I have a comrade, Pinalle, the "_Shochet's_" son. I was at his house one day, and I saw how a little girl carried a fowl, a huge cock, its legs tied with a string. My comrade's father, the "_Shochet_," was asleep, and the little girl sat at the door and waited. The cock, a fine strong bird, tried to get out of the girl's arms. He drove his strong feet into her, pecked at her hand, let out from his throat a loud "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" protested as much as he could. But the girl was no weakling either. She thrust the head of the rooster under her arm and dug her elbows into him, saying: "Be still, you wretch!" And he obeyed and remained silent. When the "_Shochet_" woke up, he washed his hands and took out his knife. He motioned to have the bird handed to him. I imagined that the cock changed colour. He must have thought that he was going to be freed to race back to his hens, to the corn and the water. But it was not so. The "_Shochet_" turned him round, caught him between his knees, thrust back his head with one hand, with the other plucked out a few little feathers, pronounced a blessing--heck! the knife was drawn across his throat. He was cast away. I thought he would fall to pieces. "Pinalle, your father is a heathen," I said to my comrade. "Why is he a heathen?" "He has in him no pity for the living." "I did not know you were so clever," said my comrade, and he pulled a long nose right into my face. * * * Our cook is blind of one eye. She is called "Fruma with the little eye." She is a girl without a heart. She once beat the cat with nettles for having run away with a little liver from the board. Afterwards, when she counted the fowls and the livers, it turned out that she had made a mistake. She had thought there were seven fowls, and, of course, seven little livers, and there were only six. And if there were only six fowls there could be only six little livers. Marvellous! She had accused the cat wrongly. You might imagine that Fruma was sorry and apologized to the cat. But it appeared she forgot all about it. And the cat, too, forgot all about it. A few hours later she was lying on the stove, licking herself as if nothing had happened. It's not for nothing that people say: "A cat's brains!" But I did not forget. No, I did not forget. I said to the cook: "You beat the cat for nothing. You had a sin for no reason. It was a pity for the living. The Lord will punish you." "Will you go away, or else I'll give it you across the face with the towel." That is what "Fruma with the little eye" said to me. And she added: "Lord Almighty! Wherever in the world do such children come from?" * * *