and Ezrielk--you remember the picture drawn at the
time of his wedding?--well, then try to imagine what he was like now,
after those seven years we have described for you! It's true that he was
not spitting blood any more, either because Reb Yainkel had been right,
when he said that would pass away, or because there was not a drop of
blood in the whole of his body.

So that was all right--only, how were they to live? Even Reb Yainkel and
all the Hostre Chassidim together could not tell him!

The singing had raised him and lifted him off his feet, and let him
fall. And do you know why it was and how it was that everything Ezrielk
took to turned out badly? It was because the singing was always there,
in his head and his heart. He prayed and studied, singing. He bought and
sold, singing. He sang day and night. No one heard him, because he was
hoarse, but he sang without ceasing. Was it likely he would be a
successful trader, when he was always listening to what Heaven and earth
and everything around him were singing, too? He only wished he could
have been a slaughterer or a Rav (he was apt enough at study), only,
first, Rabbonim and slaughterers don't die every day, and, second, they
usually leave heirs to take their places; third, even supposing there
were no such heirs, one has to pay "privilege-money," and where is it to
come from? No, there was nothing to be done. Only God could and must
have pity on him and his wife and children, and help them somehow.

Ezrielk struggled and fought his need hard enough those days. One good
thing for him was this--his being a Hostre Chossid; the Hostre
Chassidim, although they have been famed from everlasting as the direst
poor among the Jews, yet they divide their last mouthful with their
unfortunate brethren. But what can the gifts of mortal men, and of such
poor ones into the bargain, do in a case like Ezrielk's? And God alone
knows what bitter end would have been his, if Reb Shmuel Baer, the
Kabtzonivke scribe, had not just then (blessed be the righteous Judge!)
met with a sudden death. Our Ezrielk was not long in feeling that he,
and only he, should, and, indeed, must, step into Reb Shmuel's shoes.
Ezrielk had been an expert at the scribe's work for years and years.
Why, his father's house and the scribe's had been nearly under one roof,
and whenever Ezrielk, as a child, was let out of Cheder, he would go and
sit any length of time in Reb Shmuel's room (something in the occupati