It was all about a dog that had been scalded with boiling water by the same "Fruma with the little eye." Ah, how much pain it caused the dog. It squealed, howled and barked with all its might, filling the world with noise. The whole town came together at the sound of his howling, and laughed, and laughed. All the dogs in the town barked out of sympathy, each from his own kennel, and each after his own fashion. One might think that they had been asked to bark. Afterwards, when the scalded dog had finished howling, he moaned and muttered and licked his sores, and growled softly. My heart melted within me. I went over to him and was going to fondle him. "Here, Sirko!" The dog, seeing my raised hand, jumped up as if he had been scalded again, took his tail between his legs and ran away--away. "Shah! Sirko!" I said trying to soothe him with soft words. "Why do you run away like that, fool? Am I doing you any harm?" A dog is a dog. His tongue is dumb. He knows nothing of pity for the living. My father saw me running after the dog and he pounced down on me. "Go into '_Cheder_,' dog-beater." Then I was the dog-beater. * * * It was all about two little birds--two tiny little birds that two boys, one big and one small, had killed. When the two little birds dropped from the tree they were still alive. Their feathers were ruffled. They fluttered their wings, and trembled in every limb. "Get up, you hedgehog," said the big boy to the small boy. And they took the little birds in their hands and beat their heads against the tree-trunk, until they died. I could not contain myself, but ran over to the two boys. "What are you doing here?" I asked. "What's that to do with you?" they demanded in Russian. "What harm is it?" they asked calmly. "They are no more than birds, ordinary little birds." "And if they are only birds? Have you no pity for the living--no mercy for the little birds?" The boys looked curiously at one another, and as if they had already made up their minds in advance to do it, they at once fell upon me. When I came home, my torn jacket told the story, and my father gave me the good beating I deserved. "Ragged fool!" cried my mother. I forgave her for the "ragged fool," but why did she also beat me? * * * Why was I beaten? Does not our teacher himself tell us that all creatures are dear to the Lord? Even a fly on the wall must not be hurt, he says, out of pity for the living. Even a spider, that is an evil spirit, must not be killed either, he tells us emphatically. "If the spider deserved to die, then the Lord Himself would slay him." Then comes the question: Very well, if that is so, then why do the people slaughter cows and calves and sheep and fowls every day of the week?