During the influenza epidemic I saw the remaining remnant of many families, on learning their condition, lose the power to think or plan for a future—fathers, with a lapful of young children, would become as helpless as the youngest of their brood, an older child left with one or more younger sisters or brothers. Even when they returned to work and were earning the money that supported their dependents, they needed and begged for the counsel and advice of the social worker. It was never so with a Jew. Being a Jew means knowing how and attending to his own affairs. That is the way I came to look at it. And after months of observation and much thinking I found what I still believe to be the reason for that supreme difference. The Jew has always thought for himself, acted for himself, depended on himself. So far as I could learn there is no book a Jew is forbidden to read, there is no thought he may not entertain. He has no one on whom to cast his burdens, he can gain absolution for his sins from no source. Whether he wins or loses is up to him, to his own character. He stands face to face with his God. The Italians—my other favorite tenement-dwellers, for I became sincerely fond of many of them—are a laughter-loving, destructive race. Many of them are far from neat—coming from the slums of their own country and landing in the slums of New York, their standard of living is low. Seen in their homes, among their family, they are charming. They meet their visitors on that visitor’s ground. However gruff was my reception, once I spoke, explained my visit, my reception was invariably cordial. However dirty and disordered her flat, however many children might be holding her skirts or squirming over the floor, the Italian woman would always insist on my coming in. Even though she could not speak a word of American, she would throw open her door and try, bowing and waving, to induce me to enter. Often I did enter, waiting for some one, a neighbor or a child, to act as interpreter. To prevent time from hanging heavy on my hands she would show me her family album, birth, marriage, or death certificates, or some other such treasures. Unfortunately, the Italians as met in the tenements have too many mental or physical defects. I cannot recall ever talking with an Italian woman who did not mention some relative in some philanthropic institution. Having always been poor, they struggle out of poverty as they can; but when they do not succeed they accept their condition gracefully. To the Italian, poverty does not possess a sting. I believe it stings a Jew—being poor. During the congestion in the tenements I got my best views of the national characteristics of the various peoples among whom I worked. Though a horribly uncomfortable period for the tenement-dweller, it was intensely interesting to me. It was as though after hearing a piece of music correctly played you again listened to it with both pedals down.