g which they will not forget in
a hurry."

"Not them, him alone," pleads Busie. But I do not give in so readily.
When I get into a temper it is dangerous. Why should I forgive her for
what she has done to Busie, the cheeky woman? The idea of marrying
another man and going off with him, the devil knows where, leaving her
child behind, and never even writing a letter! Did any one ever hear of
such a wrong?

* * *

I excited myself for nothing. I was as sorry as if dogs were gnawing at
me, but it was too late. Busie had covered her face with her two hands.
Was she crying? I could have torn myself to pieces. What good had it
done me to open her wound by speaking of her mother? In my own heart I
called myself every bad name I could think of: "Horse, Beast, Ox, Cat,
Good-for-nothing, Long-tongue." I drew closer to Busie, and took hold of
her hand. I was about to say to her, the words of the "Song of Songs":

"Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice."

Suddenly--How do my father and mother come here?

* * *

My father's silver spectacles shine from the distance. The silver
strands of his hair and beard are spread out on the breeze. My mother is
waving her shawl at us. We two, Busie and I, remain sitting. We are
like paralysed. What are my parents doing here?

They had come to see what we were doing. They were afraid some accident
had befallen us--God forbid! Who could tell? A little bridge, a water, a
stream, a stream, a stream! Curious father and mother.

"And where are your green boughs?"

"What green boughs?"

"The green boughs that you went to gather for the '_Shevuous_'
decorations."

Busie and I exchanged glances. I understood her looks. I imagined I
heard her saying to me, in the words of the "Song of Songs":

"'O that thou wert as my brother!'.... Why are you not my brother?"

* * *

"Well, I expect we shall get some greenery for '_Shevuous_' somehow,"
says my father with a smile. And the silver strands of his silver-white
beard glisten like rays of light in the golden red of the sun. "Thank
God the children are well, and that no ill has befallen them."

"Praised be the Lord!" replies my mother to him, wiping her moist red
face with the ends of her shawl. And they are both glad. They seem to
grow broader than long with delight.

Curious, curious father and mother!

A Pity for the Living

"If you were a good boy, you would help us to scrape the horse-radish
until we are ready