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THE NEW LAND

Stories of Jews Who Had a Part in the Making of Our Country

by

ELMA EHRLICH LEVINGER


       "A new world, with great portals far outflung,
       Holding a hope more sweet than time had sung,
       To which the Jew, of life's high quest a part,
       A pilgrim came, the Torah in his heart.
       A land of promise, and fulfillment too;
       Where on a sudden olden dreams came true....
       Here grew we part of an ennobled state,
       Gave and won honor, sat among the great,
       And saw unfolding to our 'raptured view
       The day long prayed for by the patient Jew."

             _From "The Jew in America," by Felix N. Gerson_







New York
Bloch Publishing Company
"The Jewish Book Concern"
1920

Copyright, 1920, by
Bloch Publishing Company




                                TO
              _Grandmother and Grandfather Levinger_
               THESE "STORIES THAT REALLY HAPPENED"
                   ARE AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED




A LETTER TO MY READERS.


_Dear Boys and Girls_:

When your grandfather tells you a story, do you ever interrupt him to
ask: "But is it all true?" And doesn't he often answer: "I don't
know," or "I don't know when it's really true, and when it begins to
be like a story book." And so, when you read through my little
book--if you do read right through it to the very last page--you may
wonder whether all my history stories really happened.

Yes--and no! I do know that cross old Peter Stuyvesant of New
Amsterdam hated our people, but I never found any record of the Jewish
boy who wanted to play with the governor's niece, pretty Katrina. The
histories tell us how gallant young Franks became the friend of George
Washington, but none of them mention that the Jewish soldier saved a
Tory from the angry mob.

You understand now, don't you? So I'm going to turn the page right
away that you may read for yourselves of the three Jews who whispered
together on the deck of the "Santa Maria," as Columbus and his crew
crossed the Sea of Darkness in search of a New Land.

                                                      E.E.L.

    NOTE: The author expresses her thanks to the editors of _The
    Hebrew Standard_ and _The Jewish Child_ in which the stories,
    "In the Night Watches" and "A Place of Refuge," originally
    appeared.




CONTENTS.


                                                                  PAGE

IN THE NIGHT WATCHES                                                 9
     _The Three who came with Columbus._

WHEN KATRINA LOST HER WAY                                           14
     _A tale of the First Jewish Settlers of New Amsterdam._

A PLACE OF REFUGE                                                   33
     _How the Wanderer came to Rhode Island._

"DOWN WITH KING GEORGE"                                             39
     _How Isaac Franks, of the American army, first heard the
     Declaration of Independence._

THE LAST SERVICE                                                    52
     _The story of a Rabbi who lived in New York when it was
     captured by the British in 1776._

THE GENEROUS GIVER                                                  68
     _The story of a Jewish money-lender of the Revolution._

ACROSS THE WATERS                                                   88
     _A story of the City of Refuge planned by Mordecai Noah._

THREE AT GRACE                                                     105
     _The story of the first Jewish settler in Alabama._

THE LUCKY STONE                                                    122
     _The adventures of Uriah P. Levy, the first naval
     officer of his day._

THE PRINCESS OF PHILADELPHIA                                       140
     _The story of Rebecca Gratz and Washington Irving._

A PRESENT FOR MR. LINCOLN                                          160
     _How President Lincoln set out for Washington and how he
     returned._

THE LAND COLUMBUS FOUND                                            173
     _The story of the tablet placed upon the Statue of
     Liberty in New York Harbor._




THE NEW LAND


IN THE NIGHT WATCHES

_The Three Who Came With Columbus._


For a while there was no sound save the soft swish-swish of the waves
as the "Santa Maria," the flagship of Columbus, ploughed its way
through the darkness. The moon had long since disappeared and one by
one the stars had left the sky until only the morning star remained to
guide Alonzo de la Calle, crouching above his pilot wheel. The man's
eyes ached for sleep, his fingers were numb from dampness and fatigue,
his heart heavy with despair. "Dawn," he muttered at last, "almost the
last of the night watches; Gonzalo will take my place at the wheel and
I can sleep."

In the shifting light of the ship's lantern, swinging from the mast
above his head, the pilot saw Bernal, the ship's doctor, advancing
toward him; a little dark man, who dragged one foot as he walked. He
would have passed without speaking; but Alonzo, hungry for
companionship, caught his arm.

"You are in high favor with Columbus," he began, "and he confides in
you. Tell me, is he still determined to go on if the next few days do
not bring us to land?"

The ship's doctor nodded almost sullenly, yet there was pride in his
voice when he spoke. "The admiral will not turn back. Not though the
very boards of our three vessels mutiny and refuse him obedience. He
will go on!"

"It is madness. It is already seventy days since we left our fair land
of Spain, and----"

Bernal interrupted him with a mocking laugh. "'Our fair land of
Spain'," he sneered, "is not the land of the Jew nor have we found it
fair." But before he could speak further, the other clapped a warning
hand over his mouth.

"Hush!" exclaimed the little pilot, "Hush! We may be overheard, and,
though our admiral is gentle to the sons of Israel, it might fare ill
with us if the crew were to learn that there were 'secret Jews' on
board. See, some one is coming----. Be silent," and he pointed to one
who moved slowly toward them.

But Bernal laughed. "It is only Luis de Torres, the interpreter, one
of our own people. _Shalom Aleicha_," he addressed himself to the
newcomer, who answered, "_Aleichem Shalom_," but softly, glancing over
his shoulder as he did so.

"Even in the midst of the Sea of Darkness you fear to use our holy
tongue," taunted the physician. "We are no longer in Spain where the
very walls of our houses had ears to hear our _Shema_ and tongues to
betray us to the officers of the Inquisition when we failed to come to
their cursed masses." His face twisted with rage as he pointed to his
useless foot. "In Valencia I was denounced to the Inquisition,
tortured almost unto death. But I escaped with my life; and now
instead of spending my last days in peace in the land of my fathers I
have come on this mad voyage across a sea without shore." He laughed
harshly. "Yet even on these endless waves, I am safer than in the
pleasant land of Spain."

Luis de Torres, who had stood leaning over the vessel's side, turned
toward the speaker, his sensitive face showing pale and grave in the
light of the swaying lantern. "Ah, Bernal," he said sadly, "has not
the whole world become a great sea of endless waves for the unhappy
children of Israel?" He shuddered slightly and drew his rich cloak
more tightly about him. "I am a strong man; but I sicken and grow
faint when I think of the tens of thousands of our brethren we saw
scourged from the land of Spain even as we embarked and our three
vessels were about to leave the port."

"Truly," Alonzo muttered, "truly, even a strong man may wish to forget
what our eyes have seen. Night after night as I stand at my wheel I
can see them, old men and little children and women with their babes.
Where will they find rest?"

"There is no rest for Israel." It was Bernal who spoke in his sullen
passion. "'Twas the ninth of _Ab_ when our brethren were driven
forth--the ninth of _Ab_; the day on which our Temple fell. Then we
were scattered beneath the sky, but we thought at last that in the
land of Spain we had found a refuge. But there is no refuge for
Israel, no rest for Him until death."

The sad eyes of Luis de Torres glowed with a strange light. "Nay,
friend," he corrected gently, "the God of Israel will not forget His
children forever. Who knows that this new route to India, of which the
admiral dreams, may not lead us to a new land, an undiscovered place
where no Jew will suffer for his faith. But, O God!" he cried with
sudden pain, "We have waited so long, and still our people wander and
are tossed to and fro, as we are tossed about by the waves of this
unknown sea. Must each century bring its new _Tisha B'ab_, must we
indeed suffer forever? Where is rest for us? What land will give us
refuge?"

He raised his face to the brightening sky, his hands tearing at the
gold chain about his throat. No one spoke for a moment, nor even moved
until Alonzo turned back to his wheel, his eyes bright with strange
tears. A cry burst from him; a cry of unbelieving joy.

"Land! Land!" and he pointed a trembling finger toward the misty
outlines of palm trees, straight and slender beneath the early morning
sky. Bernal echoed his cry with a great shout and in a moment, from
every part of the ship, men came pouring, wide-eyed and unbelieving
that they had crossed the Sea of Darkness at last. In their midst came
a quiet man; a tall man with iron-gray hair and a firm mouth, who at
first spoke no word, only gazed dumbly at the fulfillment of his
dreams, stretching before him in the silvery light.

"We have reached India," said Columbus at last.

Those about him laughed shrilly in their joy or wept or prayed.
Alonzo, his eyes snapping with excitement, wrenched his wheel with
hands no longer tired, and Bernal, the sneer for once absent from his
lips, gazed with tense face toward the palm trees.

Only Luis de Torres stood apart, his face still convulsed from his
passionate outburst of grief for his people. For, like the others, he
could not know that instead of a new route to India a mighty continent
had been discovered; nor did the unhappy dreamer dream that a very
land of refuge and of hope for the wandering sons of Israel, lay
before him across the smiling waters.




WHEN KATRINA LOST HER WAY

_A Tale of the First Jewish Settlers of New Amsterdam._


The warm spring sunshine forced its way through the tiny
diamond-shaped window panes to fall in a bright pool of light upon the
table cloth and blue cups and bowls Mary Barsimon had brought with her
from Holland. It was a pleasant room, shining with the exquisite
neatness that characterized the dwelling of every Dutch housewife in
New Amsterdam with the same simple, well-made furniture and bright
hand-woven rugs. Yet it differed strikingly in two or three details
from the other homes in the Dutch settlement; on the mantle-piece,
above the blue-tiled fire-place, stood two brass candle-sticks for the
Sabbath, while on the eastern wall hung a quaint wood-cut representing
scenes from the Bible; Abraham sacrificing Isaac, Jacob dreaming of
the ladder reaching up to heaven. This _Mizrach_, Samuel's father had
once told him, hung upon the eastern wall of every good Jewish home,
that at prayer all might be reminded to turn toward the east and face
the site of the Temple at Jerusalem. For centuries the Temple had been
in ruins and the children of those who had worshipped there scattered
to the four corners of the earth. Jacob Barsimon himself had wandered
from Spain to Holland, from Amsterdam to Jamaica, from Jamaica to the
Dutch colony of New Amsterdam upon the Atlantic; yet in all his
wanderings he had brought with him the old _Mizrach_; and he still
taught his twelve-year-old son to pray with his face toward the land
of his fathers.

It was before this _Mizrach_ that Jacob Barsimon stood one early
spring morning in the year 1655, when New Amsterdam was still free
from the rule of the English who were to re-name the colony New York.
He stared at it with unseeing eyes, frowning darkly, his long, slender
hands plucking nervously at the buttons of his coat. Samuel, assisting
the young colored slave girl in removing the breakfast dishes, glanced
at his father from time to time a little nervously, although he could
not recall any prank or misdeed on his part that might have angered
him. But his mother, after watching her husband for a few moments from
her low chair at the window where she sat dressing the chubby
two-year-old Rebecca, broke the heavy silence by asking:

"What is wrong, Jacob? What troubles you?"

For a moment Jacob Barsimon said nothing, but frowned more darkly than
ever. At last he spoke. "Have you forgotten that a month from tomorrow
is Samuel's birthday--that he will be thirteen?"

A tender smile played about the mother's mouth. "Surely, I remember
the day he was born as well as though it were yesterday." She sighed a
little, her hands busy with the buttons of the little girl's dress,
her eyes gazing dreamily through the window. "We were still in
Amsterdam, in dear old Holland, with our own people. Do you remember,
Jacob, how on the day when he was made a 'Son of the Covenant,' your
old uncle acted as godfather and all of our neighbors----"

Jacob Barsimon interrupted her with a bitter laugh. "Neighbors! Yes,
we had neighbors then, our own people, who were with us in joy and
sorrow. But here, Jacob Aboaf and I are merely tolerated by the
burghers. True, they allowed us to land when we came from Jamaica on
the 'Pear Tree.' They have allowed me to trade with the Indies--as
well they might, for even Peter Stuyvesant himself dare not say that
we two Hebrews have ever been guilty of dishonesty in our trading
ventures. But we are not at home here as we were in Holland or
Jamaica; we are aliens and strangers and now comes this last insult to
our people--to refuse them the right of residence here."

