As the children grew, Uncle Isaac withdrew almost entirely from business and gave himself more and more to the study of the holy books. The oldest son, named after the sainted grandfather, went to Pressburg to study for the Rabbinate, living from the charity of the faithful, by whom the support of a pious youth is considered a great privilege. The next son married into a rich but not pious family to whom his sacred learning was a very welcome asset. This left the business, such as it was, upon the shoulders of the youngest son, Moschele. Moschele inherited less of his pious forefathers' piety and much more of some remote ancestor's business talents, and one day he came home from a distant market bringing with him a dozen cups and saucers and a wash-bowl and pitcher. Had he brought home idols made of clay he could not have hurt his father more, and the whole town soon knew that Moschele--young Moschele whose eyes had already rested lovingly upon the blushing faces of young maidens--had received a beating from his father, who, in his fury, had broken the cups and saucers, throwing the fragments at the poor, defenseless head of the culprit. Uncle Isaac's temper was equalled only by his piety, and the old man was beside himself. Moschele was in the same mood, and decided to leave his old father with his red pots and green bowls and dry Talmud. I visited Uncle Isaac's store many a time after this event. It was less a store than ever. The house itself was sinking into the surrounding mire, the thatched roof was falling in on one side and sliding off on the other. "Where is Moschele?" I asked him on one of these visits. He lifted his weary head from the Talmud, and extricated from a pile of ancient manuscripts an envelope printed all over with English letters, which announced the business of Jake Greenbaum who kept the "finest General Department Store on Avenue B." in New York. The letter in the envelope told of Moschele's employment in the great city, and of his life there. "Moschele, my Moschele, is in America!" And the tears began to gather in the old man's eyes as he spoke. "Who knows whether he eats Kosher, and whether he wears the sacred fringes upon his breast? How I wish I could see him before I go hence!" I promised to visit Moschele upon my return to America, and the old man's face beamed. "Would you mind finding out whether he eats Kosher, and whether he wears the sacred fringes?"