r the householders to go forth out of the town, to
meet the young Charif, the old Rav offered to go with them, and they
took a chair for him to sit in while he waited at the meeting-place.
This was by the wood outside the town, where all through the week the
Jewish townsfolk earned their bread by burning pitch. Begrimed and
toil-worn Jews were continually dropping their work and peeping out
shamefacedly between the tree-stems.

It was Friday, a clear day in the autumn. She appeared out of a great
cloud of dust--she, the travelling-wagon in which sat the celebrated
young Charif. Sholom-Alechems flew to meet him from every side, and his
old father, the tailor, leant back against a tree, and wept aloud for
joy.

Now the old Rav declared that he would not allow the Charif to enter the
town till he had heard him, the Charif, expound a portion of the Torah.

The young man accepted the condition. Men, women, and little children
stood expectant, all eyes were fastened on the tailor's son, all hearts
beat rapidly.

The Charif expounded the Torah standing in the wagon. At first he looked
fairly scared, and his sharp black eyes darted fearfully hither and
thither over the heads of the silent crowd. Then came a bright idea, and
lit up his face. He began to speak, but his was not the familiar
teaching, such as everyone learns and understands. His words were like
fiery flashes appearing and disappearing one after the other, lightnings
that traverse and illumine half the sky in one second of time, a play of
swords in which there are no words, only the clink and ring of
finely-tempered steel.

The old Rav sat in his chair leaning on his old, knobbly, knotted stick,
and listened. He heard, but evil thoughts beset him, and deep, hard
wrinkles cut themselves into his forehead. He saw before him the Charif,
the dried-up youth with the sharp eyes and the sharp, pointed nose, and
the evil thought came to him, "Those are needles, a tailor's needles,"
while the long, thin forefinger with which the Charif pointed rapidly in
the air seemed a third needle wielded by a tailor in a hurry.

"You prick more sharply even than your father," is what the old Rav
wanted to say when the Charif ended his sermon, but he did not say it.
The whole assembly was gazing with caught breath at his half-closed
eyelids. The lids never moved, and some thought wonderingly that he had
fallen into a doze from sheer old age.

Suddenly a strange, dry snap broke the