d you must have begun to wish to be different. Only begin to wish! You
see, I have enough to eat, and yet my position has become hateful to me,
because I have lost my value, and am in danger of losing my humanity.
But you are hungry, and one of these days you will die of starvation out
in the street. Yuedel, do just think it over, for if I am right, you will
get to be like other people. Your Father will see that you have turned
into a man, he will be reconciled with your mother, and you will be 'a
father's child,' as you were before. Brother Yuedel, think it over!"

I talked to my Yuedel a long, long time. In the meanwhile, the night had
passed. My Yuedel gave a start, as though waking out of a deep slumber,
and went away full of thought.

On opening the window, I was greeted by a friendly smile from the rising
morning star, as it peeped out between the clouds.

And it began to dawn.

ISAAC LOeB PEREZ

Born, 1851, in Samoscz, Government of Lublin, Russian Poland; Jewish,
philosophical, and general literary education; practiced law in Samoscz,
a Hasidic town; clerk to the Jewish congregation in Warsaw and as such
collector of statistics on Jewish life; began to write at twenty-five;
contributor to Zedernbaum's Juedisches Volksblatt; publisher and editor
of Die juedische Bibliothek (4 vols.), in which he conducted the
scientific department, and wrote all the editorials and book reviews, of
Literatur and Leben, and of Yom-tov Blaettlech; now (1912) co-editor of
Der Freind, Warsaw; Hebrew and Yiddish prose writer and poet;
allegorist; collected Hebrew works, 1899-1901; collected Yiddish works,
7 vols., Warsaw and New York, 1909-1912 (in course of publication).

A WOMAN'S WRATH

The small room is dingy as the poverty that clings to its walls. There
is a hook fastened to the crumbling ceiling, relic of a departed hanging
lamp. The old, peeling stove is girded about with a coarse sack, and
leans sideways toward its gloomy neighbor, the black, empty fireplace,
in which stands an inverted cooking pot with a chipped rim. Beside it
lies a broken spoon, which met its fate in unequal contest with the
scrapings of cold, stale porridge.

The room is choked with furniture; there is a four-post bed with torn
curtains. The pillows visible through their holes have no covers.

There is a cradle, with the large, yellow head of a sleeping child; a
chest with metal fittings and an open padlock--nothing very precious