“Fifthly, Masheh Mindel and my dear children, in America there are no mud huts where cows and chickens and people live all together. I have for myself a separate room with a closed door, and before any one can come to me, I can give a say, ‘Come in,’ or ‘Stay out,’ like a king in a palace. “Lastly, my darling family and people of the Village of Sukovoly, there is no Czar in America.” * * * * * My father paused; the hush was stifling. No Czar--no Czar in America! Even the little babies repeated the chant: “No Czar in America!” * * * * * “In America they ask everybody who should be the President, and I, Gedalyeh Mindel, when I take out my Citizens papers, will have as much to say who shall be the next President in America, as Mr. Rockefeller the greatest millionaire. “Fifty rubles I am sending you for your ship-ticket to America. And may all Jews who suffer in Goluth from ukazes and pogroms live yet to lift up their heads like me, Gedalyeh Mindel, in America.” * * * * * Fifty rubles! A ship-ticket to America! That so much good luck should fall on one head! A savage envy bit me. Gloomy darts from narrowed eyes stabbed Masheh Mindel. Why should not we too have a chance to get away from this dark land? Has not every heart the same hunger for America? The same longing to live and laugh and breathe like a free human being? America is for all. Why should only Masheh Mindel and her children have a chance to the new world? Murmuring and gesticulating the crowd dispersed. Each one knew every one else’s thought: How to get to America. What could they pawn? From where could they borrow for a ship-ticket? Silently we followed my father back into the hut from which the Cossack had driven us a while before. We children looked from mother to father and from father to mother. “Gottuniu! The Czar himself is pushing us to America by this last ukaz.” My mother’s face lighted up the hut like a lamp. “Meshugeneh Yidini!” admonished my father. “Always your head in the air. What--where--America? With what money? Can dead people lift themselves up to dance?” “Dance?” The samovar and the brass pots rang and reëchoed with my mother’s laughter. “I could dance myself over the waves of the ocean to America.” In amazed delight at my mother’s joy we children rippled and chuckled with her. My father paced the room--his face dark with dread for the morrow. “Empty hands--empty pockets--yet it dreams itself in you America.” “Who is poor who has hopes on America?” flaunted my mother. “Sell my red quilted petticoat that grandmother left for my dowry,” I urged in excitement. “Sell the feather beds, sell the samovar,” chorused the children. “Sure we can sell everything--the goat and all the winter things,” added my mother; “it must be always summer in America.”