customers around his herring barrel. He knew without
asking that my father had no regular employment, and that,
consequently, it was risky to give us credit. Nevertheless he gave us
credit by the week, by the month, accepted partial payment with
thanks, and let the balance stand by the year.

We owed him as much as the landlady, I suppose, every time he balanced
our account. But he never complained; nay, he even insisted on my
mother's taking almonds and raisins for a cake for the holidays. He
knew, as well as Mrs. Hutch, that my father kept a daughter at school
who was of age to be put to work; but so far was he from reproaching
him for it that he detained my father by the half-hour, inquiring
about my progress and discussing my future. He knew very well, did the
poor grocer, who it was that burned so much oil in my family; but when
I came in to have my kerosene can filled, he did not fall upon me with
harsh words of blame. Instead, he wanted to hear about my latest
triumph at school, and about the great people who wrote me letters and
even came to see me; and he called his wife from the kitchen behind
the store to come and hear of these grand doings. Mrs. Rosenblum, who
could not sign her name, came out in her faded calico wrapper, and
stood with her hands folded under her apron, shy and respectful before
the embryo scholar; and she nodded her head sideways in approval,
drinking in with envious pleasure her husband's Yiddish version of my
tale. If her black-eyed Goldie happened to be playing jackstones on
the curb, Mrs. Rosenblum pulled her into the store, to hear what
distinction Mr. Antin's daughter had won at school, bidding her take
example from Mary, if she would also go far in education.

"Hear you, Goldie? She has the best marks, in everything, Goldie, all
the time. She is only five years in the country, and she'll be in
college soon. She beats them all in school, Goldie--her father says
she beats them all. She studies all the time--all night--and she
writes, it is a pleasure to hear. She writes in the paper, Goldie. You
ought to hear Mr. Antin read what she writes in the paper. Long
pieces--"

"You don't understand what he reads, ma," Goldie interrupts
mischievously; and I want to laugh, but I refrain. Mr. Rosenblum does
not fill my can; I am forced to stand and hear myself eulogized.

"Not understand? Of course I don't understand. How should I
understand? I was not sent to school to learn. Of course I don