Frau Barsimon nodded gravely. "Yes, I know well why your heart is so
bitter with disappointment when you think that it is almost time for
our Samuel's _barmitzvah_ and that save our neighbor, Jacob Aboaf,
there may be none of our own people here to help us rejoice when
Samuel becomes a 'Son of the Law.' And yet," she spoke cheerily
enough, rocking the rosy baby upon her knee, "and yet, who knows but
that by next _Shabbath_ our Jewish friends will be granted the right
of settling here? And if they are still here when Samuel's birthday
comes," she nodded brightly to the wondering boy who had remained near
the table, drinking in every word, "you will have a _minyan_ (ten men
required for a Jewish ceremony) to hear you recite your _barmitzvah_
speech and eat the feast I shall prepare for them." She sprang up
suddenly, the baby tucked under one arm as she began to pile dishes
with her free hand, scolding the slave girl as energetically as she
worked for not having the table cleared. For if Frau Barsimon ever
allowed herself the luxury of a moment's rest or gossip, she never
failed to regain lost time by working twice as hard--and noisily--as
soon as she took hold again.

"Father," asked Samuel, forgetting the cakes and ale of his
_barmitzvah_ party for a moment, "just why won't they let the Jews who
came from South America last fall live in New Amsterdam like the rest
of us? In Holland the Dutch were always kind to our people and in the
Indies they allowed you to trade in peace."

Barsimon did not answer until the slow-handed, sharp-eared little
slave girl had followed his wife into the kitchen. When he spoke his
voice was tinged with a harsh bitterness. "Wiser men than you have
asked that question, my boy, and no one has yet found an answer. True,
Holland and those lands ruled by the Dutch have been places of refuge
for us. No wonder that the poor souls who left Brazil in the 'St.
Catarina' hoped to receive honorable treatment here at the hands of
the burghers. It may be that they fear the rivalry of our brethren in
trade, if more of us be allowed to take up residence in New Amsterdam.
And perhaps," he spoke with a sort of grudging honesty, "perhaps, one
can scarcely blame the worthy burghers for mistrusting the newcomers
and refusing to grant them welcome. They were unfortunate enough to
have been robbed at Jamaica where they rested on their journey; when
they reached here there was the disgrace of an auction in which their
goods were sold to pay for their passage, and two of the passengers,
David Israel and Moses Ambrosius, were held for security. You remember
how a law suit was brought against them by Jacques de la Motthe,
master of the vessel, for this same passage money; and although the
matter is now settled, some of our honest citizens are not ready to
welcome strangers who they believe are little better than vagabonds
and paupers."

"But, father," protested the boy, "a goodly number out of the
twenty-seven who came on the 'St. Catarina' last autumn have received
gold from their brethren in Holland. All except the very poorest one.
And I heard mother telling Frau Aboaf that you could ill afford giving
all you did to help the poor widow on board the 'St. Catarina'
and----"

"Jacob Aboaf and I have done but little,"--half-growled Barsimon, as
though ashamed of the charity he was always ready to do by stealth.
"And they were our brethren." He became silent again, striding to the
window and scowling out into the bright spring sunshine. At last: "But
perhaps we have managed to serve them with our pens as well as gold.
Jacob Aboaf and I, with a few of our good Dutch townsmen, have written
to the directors of the Dutch West India Company in Amsterdam, praying
that these Jews, now forbidden lodging here, be allowed the rights and
privileges, of all good citizens. The directors should listen to our
plea, for a large amount of the company's capital comes from Jewish
purses. We might have heard favorably from them long ago had it not
been for the stubborn hatred of Governor Stuyvesant, whose letters
have poisoned their minds against us."

"But we have never harmed Governor Stuyvesant," observed Samuel, "so
why should his hand be against us?"

Jacob Barsimon laughed grimly, lowering his voice as he answered, for
he was a cautious man and did not care to risk having his words
carried through the town by the little slave girl Minna, now
clattering the breakfast dishes as she moved about the kitchen. "Does
Peter Stuyvesant ever need a reason for his follies?" he asked dryly.
"His head is as hard as his wooden leg and never a new idea has
pierced his brain since the day he was born. He hates our people with
as much reason as our black Minna fears witches and the evil eye. It
is said that he has written to the directors at Amsterdam, begging
that none of the Jewish nation be permitted to infest New Netherlands.
He has used those very words in public places; infest the colony and
be like a plague of hungry locusts. Perhaps he really believes the
evil things he says of our brethren. Even eyes as shrewd as his may be
blinded by hate. And one can understand his bitterness, his hardness
of heart toward all mankind. His post here is not easy, harrassed by
the savages on our borders, the Swedes, even the English, who have
already cast covetous eyes upon this rich port. While his private
life--" the man's stern face grew rather tender--"has not been very
happy. It is said that he left a half-sister in Holland, the one
creature he ever loved or who knew his kindlier side. A few months ago
her husband died and she dared the voyage with her little daughter
that they might make their home with the governor. But the vessel was
lost at sea and she was drowned. Only a sailor or two and several
passengers survived and one of them brought the little girl to Peter
Stuyvesant."

"I heard Minna tell of her," interrupted Samuel. "She says that once
she helped the governor's cook carry the Sunday dinner home from
market and she saw little Katrina playing on the great stairway of
Peter Stuyvesant's house. Minna says she has long golden curls and her
eyes are blue--blue as the little flowers that grow near the Wall
every spring. I wonder we never see her, father!"

Barsimon sat down on the low settle beside the window and lighted his
long pipe, puffing thoughtfully and gazing into the smoke as he spoke.
"I would not have you repeat this, son, for it may be but idle gossip.
But it is reported that since her mother's death the child has become
the idol of the governor's hard, old heart. He is filled with foolish
fears that he may lose her as cruelly as he lost her mother before
her. He scarcely ever permits her to stir abroad and then only when
she is followed by one of his faithful black slaves." He arose with
his characteristic abruptness, and walking to the chest of drawers
across from the fire-place, changed his black silken skull cap to the
broad-brimmed hat of his Dutch neighbors. "Forget what I have said,"
he told his son, briefly. "We live here only on sufferance and must
guard our tongues. But you are a good lad and I know I need never
regret having confided in you. And now study your _barmitzvah_
portion. Even if the folk from the 'St. Catarina' are deported before
your birthday and there is no _minyan_ here and we can have no real
feast in your honor, I would have you do your sainted grandfather
credit and please your mother who has waited so long for the day when
you should be old enough to be considered a man among our people." For
a moment his hand lay kindly upon the boy's shoulder; then, with a
shrug as though to shake off any foolish tenderness for the son he
loved so dearly, he passed out of the house.

Samuel watched him from the window until his stolid, heavy-set figure
disappeared down the winding road. Then, finding his portion in the
Hebrew book which his father treasured so highly in those days when
printed Hebrew books were still a rarity, he sank down on the settle
and tried to concentrate on the task which his father had left for
him. But more than once his dark eyes glanced from the heavy Hebrew
characters to the pleasant scene that lay beyond the window; a scene
one would never associate with crowded, bustling New York of our own
day; the low, comfortable looking houses of the Dutch burghers,
nestling under the great trees; the well-scoured windows blinking like
so many sleepy eyes in the warm spring sunshine. It was a day for
dreaming and adventure, not for study.

For a little while the boy sat with his head resting upon the low
window sill, his young mind busy with half-formed fancies, most of
them circling about his talk with his father concerning the unhappy
passengers of the 'St. Catarina.' Would the unfortunates be obliged to
seek shelter elsewhere, or would they be allowed to dwell in New
Amsterdam? If so, perhaps in time other Jewish families might come,
bringing with them boys of his own age, among whom he might find a
real playfellow. He sighed a little wistfully at the thought, for he
had no close friends among the sturdy young Dutch lads of the
neighborhood. Even a girl would be better than no one, he thought; not
a mere baby like his little sister, but a girl old enough to play with
him, to visit the Indians dwelling a little beyond the Wall, to wander
with him to the other end of the settlement and stand upon the sea
shore, searching for shells or lying upon the shining sands and
weaving fantastic dream stories, too foolish for older and wiser folks
to hear.

The boy fell to dreaming now, sitting there in the warm sunshine, for
he was a quiet, thoughtful lad, unaccustomed to playing with youths of
his own age, given to day-dreams and fairy legends. Today, as he half
reclined on the settle near the window, his busy young brain painted a
picture so strange that even Samuel himself had to smile over it; for
as he gazed through the window with half-closed lids, the dusty road
and little Dutch houses faded away and he seemed to see a shining,
white street with tall buildings on either side, and many, many
people--more than he had ever seen in his life, even in Amsterdam
across the seas--hurrying to and fro. He had heard his father say,
nodding gravely over his pipe, that some day little New Amsterdam
would be one of the greatest sea ports in the world. Jacob Aboaf had
hooted at his friend's prophecy; but as he recalled it today, Samuel
did not laugh. His day dream was very real to him, and when his mother
came into the room she found him staring through the window with a
strange smile about his mouth.

Frau Barsimon was a busy woman, with no time for day-dreams and she
was often annoyed (and secretly alarmed) at her son's tendency to
wander off into a world of his own making. Now she shook him, but
gently, and spoke with her usual briskness.

"Samuel, Samuel, have you nothing better to do than sit nodding like
an old spinning woman in the sunshine?"

The boy started guiltily, indicating his open book with a shame-faced
laugh. "Father told me to study--_barmitzvah_," he faltered.

His mother shrugged goodnaturedly. Pious Jewess that she was, she was
often inclined to quarrel with her husband who, she declared, was too
fond of keeping the boy tied to his Hebrew lessons. "He needs a strong
body now," she used to say when demanding an extra play-hour for
Samuel. "When he is older and his head is less stuffed with dreaming
it will be time enough to cram it with your learning. But first let
him play out in the open air until he is tired and the fresh wind has
blown all his nonsense away." She was thinking the same heresy that
moment, but all she did was to smile goodhumoredly and pull the boy to
his feet. "Out of doors with you," she commanded, gayly, "and I will
speak to father. Take a walk--a long one, and when you come back you
will be able to study without falling half-asleep over your book."

Samuel needed no urging. A moment later he had kissed his mother
good-bye, helped himself to a handful of sugar cookies from her blue
crockery jar, and was whistling down the dusty road, feeling strangely
anxious for some adventures; adventures as heroic as his father often
related before the fire on winter evenings. His mother might have
thrown up her hands in despair had she seen the dreamy look in his
large eyes. True, he was no longer drowsing on the settle, but as he
swung along under the soft spring sky, he saw himself the hero of a
hundred fantastic tales--the captain of a trading-vessel bound for the
Indies; the commander of a company of daring youths of his own age,
all ready to resist the Indians when they should seek to fall upon New
Amsterdam; again, a pirate with a plumed hat and a flashing sword. So,
lost in dreaming, he wandered on down the quiet streets to the Wall
which marked the boundary of the Settlement.

Suddenly realizing that he was tired and hungry, Samuel threw himself
upon the grass, and taking his cookies from his pocket, began to munch
them contendedly, wondering just what heroic deed he should plan for
his next undertaking. But in the middle of a bite he stopped short,
sitting up suddenly and rubbing his eyes as though he had been asleep
and feared he was still dreaming.

There on the grass beside him sat a little girl, almost his own age he
judged; a little girl with golden hair and eyes as blue as the flowers
growing in the young grass about them. To the simple lad she seemed as
richly dressed as a fairy princess, for her frock was of flowered
silk, she wore silver buckles upon her little shoes, and her daintily
flounced cap was fastened at either ear with a quaint medallion of
beaten gold. Samuel took in all of these details slowly, half afraid
to speak lest he should drive away the delicate little creature, who
had risen from the grass and now stood poised for flight like a gaily
tinted butterfly. Then she spoke, and he knew there was very little of
the fairy about her and that she was almost as human as himself.

"Boy," she said in unmistakable Dutch, pointing to the half-eaten cake
in his hand, "boy, give me that. I am hungry." She spoke like one
accustomed to instant obedience, taking the cake without a word of
thanks and eating it prettily, her large blue eyes never leaving
Samuel's wondering face. When nothing remained, she again held out her
hand, with her pretty, imperious gesture. "More," said the little
lady, and Samuel gave her his last cooky, wishing heartily that he had
brought his mother's blue crockery jar along for the little lady's
pleasure.

