My father's silver spectacles shine from the distance. The silver strands of his hair and beard are spread out on the breeze. My mother is waving her shawl at us. We two, Busie and I, remain sitting. We are like paralysed. What are my parents doing here? They had come to see what we were doing. They were afraid some accident had befallen us--God forbid! Who could tell? A little bridge, a water, a stream, a stream, a stream! Curious father and mother. "And where are your green boughs?" "What green boughs?" "The green boughs that you went to gather for the '_Shevuous_' decorations." Busie and I exchanged glances. I understood her looks. I imagined I heard her saying to me, in the words of the "Song of Songs": "'O that thou wert as my brother!'.... Why are you not my brother?" * * * "Well, I expect we shall get some greenery for '_Shevuous_' somehow," says my father with a smile. And the silver strands of his silver-white beard glisten like rays of light in the golden red of the sun. "Thank God the children are well, and that no ill has befallen them." "Praised be the Lord!" replies my mother to him, wiping her moist red face with the ends of her shawl. And they are both glad. They seem to grow broader than long with delight. Curious, curious father and mother! A Pity for the Living "If you were a good boy, you would help us to scrape the horse-radish until we are ready with the fish for the holy festival." That was what my mother said to me on the eve of "_Shevuous_," about mid-day. She was helping the cook to prepare the fish for the supper. The fishes were still alive and wriggling. When they were put into a clay basin and covered with water they were still struggling. More than any of the others there struggled a little carp with a broad back, and a round head and red eyes. It seemed that the little carp had a strong desire to get back into the river. It struggled hard. It leaped out of the basin, flapped its tail, and splashed the water right into my face. "Little boy, save me! Little boy, save me!" I wiped my face, and betook myself to the task of scraping the horse-radish for the supper. I thought within myself, "Poor little fish. I can do nothing for you. They will soon take you in hand. You will be scaled and ripped open, cut into pieces, put in a pot, salted and peppered, placed on the fire, and boiled and simmered, and simmered, and simmered." "It's a pity," I said to my mother. "It's a pity for the living." "Of whom is it a pity?" "It's a pity of the little fishes." "Who told you that?" "The teacher." "The teacher?" She exchanged glances with the cook who was helping her, and they both laughed aloud. "You are a fool, and your teacher a still greater fool. Ha! ha! Scrape the horse-radish, scrape away." That I was a fool I knew. My mother told me that frequently, and my brothers and my sisters too. But that my teacher was a greater fool than I--that was news to me. * * *