Un' asō werd wieder der ēigener Gepilder, wās früher; Alle läufen un' me wēisst nit wuhin. Me kwetscht sich, me stuppt sich, me tret't ān auf Masolim, me reisst Klēidlech, me schwitzt, me siedelt die Ssarwers mit die Schamossim, un' see siedlen zurück die Mechutonim, un' die Mechutonim amperen sich zwischen sich,--es is' borchaschem ganz lebedig! S. RABINOWITSCH. before heard Stempenju's playing, Rochele who had heard before of Stempenju, but who had never before heard such playing, stands and listens to the enticing music, the rare sounds, and does not understand what that all means. Something has touched her heart, a soft feeling has passed over her, but she does not understand what that is. She lifts her eyes to the place from which the sweet sounds proceed, and notices a pair of very beautiful black eyes, fiery eyes that are looking straight at her, and that transfix her like spears, like sharp spears. The beautiful, black, fiery eyes look at her and beckon to her and speak to her; Rochele wants to lower her eyes, and she cannot. * * * * * "Oh, that is Stempenju!" So meditates Rochele the beautiful, as the Enthronement is ended, and the parents of the contracting parties are getting ready to lead them under the Baldachin. * * * * * "Where are the candles?" comes the question from the bridegroom's side. "The candles, where are they?" comes the reply from the bride's side. And thus the same noise begins as before. All are running, not knowing whither. There is a jam, and they push each other, and step on people's toes, and tear dresses; they perspire, they scold the ushers and the beadles, and these again scold the parents of the marrying couple, and the parents wrangle among themselves,--praised be the Lord, all is lively! XIII. DER TALMUD (_Jüdische Volksbibliothēk_, Vol. II. pp. 195-197) Alte Blätter vun'm Talmud, Alte Sagen un' Legenden! In mein trauerigen Leben Oft thu' ich zu euch mich wenden. Bei der Nacht, wenn in der Finster Läuft der Schlāf vun meine Äugen, Un' ich sitz' allēin un' elend, Zu der Brust dem Kopp gebōgen, In die trauerige Stunden, Wie a Steren in der blauer Summernacht, hēbt ān zu scheinen Der Sikoren in mein Trauer. Ich dermāhn sich auf die Liebe, Auf die süsse Kindheitsjāhren, Wenn ich bin noch frei gewesen Von mein Kummer, Lēid un' Zoren; Ich dermāhn' sich auf die Zeiten, Wenn ich fleg' dem ersten, süssen, Besten Koss vun Leben, Freiheit, Frēud' un' Lustigkeit geniessen. Ich dermāhn' sich auf die alte, Auf die süsse, liebe Jāhren, Un' die Blätter vun'm Talmud Stēhen auf in mein Sikoren. Ach, die alte, alte Blätter! Wie viel Licht un' wie viel Steren Brennen, scheinen un' see können Ēbig nit verloschen wer'en. XIII. THE TALMUD