"I'm sorry," he said humbly, "but I ate the others before I knew you
were coming. They are good, aren't they? Does your mother ever bake
sugar cakes?" he ended in a desperate attempt to make conversation.

She shook her blond head. "My mother is dead," she told him. "She was
drowned and I would have been drowned, too, but a brave sailor held me
tight until he found a spar and he tied me to it and we floated and
floated and floated until a big ship passed us and brought us here."
She spoke between bites, very calmly, as though her tale, as thrilling
as any of Samuel's dream adventures, was no uncommon story for a
dainty little maid to tell on a spring morning.

"Now I know who you are," Samuel exclaimed, forgetting his shyness in
his delighted surprise. "Your name is Katrina and you live with the
governor and your mother was lost at sea."

Katrina, having finished her cooky, pensively picked up the few crumbs
from her lap as though she were still hungry. "I live with Uncle
Peter," she corrected. "He is very good to me and gives me pretty
presents;--he gave me these on my birthday," and she touched the gold
medallions upon her ears complacently. "Only he never lets me go out
and play alone like the other little girls who sometimes visit me say
they do, and I get tired of staying in the garden. And when I go out
walking with old black Daniel behind me, it is just as hard as staying
at home. I want little girls and boys to play with and take me
places;--I get tired of my dolls," she ended wistfully.

Samuel nodded with understanding sympathy. To have this little
stranger maid listen to his stories or follow him on his lonely
rambles! If he might even go to play with her sometimes in the garden
behind Peter Stuyvesant's house. He frowned at the thought: it was not
hard to picture the old governor falling into one of his rages at the
insolence of the Jewish boy who dared to walk down the garden path.
And yet what fun they would have had with every bush a mysterious
fairy castle, every tree a pirate ship to take them across the Main.
He sighed regretfully, turning to listen to his companion's bright
chatter.

"I suppose they're looking all over for me," she laughed
mischievously, "cook and black Daniel and Uncle Peter, too. Won't he
be cross! He was so cross this morning when he got a letter from
Holland, a big letter with a big red seal, and he'll be crosser yet
when I'm not home for dinner." She tossed her sunny curls defiantly.
"But he won't dare to scold me; he'll scold everybody else and shake
his cane at them, but he won't dare to be cross to me."

"But I think you ought to go home," suggested Samuel. "It isn't right
to worry your uncle so when he is so good to you and gives you such
nice presents."

She made a roguish little face. "I can't go home," she giggled,
teasingly, "I've never been out alone and I lost my way almost as soon
as I left the garden. So I'll just have to stay here all day until
somebody from home comes and finds me." She sprang up, shaking out her
silken skirts, dancing gayly in her little buckled shoes. "Come, boy,"
she commanded imperiously, "Come and play with me." She fumbled in
the pocket of her black satin apron and drew out a tiny worsted ball.
"Let's play ball," she cried, "and then we'll run races and climb that
tree over there and maybe you can tell me stories when I'm tired. My
old nurse in Holland used to tell me brave tales, but I don't like
those black Daniel tells--all about charms and goblins. Do you know
any nice stories, boy?"

"Yes, a few," admitted Samuel modestly. His cheeks, usually so pale,
were flushed with excitement; the little playfellow of his dreams
seemed to have come to life in the flower-strewn meadow. He caught the
bright ball she tossed to him and laughed with pleasure. "You catch
wrongly," he chided her, "but I like to play with you."

The afternoon sped on golden wings. Perhaps neither of the children
would have dreamed of the lateness of the hour had not Katrina
interrupted Samuel in the middle of one of his glowing tales,
exclaiming, "I'm hungry, now. I wonder what cook has for supper?"

Samuel started. The story of the old sea captain he had been telling
his new friend was very real to him; he could almost see the old,
ancient, weather-beaten vessel, hear the waves beating on the shores
of that distant island where the golden treasure lay hidden for so
many years. Now his dream people faded away and he saw that the sun
was setting and felt the air growing chill and damp about them. He
rose a little wearily and helped Katrina to her feet.

"We must go home," he said, gravely. "Perhaps we did wrong to stay so
long, but it was fun to play together, wasn't it? And did you like my
stories?"

She nodded, bending to pick up the bouquet he had gathered for her
earlier in the afternoon. "I like them as well as the tales my nursie
used to tell," she commented, approvingly. "You'll show me the way
home, won't you?"

Hand in hand, they walked slowly back to the dusty street that led to
the governor's house. At the gate, Samuel was about to bid his little
friend good-bye, but she caught his hand and drew him in after her.
"Oh, you must stay," she protested, "you must stay and let Uncle Peter
thank you for bringing me home. And I want you to tell me another
story after supper. You must come in!"

"But my mother will be worried," declared Samuel, "and father----"

"We'll have Daniel go and tell them you are here," she solved the
problem easily. Then she ran up the broad stairs, crying gaily, "Oh,
Uncle, I've had the loveliest time," as a short, stern-faced man
appeared in the doorway; a man with a silver-banded wooden leg and
leaning on a heavy cane.

"Katrina!" he exclaimed with some sternness, but she pulled his hard
face down to hers for a kiss.

"I've had such a lovely time," she cooed, "and this nice boy found me
and brought me home. Thank him, Uncle Peter, and have him come in and
tell me some more stories."

Samuel drew back; but the governor nodded for him to enter, and,
feeling miserably shy and uncertain of himself, he followed the pair
into the house. The room they entered was richly furnished, but
gloomy. Samuel, boy that he was, felt how much lovelier his mother's
simple living room was with its shining brass and the few plants
blooming at the window. The governor sat down behind a long table
littered with papers and drew Katrina to his knee, at the same time
motioning Samuel to be seated. Then he spoke, stroking the child's
golden curls, his keen eyes growing gentle as they rested upon her
pretty face.

"You have been of service to my little girl and I will do my best to
reward you," said Governor Stuyvesant, kindly. "What will it be, my
lad, a velvet suit brought over in the last cargo from Holland, or a
golden chain?" Suddenly the eyes he turned upon Samuel grew cold and
keen again. "You are not one of us, yet I have seen you before. Who is
your father and what is his trade?"

"I am Samuel, the son of Jacob Barsimon," answered Samuel, and
suddenly all his shyness left him and he gazed fearlessly into the
governor's face. "And my father is an honest merchant of New
Amsterdam."

"Yes--and of the tribe of Israel," muttered the old man, his brow
darkening. "I wish my little one might have been indebted to another
this day; but I am as honest a man as your father and what I promise,
I keep. So name what reward you will for the favor you have rendered
me--and be off."

Samuel rose, his face flushing with anger at the man's insolence, yet
glowing with a hope he hardly dared to utter even to himself. For the
time had come, he believed, when he might play the hero, as he had
done so many times before in his dreams. "I want no reward," he
answered quietly, "but if you would render me favor for favor, I would
ask you to withdraw the restriction you have placed upon my
brethren--those Jews who sought these shores on the 'St. Catarina' and
who desire to make their homes here."

The governor smiled grimly. "A true Jew," he muttered, with a sort of
grudging admiration for the boy's boldness, "ever ready with his
bargain! But I have no longer the power to grant you or refuse you
your request." He picked up from the table a long, bulky envelope,
from which dangled a red seal. "This came this morning from Holland.
Tomorrow I must tell the burghers that the gentlemen of the Board of
Directors of the Dutch West India Company have over-ridden my
suggestions; they write that I must admit these Jews, provided that
the poor among them shall not become a burden to our community, as
they at first seemed likely to be, but be supported by their own
nation." Again his grim smile. "No fear of that, when even a boy like
you thinks of his people before gifts for himself. I wish," he half
mused, "I wish that we had at least that virtue of your stiff-necked
race."

Little Katrina, grown weary of all this, slipped from her uncle's
knees and took Samuel's hand in hers. "Come into the garden," she
commanded, "I want you to see my rose bushes and my new kittens and
the swing, before supper."

Samuel's eyes sought the governor's face, half-he told her, gently.

Her eager face clouded. "Then you will come and play with me
tomorrow?" she asked.

Samuel's eyes sought the governor's face, half-defiantly,
half-wistfully. "When your uncle sends for me, I will come," he said,
and, bowing in a manner that would have delighted his careful mother,
he left the room. Katrina was about to follow him, but her uncle
called her back rather sternly.

"Nay, do not pout, my pretty," he told her, "for I will try to find
you a worthier playfellow than the son of a Jew trader."

Samuel walked home slowly through the April twilight. In the harbor he
could see the dim outlines of the 'St. Catarina,' which had in truth
brought the Jewish wanderers to a home in New Amsterdam. But Samuel
was not thinking of the wanderers who, after their months of weary
waiting, could look toward the future with hopeful eyes; nor did he
feel relieved that, since they were not to be deported, the newcomers
would surely come to his _barmitzvah_ party. At that moment he thought
only of the golden-curled fairy princess who would never romp and play
with him again.




A PLACE OF REFUGE

_How the Wanderer Came to Rhode Island._


It was bitter cold. The icy wind howling through the forest caught up
the snow and whirled it in great eddies against the trees. Reuben
Mendoza, staggering through the blinding snowflakes, hugged his little
son Benjamin closer to his heart, and prayed desperately that the
storm might cease or that he might soon come to a place of refuge. His
own limbs were aching with fatigue and cold. He had eaten nothing
since early morning and was faint with hunger. Wearied and heartsick,
he would have been glad to lie down upon the ground, to sink into
sleep, perhaps a painless death, with the snow drifting above him; but
he knew that he must struggle on for the sake of the child he was
warming in his bosom.

Suddenly Benjamin, half asleep and numb with the cold, stirred a
little and complained drowsily that he was hungry. His father paused
for a moment and pressed his lean, bearded face against the child's
rosy cheeks. "Be patient, little one," he comforted him, "for soon we
shall find a lodging for the night. Surely, no one would turn even a
Jew away in a storm like this."

Again he plodded on, footsore and discouraged. The wind lashed him
like a whip, and, when he raised his head, the snow cut across his
forehead like stripes of fire. His lips moving almost mechanically in
prayer, Reuben faltered through the storm, until at last utterly
exhausted he stumbled to the ground. He tried to gain his feet again,
for he thought he saw a light glimmering through the trees; but he was
too tired to go farther. Why should he try to reach that light, he
asked himself, as he dreamily stretched his tired limbs in the snow.
But he felt little Benjamin moving beneath his cloak, and with one
last effort he crawled through the drifts, clinging to the trees as he
moved. A few moments later he found himself before a little shack. A
single tallow candle shone through the window and cast a path of light
before his weary feet. Reuben lurched forward against the door; it
opened beneath his weight and he fell within the hut. He had a dim
vision of two men bending over him; some one was taking little
Benjamin from his arms; then the warm darkness wrapped him about like
a cloak, and he knew nothing more.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Reuben opened his eyes, he found that he was resting upon a couch
of skins in one corner of the hut. It was a poor place; the walls were
bare, and through their chinks snows drifted upon the frozen earthen
floor. Beside the pallet there was no furniture in the room save a
roughly hewn table and several chairs. Near the table sat two men, the
one dressed in rich garments, a sword at his side; the other clothed
in dull gray, with a broad white collar and a plain beaver hat. This
man held little Benjamin on his knee and stroked his dark curls as
the child drank greedily from the steaming cup which the kind-eyed
stranger held to his lips.

Reuben sat up among the skins and noticed in surprise that his hosts
had removed his wet garments and replaced them with a long, warm cloak
of bearskin. What manner of men were these, he asked himself, who
treated a Jewish wanderer so kindly? As he advanced timidly toward the
table, the man in gray turned to him and held out his hand.

"_Shalom_," he said smiling.

Reuben took his hand, astonished to hear the tongue of his fathers in
the wilderness of the American forests. "_Shalom aleichem_," he
faltered. "But you are not a Jew."

The other shook his head and answered him in English, a language
Reuben had learned from the trading Englishmen and adventurers he had
met while in South America. "No, but I am a minister and have studied
the Hebrew tongue. And I love its greeting of 'Peace.' Would that my
people were lovers of peace, even as your's have been for so long."

Benjamin ran to his father. "Father," he cried, "the good gentleman
gave me warm milk to drink and bread to eat and this fine cloak to
wear," and he proudly smoothed the robe wrapped about his chilled
limbs.

