or my
mother and grandmother were very pious, and each used a number of
candles; while Fetchke and I and the maids had one apiece.

After the candle prayer the women generally read in some book of
devotion, while we children amused ourselves in the quietest manner,
till the men returned from synagogue. "Good Sabbath!" my father
called, as he entered; and "Good Sabbath! Good Sabbath!" we wished him
in return. If he brought with him a Sabbath guest from the synagogue,
some poor man without a home, the stranger was welcomed and invited
in, and placed in the seat of honor, next to my father.

We all stood around the table while _kiddush_, or the blessing over
the wine, was said, and if a child whispered or nudged another my
father reproved him with a stern look, and began again from the
beginning. But as soon as he had cut the consecrated loaf, and
distributed the slices, we were at liberty to talk and ask questions,
unless a guest was present, when we maintained a polite silence.

Of one Sabbath guest we were always sure, even if no destitute Jew
accompanied my father from the synagogue. Yakub the choreman partook
of the festival with us. He slept on a bunk built over the entrance
door, and reached by means of a rude flight of steps. There he liked
to roll on his straw and rags, whenever he was not busy, or felt
especially lazy. On Friday evenings he climbed to his roost very
early, before the family assembled for supper, and waited for his cue,
which was the breaking-out of table talk after the blessing of the
bread. Then Yakub began to clear his throat and kept on working at it
until my father called to him to come down and have a glass of vodka.
Sometimes my father pretended not to hear him, and we smiled at one
another around the table, while Yakub's throat grew worse and worse,
and he began to cough and mutter and rustle in his straw. Then my
father let him come down, and he shuffled in, and stood clutching his
cap with both hands, while my father poured him a brimming glass of
whiskey. This Yakub dedicated to all our healths, and tossed off to
his own comfort. If he got a slice of boiled fish after his glassful,
he gulped it down as a chicken gulps worms, smacked his lips
explosively, and wiped his fingers on his unkempt locks. Then,
thanking his master and mistress, and scraping and bowing, he backed
out of the room and ascended to his roost once more; and in less time
than it takes to write his name, the simple