ed creaking, and I imagined that it was my mother groaning.
Out of doors, the wind was blowing, rattling the windows, tearing at the
roof, whistling down the chimney, sighing loudly. A cricket had come to
our house a long time before. It was now chirping from the wall,
"Tchireree! Tchireree!" And my mother did not cease from sighing and
groaning. And each sigh and each groan echoed itself in my heart. I only
just managed to control myself. I was on the point of jumping out of
bed, falling at my mother's feet, kissing her hands, and confessing to
her all my sins. I did not do this. I covered myself with all the
bed-clothes, so that I might not hear my mother sighing and groaning and
her bed creaking. My eyes closed. The wind howled, and the cricket
chirped, "Tchireree! Tchireree! Tchireree! Tchireree!" And there spun
around before my eyes a man like a top--a man I seemed to know. I could
have sworn it was the teacher in his pointed cap. He was spinning on one
foot, round, and round, and round. His cap sparkled, his eyes glistened,
and his earlocks flew about. No, it was not the teacher. It was a
spinning-top--a curious, living top with a pointed cap and earlocks. By
degrees the teacher-top, or the top-teacher ceased from spinning round.
And in its place stood Pharaoh, the king of Egypt whose story we had
learnt a week ago. Pharaoh, king of Egypt, stood naked before me. He
had only just come out of the river. He had my little prayer-book in
his hand. I could not make out how that wicked king, who had bathed in
Jewish blood, came to have my prayer-book. And I saw seven cows, lean
and starved, mere skin and bones, with big horns and long ears. They
came to me one after the other. They opened their mouths and tried to
swallow me. Suddenly, there appeared my friend Benny. He took hold of
their long ears, and twisted them round. Some one was crying softly,
sobbing, wailing, howling, and chirping. A man stood near me. He was not
a human being. He said to me softly:

"Tell me, son, on which day do you recite the mourner's prayer for me?"

I understood that this was my father of whom my mother had told me so
many good things. I wanted to tell him the day on which I must say the
mourner's prayer for him, but I had forgotten it. I fretted myself. I
rubbed my forehead, and tried to remind myself of the day, but I could
not. Did you ever hear the like? I forgot the day of the anniversary of
my father's death. Listen, Jewish children,