-mitzvah_" long ago, and they were making up a
match for him, and he was wearing a watch and chain this good while. (If
I am not mistaken, he had already started to grow a beard at the time I
speak of.) And that my brother Mottel loves Esther, I am positive. He
thinks I do not know that his going to "_Cheder_" every Sabbath to read
with the teacher is a mere pretext, a yesterday's day! The teacher
snores loudly. The teacher's wife stands on the doorstep talking with
the women. We boys play around the room, and Mottel and Esther are
staring--she at him, and he at her. It sometimes happens that we boys
play at "blind-man's-buff." Do you know what "blind-man's-buff" is?
Well, then I will tell you. You take a boy, bandage his eyes with a
handkerchief, place him in the middle of the floor, and all the boys fly
round him crying: "Blindman, blindman, catch me!"

Mottel and Esther also play at "blind-man's-buff" with us. They like the
game because, when they are playing it, they can chase one another--she
him, and he her.

And I have many more proofs I could give you that--But I am not that
sort.

I once caught them holding hands, he hers, and she his. And it was not
on the Sabbath either, but on a week-day. It was towards evening,
between the afternoon and the evening prayers. He was pretending to go
to the synagogue. He strayed into "_Cheder_." "Where is the teacher?"
"The teacher is not here." And he went and gave her his hand, Esther,
that is. I saw them. He withdrew his hand and gave me a "_groschen_" to
tell no one. I asked two, and he gave me two. I asked three, and he gave
me three. What do you think--if I had asked four, or five, or six, would
he not have given them? But I am not that sort.

Another time, too, something happened. But enough of this. I will rather
tell you the real story--the one I promised you.

* * *

As I told you, my brother Mottel is grown up. He does not go to
"_Cheder_" any more, nor does he wish to learn anything at home. For
this, my father calls him "Man of clay." He has no other name for him.
My mother does not like it. What sort of a habit is it to call a young
man, almost a bridegroom, a man of clay? My father says he is nothing
else but a man of clay. They quarrel about it. I do not know what other
parents do, but my parents are always quarrelling. Day and night they
are quarrelling.

If I were to tell you how my father and mother quarrel, you would split
your sides laughing. But