"Shall you know how?"

"Shall!"

"Well, now, say: Yisgaddal."

"Yisdaddal," repeated the child in his own way.

"Veyiskaddash."

"Veyistaddash."

And Reb Selig repeated the Kaddish with him several times.

The small lamp burnt low, and scarcely illuminated Reb Selig's yellow,
corpse-like face, or the little one of Alterke, who repeated wearily the
difficult, and to him unintelligible words of the Kaddish. And Alterke,
all the while, gazed intently into the corner, where Tate's shadow and
his own had a most fantastic and frightening appearance.

AVROHOM THE ORCHARD-KEEPER

When he first came to the place, as a boy, and went straight to the
house-of-study, and people, having greeted him, asked "Where do you come
from?" and he answered, not without pride, "From the Government of
Wilna"--from that day until the day he was married, they called him "the
Wilner."

In a few years' time, however, when the house-of-study had married him
to the daughter of the Psalm-reader, a coarse, undersized creature, and
when, after six months' "board" with his father-in-law, he became a
teacher, the town altered his name to "the Wilner teacher." Again, a few
years later, when he got a chest affection, and the doctor forbade him
to keep school, and he began to deal in fruit, the town learnt that his
name was Avrohom, to which they added "the orchard-keeper," and his name
is "Avrohom the orchard-keeper" to this day.

Avrohom was quite content with his new calling. He had always wished for
a business in which he need not have to do with a lot of people in whom
he had small confidence, and in whose society he felt ill at ease.

People have a queer way with them, he used to think, they want to be
always talking! They want to tell everything, find out everything,
answer everything!

When he was a student he always chose out a place in a corner somewhere,
where he could see nobody, and nobody could see him; and he used to
murmur the day's task to a low tune, and his murmured repetition made
him think of the ruin in which Rabbi Jose, praying there, heard the
Bas-Kol mourn, cooing like a dove, over the exile of Israel. And then he
longed to float away to that ruin somewhere in the wilderness, and
murmur there like a dove, with no one, no one, to interrupt him, not
even the Bas-Kol. But his vision would be destroyed by some hard
question which a fellow-student would put before him, describing circles
with his thumb and chanti