The man in gray motioned Reuben to sit beside the table and placed
food and drink before him. Half-famished, Reuben ate and drank, almost
fearing that it would disappear as a feast sometimes does in a dream.
For surely he was dreaming: when in all his wretched wandering life,
had people not of his own religion given him food and shelter and
received him with gentle words?

His host sat upon the couch, holding Benjamin upon his knee. Now and
then he spoke to the dark, haughty man who sat watching everything
lazily from beneath his half-closed lids. Twice he asked Reuben
whether he desired more food or drink. At last when the guest had
satisfied his hunger, the host asked him from what place he had come
and to what spot he meant to journey when the storm was over.

"I know not," answered the Jew. "My father's family was driven from
Spain. They fled to Brazil, and later settled in Cayenne, where among
our brethren from Holland we found a resting place until the French
destroyed our homes and drove us forth to be wanderers on the face of
the earth. When this child's mother died, I longed to go to a far
country where I might forget my grief a little and begin life anew. So
I took my son and came here with other voyagers to your colony of New
Amsterdam. But there they gave me no welcome, because I was a
Jew;--even in this new country some there are who hate the children of
Jacob." He leaned forward, his thin face alight with a wistful hope.
"But there they told me of a new colony in the far wilderness,--a
colony where men of every race, of every creed, were welcome. Far off
in the swamps and forests, they said, a man named Roger Williams had
established a refuge for all those who were persecuted and despised,
and had proclaimed that no man would be troubled there for the sake of
his religion, that each inhabitant might worship the God of his
fathers in peace. So I took my staff again and my burden upon my back
and my little child within my arms, and set out for this place where
my son might grow up a free man, and not be called upon to forsake the
faith for which we suffered in Spain."

The man in the velvet coat leaned across the table and spoke to Reuben
in Spanish. "I, too, came from Spain," he said, "and I, too, came as a
refugee; yea, with a price upon my head, for I had been denounced to
the officers of the Inquisition and was doomed to die. Yet I am a good
Catholic and loyal, and did not deserve their hatred. Those who are
not of my faith in this new land mistrust and despise me; but here, in
the colony of Rhode Island, I may follow the religion of my fathers,
and Roger Williams has given me his hand in brotherhood."

The quiet man rose and again held out his hand to the Jewish wanderer.
"And now I give my hand to you," he said, heartily. "My colony of
Rhode Island has need of men strong enough to die--yes, and to
live--for the faith they will be allowed to follow here in peace and
in safety."

But Reuben had caught his hand and pressed it to his heart. "You are
Roger Williams, the friend of the oppressed," he said brokenly.

"Yes," answered Williams, "and this day have you found a refuge with
me and my people." A look of solemn hope lighted his gentle eyes.
"'Tis but a lonely spot in the wilderness, and we are few in number;
but some day this wide land will be a refuge to the oppressed of every
nation, and all those who are persecuted and despised will find a home
within its borders."

Little by little, the winds outside ceased to drive the snow against
the trees; the branches no longer tossed and creaked in the gale; a
great white hush seemed to bless the quiet earth. The Spaniard who had
walked to the window blew out the taper and pointed toward the rosy
clouds. "Dawn is breaking," he said softly, and, bowing reverently
above his rosary, began to tell the beads as he recited his morning
prayer. Williams took a large Bible from the shelf above the couch,
opened it, and, having read his morning psalm, covered his face with
his hands as he knelt beside his chair to pray. With a great joy
warming his heart, Reuben, no longer a wanderer on the face of the
earth, put his arm about his son, and drew him to the window that he
might look upon the land that his children's children and those who
came after them were to inherit as their home. Then he drew his faded,
tattered _talith_ (shawl worn in prayer) from his pack, put it about
his shoulders, and, facing the glowing east, the home land of his
fathers, he praised the God of Israel who had brought him to this
place of refuge. "_Ma tobu oholekha_" ("How goodly are thy tents"),
prayed Reuben, and he sobbed like a child.




"DOWN WITH KING GEORGE!"

_How Isaac Franks, of the American Army, first heard the
Declaration of Independence._


The news had spread like wild-fire that day in early July, 1776.
Although there was not one of the American recruits stationed in New
York under General Washington's command who had not heard something of
the great happenings in Philadelphia a few days before, every soldier
felt his heart beat faster under his buff and blue coat at the thought
that he, too, would hear the Declaration of Independence read before
the army. They stood waiting in their ranks, the first army of the
Republic: raw farmers like those who fell at Lexington, bronzed
backwoodsmen whose rifles had brought more than one lurking red-skin
or savage forest beast to earth, with here and there a student, fresh
from his books, or a merchant who had left his desk to fight for his
country. And today they were to hear, stated simply and eloquently for
all time, for what principles they fought.

In the ranks stood a slender, dark-browed boy of about seventeen. The
muster roll gave his name as Isaac Franks, the simple record holding
no promise of the day when the Jewish boy, a distinguished veteran of
the Revolution, should entertain President Washington as his guest.
Today young Franks stood undistinguished among the other eager
patriots and the future president was only the leader of an army of
untrained "rebels", knowing full well that a traitor's death awaited
him if his campaign against the British proved unsuccessful.

"I wish the general would come that we might hear the document and be
dismissed," remarked Franks to the soldier who stood at his side; a
tall, raw-boned youth about his own age. "This hot sun is enough to
melt granite and we have been assembled for almost two hours."

The other, also wearied and over-heated, looked him over with a sneer.
"A fine soldier with your complaints!" was his jeering comment. "I
wonder to see a Jew in our ranks, but you'll not cumber us long, I'm
thinking. You Jews are fit only for trading and money lending--not
fighting. You'll melt away quickly enough in the heat of your first
battle."

"Listen to me, Tim Durgan," retorted Franks, quietly enough, but with
a dangerous sparkle in his eyes. "I've endured your sneering ever
since I came to camp and I'm growing weary of it, too. I didn't know
why you wouldn't be friends with me, when I've never done anything to
offend you; but if it's because I'm a Jew--"

"I want no Hebrew coward for a friend of mine," was the surly answer.

"You can call me a coward as much as you like--I'll show you you're
wrong when we face the redcoats. But you're not going to insult my
people--understand?"

Tim laughed contemptuously. "How are you going to stop me?" He looked
down at Isaac who was a full head shorter than himself and of
slighter build. "Going to fight me?"

At that moment the long lines of buff and blue straightened as one man
and a murmur of "the General" passed down the ranks. Franks, the angry
flush slowly dying from his cheeks, straightened his shoulders and
gazed straight ahead; but he was not too intent on the arrival of
General Washington to fling a fierce aside to his tormentor: "That's
just what I intend to do if you don't take it back--fight you until
you do!"

But a moment later all private hates and insults were forgotten as the
boy looked toward the general, his soul in his eyes. Seated upon his
great horse, the sun streaming upon his noble, powdered head and broad
shoulders, the commander of the American Army looked what he later
proved himself to be--an uncrowned king of men. A long, vibrating
cheer rose from the soldiers' throats; then died away as Washington
raised his hand for silence.

The young officer who rode beside him unrolled a piece of paper he
carried, and read in a loud, clear voice the words which today every
school boy knows or should know by heart. But the boys and men,
pledged to fight and die for their country, heard them for the first
time that day and thrilled at the rolling sentences of the Declaration
of Independence, which declared them free forever from the rule of the
British tyrant, King George III.

"We hold these truths to be self-evident," the noble words rang forth
to the listening soldiers, "That all men are created equal; that they
are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that
among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness." An
answering thrill awoke in every heart. Isaac Franks felt his lashes
wet with sudden tears. The son of a nation of exiles, Jews driven from
land to land from the days the Romans ploughed the place where once
their Temple stood, he could appreciate the blessings of a home land
where even the despised Jew might know the meaning of equality and
liberty and justice. Then he thought of the taunts of his comrade and
his face hardened; but only for a moment was he depressed. In
America--the land which had pledged itself to grant equal
opportunities to all men--his was the opportunity to show what the Jew
was worth. He would teach Tim and his fellows that the descendants of
David and the Maccabees were soldiers worthy of their ancestors.

Smiling a little grimly, he turned his face again toward the young
officer and listened with stirring pulses to the charges brought
against the British king; boy that he was, he realized that he and his
companions were fighting not the English people, but a servile
Parliament and an unworthy ruler who, according to the Declaration,
was indeed a "tyrant unfit to be the ruler of a free people." How he
wished that King George himself would cross the ocean to frighten the
colonists into submission; he would much rather meet him in battle
than any of his overdressed officers or those wretched Hessians, sold
by their ruler like so much cattle to do battle for a country in which
they had no interest. Well, anyhow, Isaac told himself resolutely, he
would do his best to defeat the redcoats--but he would teach Tim
Durgan a well-needed lesson first!

"And for the support of this declaration," ended the reader, "with a
firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually
pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor."

Silence at first--then a mighty shout from the assembled soldiers. The
air rang with cries of "With our lives--With our honor!" as the men of
the new Republic pledged themselves to fight for the faith she had
just declared to the world. Isaac Franks looked toward Washington; the
Virginian sat leaning forward slightly in his saddle. His usually
calm, almost cold face was working with emotion; his lips moved as
though he were about to address his men. Then he leaned toward the
officer who had read the Declaration and murmured something in a low
tone. The latter turned to the army.

"The general hopes," the clear tones rang forth, "that this important
event will serve as an incentive to every officer and soldier to act
with fidelity and courage, as knowing that now the peace and safety of
the country depend, under God, solely on the success of our arms and
that he is in the service of a state possessed of sufficient power to
reward his merit and advance him to the highest honors of a free
country."

Slowly the soldiers broke ranks, the dullest man among them touched
and awed as though he had attended a new church and had consecrated
himself to her service. For a moment Isaac Franks forgot his jeering
comrade and his own threats; he walked to his quarters, head high in
the air, eyes looking far away, as boy-like he dreamed of the days
when a grateful commonwealth would "reward his merit and advance him
to the highest honors of a free country." He walked on air, painting
the future in the bright colors known only to seventeen, forgetful of
the world about him, until he was recalled to earth by a mocking laugh
and the question: "Still want to fight, Jew soldier?"

Franks stiffened and turned to face his tormentor, his face hot with
anger. "Yes, I'll fight you this minute," he answered so loudly that
several soldiers passing by overhead his words and stopped to see the
fun. "And thank you for reminding me, Durgan."

He pulled off his coat with a deliberate calm he was far from feeling
at that moment, for he knew only too well that his opponent was vastly
superior to him in strength and perhaps in experience as well. But
Isaac did not hesitate in spite of the goodnatured advice of big Bob
MacDonald who stepped up at that moment: "Let him alone, son--you
can't whip him and it's no use to try."

But Tim had already taken off his coat and stood leering down upon
Isaac who felt that he could never retreat now; that he would always
despise himself as a coward, a traitor to the heroes of his race.
Setting his teeth for the drubbing he felt certain he would receive,
he struck out blindly. Then he felt a hand grip his arm so tightly
that he winced with pain, and looking up, saw that General Washington
stood beside him.

"Well, men?" the commander's voice was very stern. "Have you nothing
better to do than spend your time brawling like a couple of tavern
roisterers? Give me a good and sufficient reason for such behaviour or
I'll have you both tied up and flogged to teach you to act like
gentlemen and soldiers of the American Army."

His quiet eyes scanned the flushed, angry faces of the two lads. He
turned sharply to Franks. "I am waiting!" he said.

For a moment Isaac wavered. He had heard enough of Washington's sense
of justice to realize that if the chief knew his reason for
challenging Durgan he might escape with a slight reprimand, or even a
word of praise for defending his race. But only for a moment. A
gentleman and a soldier in the American Army, young Franks decided,
did not tell tales. He shook his head.

"I am sorry, your excellency," he answered, respectfully, "but I
cannot tell you the reason of our quarrel since it concerns only
ourselves."

Tim Durgan, who had waited for Isaac's accusation with a mocking smile
about his mouth, gave an incredulous whistle. The despised "Jew
soldier" was a man after all, who would risk undeserved punishment
rather than betray a comrade, no matter how much he hated him. In his
sudden admiration for the boy he forgot his awe of General Washington
and burst out before he was granted permission to speak.

