ns, to the corn and the water. But it was not so.
The "_Shochet_" turned him round, caught him between his knees, thrust
back his head with one hand, with the other plucked out a few little
feathers, pronounced a blessing--heck! the knife was drawn across his
throat. He was cast away. I thought he would fall to pieces.

"Pinalle, your father is a heathen," I said to my comrade.

"Why is he a heathen?"

"He has in him no pity for the living."

"I did not know you were so clever," said my comrade, and he pulled a
long nose right into my face.

* * *

Our cook is blind of one eye. She is called "Fruma with the little eye."
She is a girl without a heart. She once beat the cat with nettles for
having run away with a little liver from the board. Afterwards, when she
counted the fowls and the livers, it turned out that she had made a
mistake. She had thought there were seven fowls, and, of course, seven
little livers, and there were only six. And if there were only six fowls
there could be only six little livers. Marvellous! She had accused the
cat wrongly.

You might imagine that Fruma was sorry and apologized to the cat. But it
appeared she forgot all about it. And the cat, too, forgot all about
it. A few hours later she was lying on the stove, licking herself as if
nothing had happened. It's not for nothing that people say: "A cat's
brains!"

But I did not forget. No, I did not forget. I said to the cook: "You
beat the cat for nothing. You had a sin for no reason. It was a pity for
the living. The Lord will punish you."

"Will you go away, or else I'll give it you across the face with the
towel."

That is what "Fruma with the little eye" said to me. And she added:

"Lord Almighty! Wherever in the world do such children come from?"

* * *

It was all about a dog that had been scalded with boiling water by the
same "Fruma with the little eye." Ah, how much pain it caused the dog.
It squealed, howled and barked with all its might, filling the world
with noise. The whole town came together at the sound of his howling,
and laughed, and laughed. All the dogs in the town barked out of
sympathy, each from his own kennel, and each after his own fashion. One
might think that they had been asked to bark. Afterwards, when the
scalded dog had finished howling, he moaned and muttered and licked his
sores, and growled softly. My heart melted within me. I went over to him
and was going to fondle him.

"Here, Sirko!"

T