mewhere, far; and the child was brought to us.

The child was Busie.

* * *

That my father loves Busie as if she were his own child; and that my
mother frets over her as if she were an only daughter, is readily
understood. They look upon her as their comfort in their great sorrow.
And I? Why is it that when I come from "_cheder_," and do not find Busie
I cannot eat? And when Busie comes in, there shines a light in every
corner. When Busie talks to me, I drop my eyes. And when she laughs at
me I weep. And when she....

* * *

I waited long for the dear good Feast of Passover. I would be free then.
I would play with Busie in nuts, run about in the open, go down the hill
to the river, and show her the ducks in the water. When I tell her, she
does not believe me. She laughs. She never believes me. That is, she
says nothing, but she laughs. And I hate to be laughed at. She does not
believe that I can climb to the highest tree, if I like. She does not
believe that I can shoot, if I have anything to shoot with. When the
Passover comes--the dear good Passover--and we can go out into the free,
open air, away from my father and mother, I shall show her such tricks
that she will go wild.

* * *

The dear good Passover has come.

They dress us both in kingly clothes. Everything we wear shines and
sparkles and glitters. I look at Busie, and I think of the "Song of
Songs" that I learnt for the Passover, verse by verse:

"Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves'
eyes within thy locks; thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from
mount Gilead.

"Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which come up
from the washing; whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among
them.

"Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely; thy
temples are like a piece of pomegranate within thy locks."

Tell me, please, why is it that when one looks at Busie one is reminded
of the "Song of Songs"? And when one reads the "Song of Songs," Busie
rises to one's mind?

* * *

A beautiful Passover eve, bright and warm.

"Shall we go?" asks Busie. And I am all afire. My mother does not spare
the nuts. She fills our pockets. But she makes us promise that we will
not crack a single one before the "_Seder_." We may play with them as
much as we like. We run off. The nuts rattle as we go. It is beautiful
and fine out of doors. The sun is already high in the heavens, and is