"I'll tell you, Excellency," he cried, warmly. "I've been plaguing and
tormenting the lad and for no fault of his own. I never saw a Jew in
my whole life before I joined the army, but I'd heard tales of them;
cowards and afraid of their own shadows. And I teased the boy, never
knowing he'd mind, and when he did I just kept on to spite him. And
when he threatened to fight me, I wanted to laugh, for you can see for
yourself, Excellency, that I'm taller and broader than he and could
toss him about if I'd a mind to. But he wasn't afraid and if you
hadn't come up, he'd have tried to fight me all the same." He paused
for breath, smiling broadly, and held out his hand to Franks. "It's
all my fault, Your Excellency, and I'm willing to take what I ought to
for it, but first let me shake hands with him and tell him such a game
cock ought to've been born an Irishman and no mistake."

The general smiled as the two clasped hands. Then: "I am sorry I was
disorderly, Your Excellency," apologized Franks. "I would have tried
to forget a personal insult but I could not stand by and allow my
people to be slandered. But I know now that he did not understand."

"It takes a long time for some of us to understand, my boy," answered
the general slowly, and, so thought Isaac, a little sadly, too. "But
some day, God grant it, we will all understand the words you both have
heard today and America will know no distinction of race, creed or
station--only the worth that makes a man." He turned suddenly to Tim
Durgan. "You come of a fighting breed, my man," he said warmly, "and
just now when you confessed your fault you showed true courage. I need
fighters as strong as your Irish ancestors; learn to fight only for
our country and forget your petty quarrels and prejudices." He placed
a kindly hand on Isaac's shoulder. "And a boy who is as loyal a Jew as
you, must be a loyal American. I hope you will always carry yourself
as honorably as you did today. What is your name, my lad?"

"Isaac Franks, sir," answered the boy, flushing beneath his
commander's praise.

"Isaac Franks of this city?"

"Yes, sir. I have always lived in New York and I enlisted here."

"Then you must be the boy of whom Colonel Lescher spoke to me. He said
that you were so eager to serve that you even bought your own uniform
and field equipment. I expect to hear from you again." He was about to
pass on, then paused to add kindly: "And since this is a holiday
afternoon, why not spend it abroad instead of wrangling here. Now,"
with a slight smile, "my Hebrew David and my Irish Jonathan, be off
with you; and hereafter keep your blows for the British," he added,
half jestingly, as he walked off, leaving the two lads staring
somewhat sheepishly at each other as they strolled a little apart from
the others.

Tim was the first to speak. "It was great of you not to tell when he
asked you," he said warmly. "And if I can ever make up to you for what
I said about Jews--" which proves that Tim Durgan never made a foe or
a friend by halves.

"We'll forget all about that," answered Franks lightly. "But we've
wasted a good part of the afternoon already. Let's take a long walk
and drink to our friendship in some good brown ale. I know a tavern
near Bowling Green where there's always jolly company and a full
measure for a men in uniform."

Chatting idly together, the two began their walk through the camp,
passing rapidly down the crowded streets. There was a great stir in
the city, for the storm clouds of hate against the British ruler which
had been gathering for so many months had suddenly burst at the news
of the signing of the Declaration at Philadelphia, and the air was
heavy with protests of loyalty to the new government, and threats
against King George. So when Tim and Isaac reached Bowling Green it
was an excited crowd that they found there, gathered about the leaden
statue of King George III; men and half-grown boys, with here and
there a soldier enjoying his half-holiday.

"One would think the British were already here," Tim growled
goodnaturedly. "If these merchants would stop cackling together like
the hens in my father's poultry yard at home, and shoulder a gun, we'd
drive Master George's tin soldiers and the Hessians back across the
water so quick they'd hardly know they'd been here at all."

From the confused murmur of many voices came one rumbling cry which
the boys caught and smiled to hear: "Down with King George! We are
free men. Down with King George!"

A thin little man in a black coat elbowed his way to the base of the
statue from which vantage point he tried to address the crowd.
"Friends," he quavered, as the uproar died, the idle mob ever ready
for some new amusement, "friends, don't be too rash. Look before you
leap. We are only a handful of untrained farmers and merchants. The
armies of King George----"

But before he could speak further, the crowd suddenly broke lose with:
"Another cursed Tory! He is in the King's hire!--Drag him down!--Hang
him to a tree to teach other Tories and traitors to hold their
tongues!"

The suggestion was like a fire brand to dry timber. Before the two
soldiers on the outskirts of the crowd could fully realized what had
happened, a stout apprentice lad in a leather apron had procured a
rope which another brawny fellow flung around the Tory's neck. He
tried to plead for mercy but his voice was silenced by the howling of
the mob, so desperate in its rage against the king that they sought
blind vengeance on their victim for daring to speak in his behalf.

Isaac started forward, his face white and tense. "Come, Tim," he
cried, "We must make them set him free."

The Irishman shrugged. "A Tory more or less! Let them hang him and
welcome."

Isaac Franks did not answer. He only pushed his way through the mob,
the crowd giving place to his uniform. He knew he could do nothing
against them single-handed; yet he felt that he could not let this
innocent man die. And, curiously enough, he thought less of the Tory's
fate than the shame that would fall upon the people of his native
city, if they committed such a crime in their reckless fury. He neared
the front where several older and cooler citizens stood trying in vain
to persuade the angry patriots to release the Tory. Then a splendid
thought flashed through his quick mind, and springing lightly upon the
leaden statue, he cried in a ringing voice: "I come from General
Washington."

The magic name hushed the angry crowd. They waited eagerly for the
boy's words.

"I serve the general of the American Army," continued Franks, "and I
am as loyal as any of you, for I carry a gun to defend my country
while you do nothing but cackle, cackle like the hens in a poultry
yard." The crowd, quick to respond to every suggestion, laughed
goodhumoredly at Tim's mocking description which was now standing his
friend in good stead. "And you have as much brains as the hens in a
poultry yard," continued the boy, following his advantage, "for
instead of pulling out the roots of your trouble, you attack this poor
fool who never saw King George and is not even one of his soldiers."
He leaned down and half pulled the rope from the Tory's neck. "He is
not worthy the honor of hanging. Use your good rope to haul down the
statue of his Gracious Majesty, King George III--which has cumbered
our city too long. And melt the lead into bullets which the soldiers
of General Washington will use against any Briton who dares to enter
our New York."

A roar of applause broke from the crowd. "Down with King George!" they
cried as a dozen eager hands pulled the rope from the frightened
Tory's neck and flung it about the statue. The Tory, only too glad to
make his escape, crept away unnoticed in the crowd, already intent
upon pulling the leaden effigy to the ground. They tugged as one man,
that howling, maddened mob until with a great crash the deposed statue
of the hated British king lay upon the ground. Then: "Bullets" was the
cry, "bullets for our soldiers," as, laughing and shouting, the
citizens of New York dragged the statue away to be melted into bullets
for colonial rifles.

Isaac Franks looked longingly after them. But he knew that it would
soon be time for "taps" and he dared not be late. With a little sigh,
he turned his face toward the camp, where, under General Washington,
he hoped to learn to become a good soldier of the Republic.




THE LAST SERVICE

_The Story of a Rabbi Who Lived in New York When it Was Captured
by the British in 1776._


A Sabbath hush brooded over the garden of the Rev. Mr. Gershom Mendes
Seixas, minister of New York's one synagogue, _Shearith Israel_. The
tall pink and white hollyhocks that bordered the prim paths nodded
languidly in the warm September breeze. From the trees came the
twitter of sparrows, now low and conversational, now high and shrill,
"just like people in the synagogue," thought little David Phillips, as
he strolled in his grandmother's garden on the other side of the
hedge. And if David had pulled aside the white curtains of the Rabbi's
study windows, he would have seen that the same Sabbath peace filled
the low-ceilinged room, the walls covered with books, most of them
rather forbidding in their musty, leather bindings. A peaceful,
restful room on the Jewish rest day; but, boy as he was, David would
have seen at a glance that Rabbi Seixas was not at peace with himself.
A keen-eyed, quick-moving young man of about thirty, he paced
restlessly up and down between the bookshelves, his hands clasped
behind his back, his brows knit in thought. Several times he glanced
at the tall clock his father had brought from Lisbon; it would soon be
time for him to go to the synagogue; but what message had he to give
his people?

Down the quiet street came the roll of drums, and David rushed to the
gate, wishing with all his heart that he might follow the soldiers.
But he knew that his grandmother expected him to take her to the
synagogue, and he did not dare to leave the garden; instead he stood
kicking holes in the path with his shining Sabbath boots which at that
moment he hated with all his might, just as he hated the ruffles of
fine linen that his grandmother had painfully stitched for him with
her loving, rheumatic old fingers, and his Sabbath suit in which he
was never allowed to romp or play. And at that moment, with the
British actually knocking at New York's front door, one could hardly
blame a small boy for growing impatient at the restrictions of a
doting old grandmother, no matter how much she might indulge the
orphan grandson whom his dying father had left in her charge the year
before. If he were only a man, thought David, longingly; only old
enough to be with General Washington's troops across the river. But a
ten-year-old boy, who couldn't even play the drum like Frank Morris,
the apprentice lad who had run away to join the army, couldn't serve
his country any better than a feeble old lady like Grandma or a
minister like the rabbi next door.

The roll of drums had startled the rabbi as well as his young neighbor
and he now appeared in his garden, walking with swift, nervous steps
to the gate. At first, he did not seem to see David; only stared down
the road with wide, eager eyes, his hands gripping the rails of the
gate until his knuckles showed hard and white; then, as the drums grew
fainter, his shoulders relaxed a little, he sighed deeply, and,
turning toward David, nodded kindly, even smiling, as though he had no
deeper thought in his mind than giving his young friend a Sabbath
greeting.

"Good _Shabbas_," said the rabbi. "I see you're all ready for service,
my lad."

"Yes, sir. I'm just waiting for Grandmother." From far off came the
last sound of the drums. "Did you hear the drums, sir? I wonder
whether more of our troops are coming to the city."

The minister's face darkened. "Rather the American troops are leaving
it, I fear," he answered gravely. "Mr. Levy who came by early this
morning told me that four British ships have already passed up North
River, and that there are about the same number anchored in Turtle
Bay. They may make a landing at any time--and if they do----" he
smiled somewhat grimly, "well, I fear, my lad, that we will be living
in a British province."

But David had heard too much from his cousins in Philadelphia of the
glorious doings of a few months before, the Declaration of
Independence signed in July, the ringing of the great Liberty Bell.
And he answered as sturdily as any other boy of 1776 might have done:
"No, sir. The British may take the city, but no true-born American
will submit to their rule."

Rabbi Seixas smiled a little at his fire. "But what will you do,
David? They are already at our gates. From what I have heard not even
General Washington, lying across the river with his troops, can stay
the British now. General Howe will hold a tight rein over the city
and we must learn to bow our shoulders to the yoke."

David stiffened his small shoulders stubbornly as though he actually
stood before the hated English officer. "The good people of Boston,"
he began, proudly, "were not afraid of the redcoats--" then stopped,
for his older companion did not have to remind him of the fate of the
Boston citizens shot down on the public common by the soldiers of King
George.

"Ah, little David," said the minister, sadly, reading his thoughts,
"we will be just as powerless before our foe as our ancestors were
before the Philistines."

A merry twinkle sparkled in David's eyes; he was a bright little
fellow and he had not studied Hebrew and Jewish history all the long
winter with the Rev. Mr. Seixas without learning a few lessons very
helpful in time of need. "Didn't David and his sling frighten the
whole Philistine army away?" he asked, mischievously.

The minister did not smile. "But the Lord was on David's side," he
answered, gravely. "Today he seems to have deserted His People."

Down the street came a man whose white hairs might have marked him as
aged had not his bright eyes and resolute bearing spoken of undying
youth. He paused a moment at the gate, bowing to the Rabbi with all
the formal courtliness of his day.

"Good _Shabbas_, Mr. Gomez," said the minister. "You are on your way
to the synagogue?"

"Yes. Perhaps it may be the last service we will have in _Shearith
Israel_ before the cursed British guns blow our roof about our ears,"
answered the older man. "Alas, Mr. Seixas, when you were elected our
Rabbi but a year ago, I predicted a long and fruitful term of service
for you in our midst. But now--" a hopeless shrug completed the
sentence.

