d listened, and by degrees her vexation vanished. It is true that her
heart was still sore, but it was not with the soreness of anger. She was
taking her life to pieces and thinking it over, and it seemed a very
hard and bitter one, and when she looked at her husband and thought of
his life, she was near crying, and she laid her hands upon his knee.

Shmuel also sat lost in thought. He was thinking about the trees and the
roses and the grass, and listening to the fiddle. And he also was sad at
heart.

"O Sarah!" he sighed, and he would have said more, but just at that
moment it began to spot with rain, and before they had time to move
there came a downpour. People started to scurry in all directions, but
Shmuel stood like a statue.

"Shlimm-mazel, look after the children!" commanded Sarah. Shmuel caught
up two of them, Sarah another two or three, and they ran to a shelter.
Doletzke began to cry afresh.

"Mame, hungry!" began Berele.

"Hungry, hungry!" wailed Yossele. "I want to eat!"

Shmuel hastily opened the hand-bag, and then for the first time he saw
what had really happened: the bottle had broken, and the milk was
flooding the bag; the rolls and bananas were soaked, and the pineapple
(a damaged one to begin with) looked too nasty for words. Sarah caught
sight of the bag, and was so angry, she was at a loss how to wreak
vengeance on her husband. She was ashamed to scream and scold in the
presence of other people, but she went up to him, and whispered
fervently into his ear, "The same to you, my good man!"

The children continued to clamor for food.

"I'll go to the refreshment counter and buy a glass of milk and a few
rolls," said Shmuel to his wife.

"Have you actually some money left?" asked Sarah. "I thought it had all
been spent on the picnic."

"There are just five cents over."

"Well, then go and be quick about it. The poor things are starving."

Shmuel went to the refreshment stall, and asked the price of a glass of
milk and a few rolls.

"Twenty cents, mister," answered the waiter.

Shmuel started as if he had burnt his finger, and returned to his wife
more crestfallen than ever.

"Well, Shlimm-mazel, where's the milk?" inquired Sarah.

"He asked twenty cents."

"Twenty cents for a glass of milk and a roll? Are you Montefiore?" Sarah
could no longer contain herself. "They'll be the ruin of us! If you want
to go for another picnic, we shall have to sell the bedding."

The children never