ured in suggestions, and solid chunks of advice were rammed in by
nimble prophecies. Mother ought to make a pilgrimage to a "Good
Jew"--say, the Rebbe of Lubavitch--to get his blessing on our journey.
She must be sure and pack her prayer books and Bible, and twenty
pounds of zwieback at the least. If they did serve trefah on the ship,
she and the four children would have to starve, unless she carried
provisions from home.--Oh, she must take all the featherbeds!
Featherbeds are scarce in America. In America they sleep on hard
mattresses, even in winter. Haveh Mirel, Yachne the dressmaker's
daughter, who emigrated to New York two years ago, wrote her mother
that she got up from childbed with sore sides, because she had no
featherbed.--Mother mustn't carry her money in a pocketbook. She must
sew it into the lining of her jacket. The policemen in Castle Garden
take all their money from the passengers as they land, unless the
travellers deny having any.

And so on, and so on, till my poor mother was completely bewildered.
And as the day set for our departure approached, the people came
oftener and stayed longer, and rehearsed my mother in long messages
for their friends in America, praying that she deliver them promptly
on her arrival, and without fail, and might God bless her for her
kindness, and she must be sure and write them how she found their
friends.

Hayye Dvoshe, the wig-maker, for the eleventh time repeating herself,
to my mother, still patiently attentive, thus:--

"Promise me, I beg you. I don't sleep nights for thinking of him.
Emigrated to America eighteen months ago, fresh and well and strong,
with twenty-five ruble in his pocket, besides his steamer ticket, with
new phylacteries, and a silk skull-cap, and a suit as good as
new,--made it only three years before,--everything respectable, there
could be nothing better;--sent one letter, how he arrived in Castle
Garden, how well he was received by his uncle's son-in-law, how he was
conducted to the baths, how they bought him an American suit,
everything good, fine, pleasant;--wrote how his relative promised him
a position in his business--a clothing merchant is he--makes
gold,--and since then not a postal card, not a word, just as if he had
vanished, as if the earth had swallowed him. _Oi, weh!_ what haven't I
imagined, what haven't I dreamed, what haven't I lamented! Already
three letters have I sent--the last one, you know, you yourself wrote
for me, Hanna