"Believe me, I shall not fail in my duty as long as I serve the
congregation of _Shearith Israel_," answered the young Rabbi, rather
stiffly.

"I know--I know." The white head nodded gloomily. "You will do what
you can as a priest, but this war must be won by men. I have lived
almost seventy years, Mr. Seixas, and have always sought to be a good
Jew and hold up the hands of those who served the Lord, as I know you
strive to do. And in times of peace, a man of your learning and purity
of heart is a worthy leader. But in these times that try men's souls,
we need not priests, but men," he repeated and walked slowly away.

"What did he mean, Mr. Seixas?" asked David as the old man disappeared
down the street. His eager little ears had taken in every word of the
conversation; but he had not dared to ask questions while his elders
were conversing, and had remained silent as a well-bred lad of his day
was taught to do. "Does he mean we shouldn't have rabbis and ministers
when there's a war?"

The rabbi shook his head. "Not exactly that, David. But perhaps he
wishes that today we had fighting priests like the old Maccabees,
those men who went to battle with swords in their hands, prayers in
their hearts. And old Mr. Gomez is a fit descendant of those heroes,"
he cried with sudden warmth. "Old as he is, he offered to form a
company of soldiers for service and enlist himself. When he was told
that he was too old to take the field, he said: 'I could stop a bullet
as well as a younger man.' It is such a spirit that wins wars, David."

"That's splendid!" exclaimed the boy. "I know how he feels--just
sitting around New York and waiting for the British to come and rule
over us! If I were only old enough to go and fight, too! I wish,"
wistfully, "I were grown up like you. Then I wouldn't have to be here
today, waiting to go to the synagogue with Grandmother. I'd be with
Frank and General Washington and be fighting for my country."

The minister's cheeks flushed; he winced as though the boy's innocent
words had hurt him deeply. When he spoke it seemed that he was almost
thinking aloud; that he had forgotten his young companion on the other
side of the hedge.

"How can I lay aside my clergyman's cloak for the soldier's uniform?"
he asked, slowly. "And how can I leave my bride of a year--perhaps
never to return to her? And my people--I have not been with them any
longer: surely, my duty is to them; to guide and lead them in this
time of danger and uncertainty. Otherwise I would be like a shepherd
who rushes off to fight the robbers of the mountains, while his flocks
are torn by wolves that ravage close at hand."

He spoke as though he were reciting the words of a speech already
written and learned by rote, thought David, half-wondering if the
minister weren't learning his sermon for that morning. For how could
the boy know that Mr. Seixas had again and again repeated to himself
the very arguments he was now uttering aloud for the first time.
Suddenly the young man who had stood like one in a dream, leaning upon
the gate, his eyes looking far way, turned toward him and smiled
almost in apology.

"Have you wondered at my words, little David?" he asked, almost
lightly. "Ah, in days like these, one says many strange and unheard-of
things. I have tried to refrain from speaking, for now mere words are
idle and of little worth. But when I think of my New York--the city in
which I was born and reared--in the hands of the British, I must
speak, or my heart would choke me." His hand tugged at the linen stock
about his throat. "God of Israel," he muttered, "in these dark days,
give Thy servant light to see Thy ways--and strength to follow them."

David, feeling strangely awkward at hearing his rabbi pray, save in
the pulpit, looked longingly at the house, hoping that his grandmother
would come out and end the discussion which was becoming a little
difficult for him. But he knew how long it always took her to don her
Sabbath silk and long gold chain and earrings, and resigned himself to
listen, should the Rev. Mr. Seixas care to talk to him further.

For a few moments there was silence between them. Then the rabbi
turned to David again and continued to speak to him as though he were
really grown up, and not a little boy who had studied Hebrew and
history with him all winter.

"I am not afraid to go into battle," he said quietly, "but I feel
that it will take far more bravery to fight for our country right here
at home. I must be on hand to cheer and comfort my people; to teach
those who lose their dear ones on the battlefield to look to our God
for consolation; to teach those who stay at home to do their part too,
even if it be but knitting and baking dainties for our soldiers. That
will be easy," he mused, "but how can I endure living here under
British rule, feeling myself a slave among a slave people?" He threw
back his head, his eyes glowing with the light of battle. "Our people
have wandered, many of them, from Spain to Holland, from Holland to
this blessed land, to be free; how can I, a leader in Israel, bow down
to the sons of Belial who will come among us!" His hands clenched the
wickets of the gate; he breathed hard and was silent.

As he spoke in ringing tones, an almost forgotten picture flashed
before David's eyes. He was listening again to the rabbi's story of
the days when the Romans besieged Jerusalem and laid it waste and took
the people captive. He remembered how Mr. Seixas had glowed with pride
when he told of those ancient Jews--"Fighters all, David, who could
not live as slaves."

"Mr. Seixas," asked David, suddenly, "in the old days when the Romans
burned the Temple and everything, what did the rabbis do? Did they
fight like Bar Kochba and the other generals?"

With a visible effort, the rabbi wrenched himself back to the present.
"The Romans"--he repeated, vaguely. "What did the rabbis do?" Again
his voice thrilled with pride as it had done when he had first told
the child the story of Bar Kochba's rebellion. "They were brave men,
David; priests and warriors. Rabbi Akiba did the thing I must try to
do--kept the fighters brave and loyal; and when he could do no more,
he died as bravely as the bravest soldier of them all."

"But there was one rabbi who didn't die," insisted David. "I forget
his name, but I liked him better than all the others because he got
the best of the Romans. Don't you know--he pretended he was dead and
had his pupils take him to the Emperor in a coffin, that the guards
wouldn't stop them when they passed the gates. And when the Emperor
asked him what he wanted, he said 'Just let me build a school and I
won't trouble anybody! What was his name, Mr. Seixas?"

"You are thinking of Rabbi Johanan ben Zakkai," answered his teacher,
slowly. "You are right--he did 'get the best of the Romans,' as you
say. He would have died rather than breathe the air of a Roman court
like Josephus; instead he continued to fight the enemy of his people;
he handed down to his disciples the sword with which they were to
fight through the centuries."

"What sword?" asked David, puzzled.

"Not a real sword; the study of our Law, our Torah. He opened a school
at Jabneh, you remember, and there he taught his scholars to be good
Jews, even though Jerusalem was destroyed." His eyes widened and again
he seemed to be looking far away. "Jerusalem was destroyed, even as
the city of my hope will be taken from me. But Rabbi ben Zakkai
escaped to Jabneh and continued the battle there!" He spoke almost in
a whisper and a strange light glowed in his face. "Have you been sent
to teach me the truth, David? Truly, 'out of the mouths of babes and
sucklings hast Thou ordained truth.'"

Mistress Seixas appeared at the doorway, a bright-faced young woman,
pretty in her Sabbath finery of gay silk mantle and flowered bonnet.
"I am all ready, Gershom," she told her husband as she came down the
path.

"And I am ready, too, Elkallah," he answered so gravely that David
felt he meant much more than the simple words implied.

David, as a boy who was not yet _Bar Mitzvah_, sat beside his
grandmother in the _Shearith Israel_ synagogue that bright September
morning, while the drums beat in the streets and the frightened
citizens buzzed excitedly in knots upon the street corners, this man
contending that the British would be defeated before they even crossed
the Sound, his neighbor declaring that on the morrow the redcoats
would surely be encamped in the city. Within the synagogue, the Jewish
citizens of New York continued to hold their Sabbath services. A
goodly assembly they were; Jews of proud blood from Spain and
Portugal, descendants of the early settlers in New Amsterdam, when the
city of New York was still in the hand of the Dutch; a sprinkling of
_Ashkenazim_, German and Polish Jews, who at that time were too few in
number to have a congregation of their own. There were many children
and young people there, pupils and graduates of the religious school
the congregation had founded almost fifty years before for the
teaching of Hebrew, modern languages and the common branches. While
among the men sat sturdy patriots, Samuel Judah, Hayem Levy, Jacob
Mosez and others whose names had appeared on the Non-importation
agreement in 1769, when they with their gentile neighbors had dared to
protest against the tyranny of Great Britain. Benjamin Seixas was
there, too, one of the first Jews to become an officer in the American
Army and several other Jewish soldiers in their uniforms of buff and
blue sat nearby; while directly before him, his alert face thrust
forward, sat old Mr. Gomez, drinking in every word of the sermon the
young rabbi delivered after the Sabbath services were over; an English
sermon, destined to make Jewish history in America.

At first Rabbi Seixas spoke quietly enough, reviewing for his people
the causes which had led up to the break between the mother country,
England, and her colonies. He spoke of the tyranny of the king and his
slavish Parliament, the unjust taxes, the quartering of troops upon a
law-abiding and peace-loving people. With quiet bitterness, he
repeated the old story of the children of Israel who demanded that
their prophet Samuel set a king over them, and of the prophet's
warning that only evil would come to a people who served a king
instead of the Lord of Hosts. "And today," went on Mr. Seixas, "today,
we the people of the Thirteen Colonies have a king over us far more
tyrannical and unjust than the oriental monarch Samuel painted of
old. To this day have I been silent, breathing no word against this
Pharaoh of Egypt, for the mission of Israel has ever been peace, and
next to God we have been loyal to the masters He has set over us. But
in times like these we are serving Him best by defying those who rule
in His name, but know not His laws of mercy and of justice. The time
has come at last for us to enter the Valley of Decision. Where will
you stand now, my people, when the redcoats thunder at our gates?
Shall we bow before Pharaoh? Nay, the same God who rescued our fathers
from the Pharaoh of Egypt will rescue us and all who call upon Him,
from this new tyrant who would bend our necks and fetter us like very
slaves."

There was a solemn hush in the synagogue, broken only by the murmur of
the passing crowds outside, the distant roll of drums. For the first
time that morning David was glad he had not been allowed to run off to
see the soldiers. This was not an every-week sort of sermon about
keeping the Sabbath or about some dead kings with long, hard names;
the rabbi no longer seemed just a quiet man in a dark coat who had a
great many books and knew everything and taught him Hebrew and
history. Instead, he appeared like those splendid fighting priests he
had mentioned that morning, a man who talked to God--and held a sword
in his hand while he prayed.

For a moment Mr. Seixas stood before his congregation, looking down
into the tense, upturned faces, yet past them, as though his eyes saw
visions no other man there might see. Perhaps he was thinking of what
a great step he had just taken; how his words had outlawed him forever
in the sight of the English king; had made him an exile from the dear
city of his birth. Again his hands clutched at his stock and he
breathed with difficulty, but only for a moment. For his eyes met
those of his young wife, Elkallah, and he smiled to reassure her and
give her comfort. When he spoke again, his voice was low and clear,
but as strong as a trumpet call in battle.

"Tonight, perhaps; surely, tomorrow, the British will have entered our
city--but they will not find me here. For I will not serve the Lord in
a sanctuary from which Freedom has departed. I will leave the city and
seek for a place of refuge where the soldiers of the colonies fight
for freedom. And, my people, I ask you in the words of Mattathias,
that warrior priest of other days--'Those who are on the Lord's side
follow me!'"

Again a long silence, then an uproar from every side. "He speaks
truly! It is slavery if we remain!" "I cannot leave my property to be
confiscated by the Crown." "The British will never take the city."
"They will be here by sunrise." And suddenly little David's shrill
voice ringing above the others, although he never realized until hours
afterwards, when he was reprimanded by his grandmother, that he had
dared to speak out with all the older and wiser members of the
congregation:

"O Mr. Seixas, please take me along, too! I don't want to live in New
York any more if the redcoats are here."

"And I will follow you," cried another voice, "although my fortune be
forfeit and my land be seized by the king."

"And I--and I," rang out from every corner of the synagogue.

Some were silent, those who were to remain behind, and as Tories, know
the friendship of the invaders. But the greater part of the
worshippers, those whose ancestors like the Pilgrim Fathers had come
to these shores to seek freedom before God, responded to their rabbi's
call like true soldiers about their standard bearer.

"All that the Lord hath laid upon us, that will we do," cried out a
very old man, rising to his feet and trembling with age as he spoke.
"My eyes are dim, but He will not close them in death until they
behold the rising of the sun of freedom upon these blessed shores."

