"A prophet, and one of the smaller kind at that!--Just twelve of them to the dozen. Too tough is his body, too tough are his bones, he pierces my heart with his dancing! "And stones, and bones, and all other kinds of things my stomach has digested; but I am powerless with prophets,--they are a plague not mentioned in the Scriptures. "There does not exist a tender prophet,--you can never eat them or gnaw them. It would be meritorious not to leave a trace of pious men who rummage in your stomachs! "There does not exist a pious man who is tender,--we know that class of heroes! It would be meritorious not to leave a trace of them--with all due respect permit me to say that! "My lords! I feel he is now rummaging in my stomach, oh, help me! It has ever been the business of pious people to rummage in other people's entrails,--that's the kind of a prophet he is, only, alas, he is crooked! "My lords! meseems, he is now mumbling something, and he is writhing and bending up all of a sudden,--you preach in vain, you preach in the wilderness, and you are waiting in vain for an answer! "My lords! I now feel his crawling, his sprawling, it seems, he is praying now a bit! And if I am to endure it much longer, I shall have to abort. Help! Give me a dish full of emetic! "Ich känn nit derhalten sein Dawnen, sein Singen,-- Dās Tanzen arum, wie die Rinder, Die falsche, verwilderte Tnues, dās Springen.... Gewald! Gi't mir Brechwein geschwinder! "Gewald! Gi't mir Brechwein, gi't Zeitungsmaimorim, Gi't Nechbi-ben-Wofsi's Artiklen; Gi't gich Feuilletonen, gi't jüdische Sforim-- Un' thut mir dās All's zunaufwicklen, "Un' macht mir a Mittel zum Brechen, zum Brechen! Gi't Sforim vun spätere Dōres! Gi't Schomer's Romanen, see senen, ich rechen' Zum Brechen vorzügliche S-chōres-- "Gi't Sforim vun neunzehnten klugen Jāhrhundert, Gi't kluge 'Kritiken'--vun wemen Ihr willt sich allein nor; gi't gicher--mich wundert, Wie brech' ich schōn nit bei die Nämen!"-- Beim Breg vun dem Wasser, vun Jāffō bis Tarschisch, Dort hört sich a Žummen un' Brummen-- A Mittel zu Brechen, vun Jāffō bis Tarschisch, Hāt dorten a Fisch eingenummen. Un' still is' un' ruhig; es kraüselt die Nacht sich Un' flecht ihre tunkele Locken; In Himmel die Steren,--see flammen, es dacht sich, Wie gelbliche, goldene Pocken. Un' still is' un' ruhig, es flecht gār die Nacht sich Un' kraüselt die finstere Locken; Es wandelt gār still die Natur, un' es dacht sich, Sie gēht wie auf seidene Socken. "I cannot stand his praying, his chanting,--his dancing, like a calf, his false, barbaric doings,--his leaping.... Help! Give me quickly some emetic! "Help! Give me some emetic, give me newspaper discussions, give me Nechbi-ben-Wofsi's articles. Give me feuilletons, give me Jewish books,--and put them all in a bundle,