woman, swallowing her tears, "how long have I been sitting with flowing, unbraided hair, and thinking that angels are playing with me, that I am the happiest creature! And yet ... ah, and yet...." * * * * * "God grant her," so begins her prayer an elderly woman, a mother of grown-up daughters, "God grant her, my oldest daughter, to be soon united in wedlock, but with more happiness than I have had, with a better lot than I have had with my husband,--may God not visit me with punishment for my words!" Such are the thoughts that fall upon the women, and Stempenju keeps on playing his way: he directs the whole band, and his violin talks eloquently. Stempenju is now playing a sad tune, and his musicians support him. All is quiet, there is no noise, not a sound! All, all want to hear Stempenju. Men fall to musing, women are grown silent. Boys and girls have climbed on benches and tables,--all want to hear Stempenju! "Hush! Keep still! People, let there be quiet!" And Stempenju dissolves on his violin and melts like wax; pitapat is all you may hear. An arm flies up and down,--that's all you may see, and you hear all kinds of voices, and all kinds of tunes are poured forth, all melancholy, sad, so that it tears out your heart, draws out your soul, takes away your life. The people grow faint, the people grow weak in all their limbs; the heart is full to overflowing, and tears appear in the eyes. Men sigh, men groan, women weep ... and Stempenju? But who pays attention to him? No one sees him, no one sees his violin; they only hear his sweet tones, the divine music which fills the whole room.... And Rochele the beautiful who had never die ganze Stub' ... Un' Rochele die schoene, wās hāt noch bis aher nischt gehört Stempenju's Spielen, Rochele, wās hāt gehört, as 's is' dā a Stempenju, nor sie hāt noch nischt gehört asa Min Spielen, stēht un' hört sich zu zu die kischefdige Gesangen, zu die seltene Kōles, un' verstēht nit, wās dās is'. Eppes zieht dās ihr dās Harz, eppes glätt't dās sie,--nor wās dās is' verstēht sie nit. Sie hōbt auf die Äugen ahin, vun wannen es giessen sich die süsse Kōles un' derseht a Pāar wunderschoene, schwarze Äugen, feuerdige Augen, wās kucken gleich auf ihr un' nehmen sie durch, wie Spiesen, wie scharfe Spiesen. Die wunderschoene, schwarze, feuerdige Äugen kucken auf ihr un' winken zu ihr un' reden mit ihr; Rochele will arāblāsen ihre Äugen arāb,--un' kānn nit. --Ot dās is' Stempenju? Asō klährt sich Rochele die schoene, wenn dās Besetzen hāt sich schōn geëndigt un' die Mechutonim hōben schōn ān zu trachten mikōach Führen zu der Chupe. --Wu senen ergez die Licht? frägt Chossen's Zad. * * * * * --Die Licht wu senen? entfert Kale's Zad. * * * * *