He spoke like an ancient prophet and a hush like death fell upon the
people. Slowly, like a man in a dream, Rabbi Seixas walked to the Ark
and took from it the Scrolls of the Law; with the eyes of a man who
sees visions he clasped the Torah to his breast and spoke: "When
Jerusalem was destroyed, Rabbi Johanan ben Zakkai rebuilt a spiritual
Jerusalem in the little town of Jabneh where the faithful ones sat at
his feet and learned the Law. I will not leave our precious Torah
behind me to be used by those who remain here to serve King George
instead of the King of Israel. Some time, some place God will
establish a refuge for His faithful ones and there will we worship Him
as free men." He spoke with a great hope in his heart, although at
that moment he never dreamed how during the darkest days of the
Revolution he would be allowed to labor and serve in Philadelphia
until he should return to New York in triumph to witness the
inauguration of George Washington as president of the United States.

At a word from the minister, the _Shammas_ (sexton) and several
members of the congregation quietly removed the velvet curtains from
the Ark, taking the silver pointer, the _Ner Tamid_ (perpetual light),
all the sacred symbols which had made their worship beautiful for
Sabbath after Sabbath during the years of security and peace. The
congregation sat motionless, like people in a dream. Laying the Torah
aside, Mr. Seixas came forward, his hands raised in blessing. His
voice was tremulous with tears as he spoke: "_Yevorekhekha Adonai
we-yishm'rekha. Yaer Adonai panov eilekha wi'chunekha. Yisa Adonai
panov eilekha weyasem lekha shalom._" (The Lord bless thee and keep
thee. The Lord make His face to shine upon thee and be gracious unto
thee. The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee and give thee peace.)

Then, the Scroll again close to his heart, he passed among the silent
worshippers out into the warm September sunshine.

One by one the people followed him as he stood before the synagogue
where he had hoped to serve so many useful years. His face was grave,
but his voice was firm, his bearing unafraid. His young wife,
Elkallah, stood proudly beside him. Though threatened with exile, she
held her head like a queen. From the synagogue came old Mistress
Phillips, leaning upon David's arm. "We will miss you sorely, Mr.
Seixas," she said, sadly, "both as rabbi and as neighbor. I--ah, I am
too old to leave the city where I was born. But perhaps I will send
David to his cousins in Philadelphia."

"But I won't stay there," cried the boy, his cheeks flaming with
excitement. "I'm going to be a soldier--just like the Maccabees." He
raised flashing eyes to his teacher's face and something that he saw
there made the happiness die out of his own. Boy that he was, he
realized the ache in the rabbi's heart at leaving his work and his
friends behind him.

"I'm sorry you have to go, Mr. Seixas," he said simply.

The young minister turned his somber eyes back toward the synagogue
which he had entered a year before, his heart burning with great hopes
for the future. Now, with the Torah in his arms, his congregation
scattered, he felt himself a fugitive on the face of the earth. He
looked about him at the older folk like Mistress Phillips whose dying
bedside he might never comfort, at the little children he could no
longer teach. Lastly he looked down into the tearful eyes of his young
bride--a bride of a year, with exile and hardship before her. Then he
straightened his shoulders and spoke bravely.

"Some day," said Rabbi Seixas, "I will return to serve our God in a
city that He has made free."




THE GENEROUS GIVER

_The Story of a Jewish Money Lender of the Revolution._


Jonas Schmidt, one of the jailors of the Provost, the grim old prison
in New York, where the British had confined their numerous French and
American prisoners after capturing the city from Washington in 1776,
stood before Sir Henry Clinton, the English commander, shifting
uneasily as he fumbled his cap with his great, hairy hands. Sir Henry
looked him over coldly with his quiet, keen eyes that cowed man and
horse alike; then he turned to his companion, General Heister,
Commander of the Hessian mercenaries, purchased by the British king
and sent overseas to fight his battles.

"We can get nothing out of this man," he said in a tone of cold
contempt. "He is either too stupid--or clever enough to appear so!--to
answer our questions." He nodded to the embarrassed jailor. "You may
go now. But remember: if escapes become too numerous, I may find it
necessary to use the gallows in the courtyard yonder and find another
jailor for my prison."

Jonas bowed respectfully and lost no time in putting the door between
him and Sir Henry. Tory though he was, the old man hated the English
commander with all the strength of his simple soul. He had been eager
enough to secure the situation of jailor at the Provost, never
dreaming of the horrors he might see there. Now, sickened with the
prison stenches, with the half-starved prisoners wasting away with
fever and dying before his eyes, he thought longingly of his little
farm up in the hills where his placid wife and two stout daughters
lived as peacefully as though the colonists had never rebelled against
the mother country and hardly knew that the British held New York.
"Too stupid to answer," muttered the old man, swinging his heavy keys,
as he passed down the prison corridor. "But I am wise enough to hold
my tongue when it profits me nothing to endanger the necks of better
men than Sir Henry Clinton. Let him use his own eyes, if he will; mine
will be shut when good Mr. Salomon chooses to walk abroad," and he
chuckled softly as he passed down the dark, damp corridors.

Sir Henry's teeth clicked angrily as the door closed behind the
jailor. "Well?" he demanded of the Hessian Commander. "Well, since
this man seems to bear out the reputation for honesty you gave him, it
seems that we are on the wrong trail. Yet I mistrust this Haym
Salomon, though our friendly jailor declares that he knows naught
against him. It might be well to keep a stricter watch on this Jew
broker in the future."

General Heister nodded emphatically. He was far too good a diplomat to
quarrel with Sir Henry or to waste breath defending a man whom the
Englishman mistrusted. "I only know that he is a man of rare parts,"
he said, "a man who has traveled much before coming to America and has
become versed in many tongues. That is why, when I found him among
the captured Americans two years ago, I deemed it better to use him
and his talents rather than confine him with the others to rot and die
of the prison fevers. So I have allowed him greater freedom than the
other prisoners and found a place for him in the commissariat
department where his knowledge of tongues and his Hebrew shrewdness
have proved of great value to me."

Sir Henry gave a short laugh. "That Hebrew shrewdness of your learned
friend may have proved of equal value to several of the French and
American lads who have lately escaped from our prison. No, do not
remove him--just yet. Give the rogue a long enough rope and he may
find it dangling around his own neck on the scaffold out yonder." He
turned to the sheaf of papers before him, pushing back his fine lace
ruffles. "Enough of Haym Salomon. He will be my care hereafter. Now go
over these lists with me, Heister," and he began to turn the closely
written sheets with his long, nervous fingers.

At that moment Jonas, the jailor, was talking in low, excited tones to
a man he had stopped in one of the prison corridors, a grave-faced man
with shrewd eyes and a tender mouth which smiled now at the other's
earnestness.

"I can only warn you, Mr. Salomon," repeated the little jailor, "that
Sir Henry is watching you as a chicken hawk watches a tender pullet.
Many a time have I lost a choice fowl through the appetite of those
accursed thieves," he added, half to himself, as his mind wandered
back to his quiet farm. Then, pulling himself back to the present: "I
know that many things go on in this prison which--which might not suit
the pleasure of his majesty over seas, but," with a shrewd chuckle, "I
cannot be every place and if a lad or two does escape--well, may the
dear God be as gracious to my one boy should he fall into the hands of
your George Washington and his rebels. But, Mr. Salomon," detaining
the quiet man in the black coat who was about to pass on, "do not take
too many risks just now. Do not allow your kind heart to lead you into
danger. For if you are discovered being--ah--too kind to some of our
prisoners, I cannot save you from Sir Henry. Promise me," laying one
of his great, red hands on the other's arm, "promise me, you will
attempt no more 'prison deliveries' until his suspicions are quieted."

Haym Salomon shook his head. "I am sorry to cause you anxiety, my
friend," he answered, kindly, "for you have been a good friend to me.
And I will try to be careful--if I can. But first there is a promise I
must redeem. When that debt is paid, I will try to behave so
discreetly that even Sir Henry Clinton will own his suspicions of me
unfounded."

"A debt to be paid!" The jailor looked puzzled. "Why, you are one of
the richest brokers in New York. If you owe any money, give me a word
to your wife and I will see that the debt is discharged and your mind
at rest."

Salomon shook his head, smilingly. "It is a debt money cannot pay," he
answered. "I have pledged my word and that has never been broken, nor
can I break it now." He passed on and the jailor looked after him, a
look of mingled respect and affection on his fat, stupid face.

A place of horror even to a well man, the old Provost meant
unspeakable tortures to a youth slowly recovering from prison fever.
Young Louis di Vernon, lying upon the dirty wooden floor, faint from
the fever and sick for home, turned longing eyes toward the grated
door which had not swung open since Jonas had entered with his
breakfast of bread and water for the prisoners. But Haym Salomon had
promised to come later in the day and the boy waited confidently, for
like many others he trusted the quiet man with the shrewd eyes and
tender mouth.

At last the door opened and Jonas enter the room, wooden bowls of a
sticky, floury substance he called "gruel" on his tray. He passed
between the men, leaving his bowls besides them on the floor. When
they complained of thirst, he stopped for a moment to ladle out a
dipperful of water from the wooden pail he carried upon his left arm,
while now and then he stopped to hear some complaint of a weary man,
to promise aid or seek to jest away the prisoner's melancholy.

"The broth too salt?" he repeated, gravely. "How can that be when one
of your rebel friends serves behind the soup kettle this month? Now if
a poor Hessian or loyal Englishman like myself were cook, you might
have reason to complain that he spitefully over-seasoned your
victuals. Or is it that the cooking of your rebels is as evil as your
politics?" And again: "Too crowded, eh? Well, some folks are never
satisfied and you'd be among the growlers, my friend, if you slept on
down and fine linen. Why among the well prisoners, 'tis so cramped for
space that when their bones ache from the floor at night and they
would turn, they find themselves wedged in so tight that not a man can
budge till I give the order, 'Left, Right!' when they turn in a solid
body and ease their weary sides. And you, who sleep in what they would
consider a palace, poor souls, call yourself suffering for room."

He had reached Louis by this time and his quick eye noted how flushed
the lad was, while his eager glance kept turning toward the grated
door. With an impatient gesture the Frenchman pushed away the bowl the
jailor set beside him. "I am sick of prison fare," he cried, hotly.
"When I left France to follow Lafayette I never dreamed that I might
die of prison fever in a hole like this. Take away your food; the
sooner I starve, the sooner I am free."

Jonas looked him over sympathetically, but could say nothing of
comfort; instead he pushed the bowl toward him again, thinking,
perhaps, the dinner might do something to restore the boy's peace of
mind. But the prisoner again shoved him aside and sat up, his eyes
straining toward the grated door, where some one now rattled the bars.

"Let me in, friend Jonas," said the voice of Haym Salomon, "and I
promise not to steal any of the good dinner you have brought your
fledglings."

The heartsick prisoners smiled at the poor jest and more than one man
turned eagerly as Jonas unlocked the door and admitted the Jewish
broker, a prisoner like themselves, yet bringing with him the free
air of the outside world. Haym passed from one to the other, with
here a smile, there a word of comfort or bit of quaint philosophy.
Into the fever-hot hands of one flaxen-haired farmer lad lying half
delirious and dreaming of home, he dropped a few flowers plucked in
the prison yard that morning; to a lonely, discouraged Frenchman he
spoke in his own tongue, uttering a homely proverb that caused the
homesick foreigner to laugh back into his smiling face. At last he
came to Louis, and, with a nod toward the puzzled Jonas, lifted the
bowl of soup and placed it to the boy's lips.

"Drink," he commanded gently, but gravely. "You must eat and drink and
grow strong or you will not be able to go back to your sweetheart in
France. I have not forgotten my promise to write to her for you, but
first you must please me and eat. And, now, Jonas, some of your good
clear water--as sparkling as the wines of sunny France. Did I ever
tell you, Louis, my lad, of the little inn where I ate my first meal
in your country and how the good landlord laughed at my blunders, for
then I knew little of your tongue?"

Never taking his eyes from his friend's face, the boy obediently ate
and drank and Jonas looked on, well satisfied. He knew that his
masters did not concern themselves whether the prisoners starved or
not; yet, somehow, it made him uncomfortable at times to see boys no
older than his own son wasting away before his eyes. He wondered
whether he was hardy enough to be an efficient jailor.

