A slight sound came from Reb Monash's lips. It was only dimly anger; it was also resignation, dismay. His lips closed. The fires of his wrath last night had burned round his son, till at last Philip lay on the sofa, spent, lightless, like a cinder. He had thereon turned to Mrs. Massel who at one stage had ventured to intervene. Would she like to see her son stuff his maws with pig; or perhaps grow up to take a _shiksah_ to his arms? All that night low sobbing came from the room where Philip slept. Even when Reb Monash thought his wife sleeping, there came an answering moan from her bed as the sobbing of the boy entered the room like a frail ghost. Reb Monash turned his eyes upon his Hebrew notebook. "Go thou! go thou! go!" he said heavily. "I'll deal with thee later!" Philip passed from the room. The walls of _chayder_ were no more round him; his head rang again with the poor music he had made. "Mamma!" he said, bursting into the kitchen, "I've made a poetry!" "Feivele!" she exclaimed with horror. "Why art thou not in _chayder_?" "He sent me out!" he answered, his lips quivering. "I've been a bad boy!" "Then go out into the street!" she said. "He'll see thee here and say I'm petting thee!" He ran out into Angel Street. The lines were singing in his head. He skipped along Angel Street, from the wire factory to Doomington Road and back again, chanting his lines. Then Harry Sewelson, his pal, came into his mind. He would make use of his unusual liberty to go and tell him about the "poetry." He ran breathlessly along Doomington Road to "Sewelson's High-Class Drapery and Hosiery Establishment." He passed through the side non-professional door along a dark lobby to the kitchen. Harry sat in a corner reading. A sudden shame and reluctance overwhelmed Philip. What was he making all this fuss about? Harry would only laugh at him, and why shouldn't he? "Hello!" said Harry, "come in!" Philip came forward. "What are you reading?" he asked. "Poetry!" Harry replied. This put a different complexion on affairs. "_I've_ just done a poetry!" Philip declared proudly, throwing his scruples aside. He had established an affinity with a printed book. "G-arn!" said Harry sceptically. "_Emmes!_" "Tell us then!" "_Alone I walked, I walked alone. I sat upon a mossy stone. I heard a bird up in the sky. He sang so sweet and so did I._ There, what d'you think of that?" "It's not your own!" "_Emmes adonoi!_" Harry looked up with warm commendation in his eyes. "You know," he said, "it's like this feller!" "Who's that?" "Oh, this feller's called Tennyson!" he said, turning the leaves. Philip drew a chair close and together they examined the faded penny reprint. "Gosh!" exclaimed Philip excitedly. "Isn't that spiff!"