him. He had marks on his body--four marks, placed like a cross.

A cunning peasant-woman with a red face told this tale. And the other
women shook their shawl-covered heads, and crossed themselves. Fedoka
could not understand why the women looked at him when they were talking.
And what had the tale to do with him and Feitel? Why had his mother
pulled his flaxen hair and boxed his ears? He did not care about these.
He was used to them. He only wanted to know why he had had such a good
share that day.

* * *

"Well?" Feitel heard his father remark to his mother immediately after
the Festival. His face was shining as if the greatest good fortune had
befallen him. "Well? You fretted yourself to death. You were afraid. A
woman remains a woman. Our Passover and their Easter have gone, and
nothing."

"Thank God," replied his mother. And Feitel could not understand what
his mother had feared. And why were they glad that the Passover was
gone? Would it not have been better if the Passover had been longer and
longer?

Feitel met Fedoka outside the door. He could not contain himself, but
told him everything--how they had prayed, and how they had eaten. Oh,
how they had eaten! He told him how nice all the Passover dishes were,
and how sweet the wine. Fedoka listened attentively, and cast his eyes
on Feitel's blouse. He was still thinking of "_matzo_." Suddenly there
was a scream, and a cry in a high-pitched soprano:

"Fedoka, Fedoka!"

It was his mother calling him in for supper. But Fedoka did not hurry.
He thought she would not pull his hair now. First of all, he had not
been at the mill. Secondly, it was after the Passover. After the
Passover there was no need to be afraid of the Jews. He stretched
himself on the grass, on his stomach, propping up his white head with
his hands. Opposite him lay Feitel, his black head propped up by his
hands. The sky is blue. The sun is warm. The little wind fans one and
plays with one's hair. The little calf stands close by. The cock is also
near, with his wives. The two heads, the black and the white, are close
together. The children talk and talk and talk, and cannot finish
talking.

* * *

Nachman Veribivker is not at home. Early in the morning he took his
stick, and let himself go over the village, in search of business. He
stopped at every farm, bade the Gentiles good-morning, calling each one
by name, and talked with them on every subject in the world. But he
avoided all refe