ccount with them!"

Thus the grey-headed old Henoch, the kneader, and he kneaded it all into
the dough, with thoughts of his own grandchildren: this one fled abroad,
the other in the regiment, and a third in prison.

The dough stiffens, the horny old hands work it with difficulty. The
dough gets stiffer every year, and the work harder, it is time for him
to go to the asylum!

The dough is kneaded, cut up in pieces, rolled and riddled--is that a
token for the whole Congregation of Israel? And now appear the round
Matzes, which must wander on a shovel into the heated oven of Shloimeh
Shieber, first into one corner, and then into another, till another
shovel throws them out into a new world, separated from the old by a
screen thoroughly scoured for Passover, which now rises and now falls.
There they are arranged in columns, a reminder of Pithom and Rameses.
Kuk-ruk, kuk-ruk, ruk-ruk, whisper the still warm Matzes one to another;
they also are remembering, and they tell the tale of the Exodus after
their fashion, the tale of the flight out of Egypt--only they have seen
more flights than one.

Thus are the Matzes kneaded and baked by the Jews, with "thoughts." The
Gentiles call them "blood," and assert that Jews need blood for their
Matzes, and they take the trouble to supply us with fresh "thoughts"
every year!

But at Gedalyeh the baker's all is still cheerfulness. Girls and boys,
in their unspent vigor, surround the tables, there is rolling and
riddling and cleaning of clean rolling-pins with pieces of broken glass
(from where ever do Jews get so much broken glass?), and the whole town
is provided with kosher Matzes. Jokes and silver trills escape the
lively young workers, the company is as merry as though the Exodus were
to-morrow.

But it won't be to-morrow. Look at them well, because another day you
will not find them so merry, they will not seem like the same.

One of the likely lads has left his place, and suddenly appeared at a
table beside a pretty, curly-haired girl. He has hurried over his
Matzes, and now he wants to help her.

She thanks him for his attention with a rolling-pin over the fingers,
and there is such laughter among the spectators that Berke, the old
overseer, exclaims, "What impertinence!"

But he cannot finish, because he has to laugh himself. There is a spark
in the embers of his being which the girlish merriment around him
kindles anew.

And the other lads are jealous of the beaten o