but to save space, enough
has been walled in to make room for their bench and bed; the tenants
go through the next house. No matter if they are cramped; by and by
they will have room. By and by comes the spring, and with it the
steamer. Does not the green branch speak of spring and of hope? The
policeman on the beat hears their hammers beat a joyous tattoo past
midnight, far into Christmas morning. Who shall say its message has
not reached even them in their slum?

Where the noisy trains speed over the iron highway past the
second-story windows of Allen Street, a cellar door yawns darkly in
the shadow of one of the pillars that half block the narrow sidewalk.
A dull gleam behind the cobweb-shrouded window pane supplements the
sign over the door, in Yiddish and English: "Old Brasses." Four
crooked and mouldy steps lead to utter darkness, with no friendly
voice to guide the hapless customer. Fumbling along the dank wall, he
is left to find the door of the shop as best he can. Not a likely
place to encounter the fastidious from the Avenue! Yet ladies in furs
and silk find this door and the grim old smith within it. Now and then
an artist stumbles upon them, and exults exceedingly in his find. Two
holiday shoppers are even now haggling with the coppersmith over the
price of a pair of curiously wrought brass candlesticks. The old man
has turned from the forge, at which he was working, unmindful of his
callers roving among the dusty shelves. Standing there, erect and
sturdy, in his shiny leather apron, hammer in hand, with the firelight
upon his venerable head, strong arms bared to the elbow, and the
square paper cap pushed back from a thoughtful, knotty brow, he stirs
strange fancies. One half expects to see him fashioning a gorget or a
sword on his anvil. But his is a more peaceful craft. Nothing more
warlike is in sight than a row of brass shields, destined for
ornament, not for battle. Dark shadows chase one another by the
flickering light among copper kettles of ruddy glow, old-fashioned
samovars, and massive andirons of tarnished brass. The bargaining goes
on. Overhead the nineteenth century speeds by with rattle and roar; in
here linger the shadows of the centuries long dead. The boy at the
anvil listens open-mouthed, clutching the bellows-rope.

In Liberty Hall a Jewish wedding is in progress. Liberty! Strange how
the word echoes through these sweaters' tenements, where starvation is
at home half the time. It is as