"You can see for yourself!" answers a Jewish woman, and goes on combing the hair of a little girl about ten years old, who has twitched her head from under the comb and stares with great, astonished eyes, at the Goï[91] who talks Yiddish. "Lay your head down again!" screams the mother. "What is the name of your husband?" I inquire. "Mösheh." "And his 'German' name?" "May his name come home!" she scolds suddenly. "He has been four hours getting a dish from the neighbor's!" "Stop scolding," says the beadle, "and answer when you're spoken to!" She is afraid of the beadle. He is beadle and bailiff together, and collects the taxes, besides being held in great regard by the town-justice. "Who was scolding? who? what? Can't I speak against my own husband?" "What is his 'German' name?" I ask again. The beadle remembers it himself, and answers, "Jungfreud." "How many children have you?" "I beg of you, friend, come later on, when my husband is here; that's his affair! I've enough to do with the shop and six children. Go away, for goodness' sake!" I make a note of six children, and ask how many are married. "Married! I wish any of them were married, I should have fewer gray hairs." "Are they all girls?" "Three are boys." "What are they doing?" "What should they be doing? Plaguing my life out with their open mouths!" "Why not teach them a trade?" She turns up her nose, gives me a black look, and refuses to give any further answers. I have an idea: I buy a packet of cigarettes. She looks less disagreeable, and I ask: "How much does your husband earn?" "_He?_ He earn anything? What use do you suppose _he_ is, when I can't even send him to fetch a dish from a neighbor's? He's been four hours already. It won't be thanks to _him_ if we get any supper to-night!" She goes off into another fury. I have to go outside and catch the husband in the street. I knew him--he was carrying a dish! AT THE SHOCHET'S I am greeted by a mixture of different voices. A hero of a cock gives a proud crow, as though there were no such thing as a slaughter-knife in the world. Contrariwise, a calf lows sadly--it would seem to be hungry, while between the boards under the holes in the tall roof chirp quantities of small birds. They have wings and laugh at the Shochet. It is summer, the air is full of insects, men, even the poorest and stingiest, leave crumbs about. Zip! zip! and zip! and zip! zip! zip! The bed in the nest is made, the "he" is decked out in bright colors, the "she" is modest and silent, and the children have had enough to eat! They are warm, and are not "down" in someone's note-book for military service or in connection with the matter of a license. But ask them what is the meaning of a "blemish in the holy offerings!" This question is being discussed by two young men, barefoot, in skull-caps, and undressed to their "little prayer-scarfs."[92]