tretched out to receive your father's money. You
knew your father hated them all, but you saw him smile and bend as he
filled those greedy palms. You did the same, in your petty way, when
you saw Vanka coming toward you on a lonely street, and you held out
to him the core of the apple you had been chewing, and forced your
unwilling lips into a smile. It hurt, that false smile; it made you
feel black inside.

In your father's parlor hung a large colored portrait of Alexander
III. The Czar was a cruel tyrant,--oh, it was whispered when doors
were locked and shutters tightly barred, at night,--he was a Titus, a
Haman, a sworn foe of all Jews,--and yet his portrait was seen in a
place of honor in your father's house. You knew why. It looked well
when police or government officers came on business.

You went out to play one morning, and saw a little knot of people
gathered around a lamp-post. There was a notice on it--a new order
from the chief of police. You pushed into the crowd, and stared at the
placard, but you could not read. A woman with a ragged shawl looked
down upon you, and said, with a bitter kind of smile, "Rejoice,
rejoice, little girl! The chief of police bids you rejoice. There
shall be a pretty flag flying from every housetop to-day, because it
is the Czar's birthday, and we must celebrate. Come and watch the poor
people pawn their samovars and candlesticks, to raise money for a
pretty flag. It is a holiday, little girl. Rejoice!"

You know the woman is mocking,--you are familiar with the quality of
that smile,--but you accept the hint and go and watch the people buy
their flags. Your cousin keeps a dry-goods store, where you have a
fine view of the proceedings. There is a crowd around the counter, and
your cousin and the assistant are busily measuring off lengths of
cloth, red, and blue, and white.

"How much does it take?" somebody asks. "May I know no more of sin
than I know of flags," another replies. "How is it put together?" "Do
you have to have all three colors?" One customer puts down a few
kopecks on the counter, saying, "Give me a piece of flag. This is all
the money I have. Give me the red and the blue; I'll tear up my shirt
for the white."

You know it is no joke. The flag must show from every house, or the
owner will be dragged to the police station, to pay a fine of
twenty-five rubles. What happened to the old woman who lives in that
tumble-down shanty over the way? It was that other time