d out into such rhetorical
Hebrew expressions as "First of all, I let you know that I am alive and
well," which he had learnt in "The Perfect Letter-Writer," and his
little bits of news remained unwritten. He had yet to abuse Lezer the
carrier, to tell how many pages of the Gemoreh he had learnt, to let
them know they were to send another parcel, because they had no "Monday"
and no "Wednesday," and the "Tuesday" was no better than nothing.

And Berele writes and writes, and Yainkele can no longer contain
himself--he sees that Berele is taking up more than half the card.

"Enough!" He ran forward with a cry, and seized the penholder.

"Three words more!" begged Berele.

"But remember, not more than three!" and Yainkele's eyes flashed. Berele
set to work to write the three words; but that which he wished to
express required yet ten to fifteen words, and Berele, excited by the
fact of writing, pecked away at the paper, and took up yet another bit
of the other half.

"You stop!" shrieked Yainkele, and broke into hysterical sobs, as he saw
what a small space remained for him.

"Hush! Just 'from me, thy son,'" begged Berele, "nothing else!"

But Yainkele, remembering that he had given a whole vierer toward the
post-card, and that they would read so much of Berele at home, and so
little of him, flew into a passion, and came and tried to tear away the
card from under Berele's hands. "Let me put 'from me, thy son'!"
implored Berele.

"It will do _without_ 'from me, thy son'!" screamed Yainkele, although
he _felt_ that one ought to put it. His anger rose, and he began tugging
at the card. Berele held tight, but Yainkele gave such a pull that the
card tore in two.

"What have you done, villain!" cried Berele, glaring at Yainkele.

"I _meant_ to do it!" wailed Yainkele.

"Oh, but why did you?" cried Berele, gazing in despair at the two torn
halves of the post-card.

But Yainkele could not answer. The tears choked him, and he threw
himself against the wall, tearing his hair. Then Berele gave way, too,
and the little room resounded with lamentations.

LOST HIS VOICE

It was in the large synagogue in Klemenke. The week-day service had come
to an end. The town cantor who sings all the prayers, even when he prays
alone, and who is longer over them than other people, had already folded
his prayer-scarf, and was humming the day's Psalm to himself, to a tune.
He sang the last words "cantorishly" high:

"And He wi