for all near and dear to us, and for all Israel.
Amen, Selah!"

FISHEL THE TEACHER

Twice a year, as sure as the clock, on the first day of Nisan and the
first of Ellul--for Passover and Tabernacles--Fishel the teacher
travelled from Balta to Chaschtschevate, home to his wife and children.
It was decreed that nearly all his life long he should be the guest of
his own family, a very welcome guest, but a passing one. He came with
the festival, and no sooner was it over, than back with him to Balta,
back to the schooling, the ruler, the Gemoreh, the dull, thick wits, to
the being knocked about from pillar to post, to the wandering among
strangers, and the longing for home.

On the other hand, when Fishel _does_ come home, he is an emperor! His
wife Bath-sheba comes out to meet him, pulls at her head-kerchief,
blushes red as fire, questions as though in asides, without as yet
looking him in the face, "How are you?" and he replies, "How are _you_?"
and Froike his son, a boy of thirteen or so, greets him, and the father
asks, "Well, Efroim, and how far on are you in the Gemoreh?" and his
little daughter Resele, not at all a bad-looking little girl, with a
plaited pigtail, hugs and kisses him.

"Tate, what sort of present have you brought me?"

"Printed calico for a frock, and a silk kerchief for mother. There--give
mother the kerchief!"

And Fishel takes a silk (suppose a half-silk!) kerchief out of his
Tallis-bag, and Bath-sheba grows redder still, and pulls her head-cloth
over her eyes, takes up a bit of household work, busies herself all over
the place, and ends by doing nothing.

"Bring the Gemoreh, Efroim, and let me hear what you can do!"

And Froike recites his lesson like the bright boy he is, and Fishel
listens and corrects, and his heart expands and overflows with