em of our latter-day bondage in our eyes. Even a child
would know how to hate the flag that we were forced, on pain of severe
penalties, to hoist above our housetops, in celebration of the advent
of one of our oppressors. And as it was with country and flag, so it
was with heroes of war. We hated the uniform of the soldier, to the
last brass button. On the person of a Gentile, it was the symbol of
tyranny; on the person of a Jew, it was the emblem of shame.

So a little Jewish girl in Polotzk was apt to grow up hungry-minded
and empty-hearted; and if, still in her outreaching youth, she was set
down in a land of outspoken patriotism, she was likely to love her new
country with a great love, and to embrace its heroes in a great
worship. Naturalization, with us Russian Jews, may mean more than the
adoption of the immigrant by America. It may mean the adoption of
America by the immigrant.

On the day of the Washington celebration I recited a poem that I had
composed in my enthusiasm. But "composed" is not the word. The process
of putting on paper the sentiments that seethed in my soul was really
very discomposing. I dug the words out of my heart, squeezed the
rhymes out of my brain, forced the missing syllables out of their
hiding-places in the dictionary. May I never again know such travail
of the spirit as I endured during the fevered days when I was engaged
on the poem. It was not as if I wanted to say that snow was white or
grass was green. I could do that without a dictionary. It was a
question now of the loftiest sentiments, of the most abstract truths,
the names of which were very new in my vocabulary. It was necessary to
use polysyllables, and plenty of them; and where to find rhymes for
such words as "tyranny," "freedom," and "justice," when you had less
than two years' acquaintance with English! The name I wished to
celebrate was the most difficult of all. Nothing but "Washington"
rhymed with "Washington." It was a most ambitious undertaking, but my
heart could find no rest till it had proclaimed itself to the world;
so I wrestled with my difficulties, and spared not ink, till
inspiration perched on my penpoint, and my soul gave up its best.

When I had done, I was myself impressed with the length, gravity, and
nobility of my poem. My father was overcome with emotion as he read
it. His hands trembled as he held the paper to the light, and the mist
gathered in his eyes. My teacher, Miss Dwight, was plainly aston