Something of his thoughts must have been written upon his broad, red
face, for Salomon looking up quickly, nodded as though he understood.
"Louis is a good lad, Jonas," he said, taking out his writing material
and spreading it upon his knees. "There are many good lads here--boys
like your boy who chooses to serve the king instead of the colonies.
My little one is not yet old enough for the army; such a tiny mite,
Louis!--but if he were, I should find it hard not to hate the man who
caged him here behind bars like a beast and kept him stiffling in the
prison darkness. You are too tender a man for such devil's work,
friend Jonas. Ploughing and milking your peaceful cows might bring you
less gold, but there would be no heart ache when the day's work was
over."

Jonas scowled heavily. Rumors had reached him before of certain
English sympathizers like himself who had found their work distasteful
after a quiet talk with Salomon and had suddenly left their posts,
declaring that they no longer desired to serve the king and his cause.
To be sure, he, Jonas Schmidt, would remain a loyal servant to King
George until the end of his days, and yet--why, should this quiet man
prod his sleeping soul with disquieting thoughts?

"And now," Haym spoke briskly to the young Frenchman, "we will write
to your sweetheart and tell her how well you are getting on and that
as soon as the wound in your hand is healed you will write to her
again." His pen raced over the paper. "Perhaps you will care to look
it over and correct my spelling which is even worse in French than in
English," and he handed the sheet covered with French characters to
Louis. The boy took it languidly enough, but his weary eyes brightened
as he read:

"Do not show any surprise, but I must communicate with you in this way
lest there be spies among the prisoners who would betray us. You are
to grow weaker and tomorrow morning the jail physician, whom I have
bribed, will find that you have died in the night. The grave digger
will turn your body over to friends of the cause who will help you to
leave New York and reach the Colonials in safety. If I am ever free
and you need a friend, call upon me without reserve."

The boy, his eyes filled with sudden tears, reached out and would have
pressed Salomon's hand, but the latter drew back laughingly. "Why such
gratitude over a mere letter which has taken me but a moment to pen?"
he said lightly, speaking loudly enough to be heard by those about
him. He folded the sheet carefully, placing it in his breast; as he
did so, he felt the eyes of a prisoner upon him; a newcomer who looked
him over carefully; then turned away with an indifference that Haym
believed was wholly feigned. But if Salomon felt that the man was an
informer he gave no sign. "Now I must about my work," he told Louis.
"I will see that your missive leaves by the next ship. So eat, my
little friend, grow fat, and cease to worry. _Au revoir._"

"_Au revoir_," answered Louis, with equal lightness. "I know my
betrothed will rejoice to see your letter."

       *       *       *       *       *

In one of the darkest cells of the old Provost sat Haym Salomon with
chains about his wrists and ankles. From the courtyard he could hear
the merry laughter of the British soldiers and their Hessian comrades
as they smoked and jested after their evening meal. Like true
soldiers, they took it all in a day's work and there seemed to be no
lack of spirits among them even if they were assigned the grim task of
hanging a man upon the morrow. And Haym Salomon, being condemned to
death by a military court, smiled his grave, gentle smile to hear
their mirth. He had played the game of chance and he had lost, so why
should he complain?

Down the damp corridor came the shuffling of feet and a moment later
Jonas Schmidt entered, a lantern in one hand, a straw basket on his
arm. "Your wife has sent you something for your evening meal," he said
gruffly, placing the basket on the bench beside the condemned man. He
spoke loudly as he noticed a red-coated Briton loitering at the end of
the passage. "Faith, she has sent you enough to feed a regiment. But
women are ever foolish. My own wife is waiting for me below. She has
come all the way to New York merely for advice about our milch heifer
and traveled weighted down with cakes and eggs and butter--which all
her careful packing could not shield enough from the August sun, and
it has oozed through her finest linen napkin and she is sorely
grieved. But not an egg is broken and tomorrow Sir Henry Clinton will
eat eggs laid by loyal Tory hens for his breakfast with my
compliments."

Haym glanced sharply at his old friend who seldom indulged in such
lengthy speech. He was about to the basket, touched at his poor wife's
thoughtfulness, when the jailor gave a warning gesture and tiptoed to
the door. Then he came back, nodding, well pleased at his own craft.

"The lobster has disappeared," he whispered. "I thought that my
chatter would mislead him. But we have not a minute to lose. Open the
basket and dress quickly in the woman's raiment you find there." Then,
as Haym stared at him bewildered, "Dress, I say," and he pulled from
the basket a calico dress, tightly rolled, a gay shawl and a woman's
deep straw bonnet. "When you were pronounced guilty--and every man in
New York knew what the outcome of your trial would be--I said that I
for one would not have your blood upon my hands. No, no, Haym Salomon.
You may be an infidel Jew, but you are a better Christian than all who
worship in Trinity Church every Sabbath. By the will of God, my son
passed through New York on his way home for a moment's visit with his
mother. I entrusted him with a letter I dared not send through the
post, telling her to come to me at once, bringing a set of garments
exactly like those she herself would wear." He chuckled. "She came,
thinking me quite mad, but obeying me as is her habit. In a moment, I
had told her all. She left the extra clothes in that basket with me
and now waits us beyond the courtyard, where Sir Henry and his friends
will find an empty scaffold tomorrow."

Thus the little jailor, unlocking Haym's chains as he spoke.

"But I do not understand--" Haym was still bewildered, after his long
hours of torturing doubt and uncertainty--"You never spoke to me of
escaping."

"I dared not raise your hopes too high. What if Sir Henry decided I
was not so stupid after all and put another jailor in my place? But
now all is ready. The sentinels below have seen my wife visit me today
and I took pains to let them believe she was dining in my room,
whereas she slipped away when the guard was being changed. Now when
you leave the prison with me, I have but to say that I am taking my
good dame to the stage coach." Again he chuckled, half forcing Salomon
into the calico dress. "Instead, we will meet her at the appointed
place, you will slip off these flounces--she cautioned me that you
should not tread upon them and tear them down, as she loves this frock
dearly,--and seek your good friend, General McDougall, who commands
the rebel forces in our neighborhood and will grant you protection,
while my wife and I will hurry back to our little farm."

"But your position here--" Haym fumbled with the unfamiliar buttons of
the dress.

"I do not care to remain here and have Sir Henry Clinton try me in his
court," answered the other, simply. "So a week ago I handed in my
resignation--my rheumatism cannot endure this prison dampness--my wife
insists that unless I come home for the harvest, she will come to
fetch me--and other strong proofs that I must leave the dear old
Provost. And, fortunately, my friend, the noble gentleman who secured
this post for me has fallen in battle, and no one else knows where to
look for the stupid jailor who helped Haym Salomon to escape."

"But, my friend, I cannot allow you to take such a risk for me,"
protested Salomon. "And even if you are not punished--do you care to
give up your post for my sake?"

"I, too, have grown tired of this devil's business," answered the
little jailor. "Even if you were to die tomorrow, I should give it up
and go back to my little farm where I might feel myself an honest man
again."

Suddenly Haym sat down upon the bench, his mouth grim and stubborn. "I
will not go. My name has always been spotless. But if I escape, there
may be some who will believe that the charges brought against me are
true, that I have acted as a secret agent for General Washington,
endeavoring to burn the British warships and warehouses at his
instigation. Whereas you know that my one crime was helping those few
poor lads escape from their torture."

"Will you stay here and argue until morning when the guards will take
you below to let you swing for your folly!" muttered Jonas, now
thoroughly exasperated. "You and I and the world know that not even
Sir Henry himself believes the charges brought against you at your
trial. It was only when that young Frenchman escaped two months ago
and one of Sir Henry's ready spies betrayed you, that you were clapped
into his cell to face charges in his court. I warned you then how it
would be and you would not heed my words. Now let me save you before
it is too late."

"But my wife and little son," murmured Salomon, as the other adjusted
the heavy shawl about his shoulders. "Who will care for them?"

"You can send for them when you have found shelter. And if you stay
and are hanged, who will protect them?" He pushed the large bonnet
upon Salomon's head, nodding with satisfaction to see how it concealed
his face. "Now, remember, say nothing and try to walk slowly--no, no,
shorter steps! And put the basket on your arm." He stepped back to
admire the result of his scheming. "Mr. Salomon," he said, seriously,
"if I did not know that my good wife was waiting for me outside I
would swear she stood before me. Come, take my arm,--remember, walk
slowly--" and the two passed out into the sultry August night.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Revolutionary War was over, and young Louis di Vernon, still very
much of a boy despite the down upon his lip and the manly assurance
achieved by almost seven years hard soldiering, leaned back in the
shabby arm chair and looked questioningly at his host across the
table. Since his escape from the old Provost, he had often heard tales
of Haym Salomon's great wealth, the magnificent sums he had lent the
government, his generosity toward the nation's unpaid representatives,
especially his young friend Madison. And yet this man of almost
fabulous wealth, this patriot who with his business partner, Robert
Morris, had made it possible to feed and clothe Washington's starving
and naked soldiers, this financier who had negotiated loans with
Holland and France, now sat before him, meanly dressed, his brows
wrinkled with care, his drooping shoulders too expressive of defeat
for one who had helped his country win a glorious victory.

"It is good to see you again," said Haym, slowly. "I have not
forgotten you, but I thought you might have forgotten me." He coughed,
a hard, dry cough, leaning his fast graying head upon his hand.

"We are used to having our friends forget us," murmured his wife, who
sat sewing beside the lamp. She was a brisk, dark-haired woman, a
member of the famous Franks family which had served the country so
well during the dark days of the Revolution. "Of the many youths my
husband aided in prison, you are the first one who came to thank him
for his service."

"Nay, Rachel," her husband chided her gently. "I did not seek for
thanks. And it was not those brave soldiers I tried to serve, but
freedom." His tired eyes glowed with a warm light as he turned to
Louis. "I was born in unhappy Poland, so it is not strange that I
loved freedom with all my heart and with all my soul. And when I was
in prison, no longer free to serve this country which had welcomed me
so heartily, I thanked God that I was permitted to aid those who were
fighting her battles and seeking to make her free before the world."

"And after he escaped here to Philadelphia," added his wife, a note of
pride in her voice, "he fought for the colonies just as surely as
Colonel Franks upon the battlefield. You have heard of the vast sums
of money he lent the bankrupt government--and without a bit of
security, too."

Haym held up his hand in protest. "What security did I need? If I
could not trust my country, whom should I trust?" he asked her in
quiet sincerity.

She bent her dark head over the little garment she was mending, her
lips curved a bit scornfully. "I try not to be impatient. I know that
even though peace has come, commerce is still languishing; that it
will take many, many months for the government to pay its debts. Yet
it hurts me to see you so worried, so hampered because you lack
capital to go on with your business." Her dark eyes sparkled with
indignation. "You are only forty-five, Haym," she declared, almost
fiercely, "and yet your many cares make you seem almost an old man."

"I am glad to have been able to give my youth to my country," he
answered. Then, turning to Louis di Vernon: "Do not think my wife too
bitter? She has had sore trials," and he gently patted her work-worn
hand. "I know it is not for herself she grieves, but she is troubled
for me and for our little ones. And, in truth, things have grown dark
for us of late. My business has suffered during the war and I was
obliged to neglect it while I attended to affairs of state. And now
that peace has come at last, I find that my old good fortune has
deserted me."

"If you had only kept the remnant of your fortune," sighed his wife,
"the sixty-four thousand dollars you lent to Mr. Morris for his bank
would have tided us over these evil times."

"But I could not allow the National Bank to fail," protested Salomon.
"Somehow," turning to his guest, "I have grown like the old
philosopher of my people who was so unfortunate that he once declared
that if he took to making shoes everyone would go barefoot, if he
became a shroud maker, no one would die." He laughed softly, then grew
suddenly grave. "The merchants to whom I have extended credit have
failed. There have been losses at sea--" he shrugged, and became
silent, his eyes grown strangely large in his thin white face, seeming
to look into the far future. "Mr. Madison and my other friends will
not forget me," he said slowly, "and my country in whose keeping I may
have to leave my wife and infant children before long, will be glad to
repay her debt and care for them." A strange look of peace swept over
his tired face; it was well that his dimming eyes could not see the
long years during which his country would forget to be grateful and to
repay.

A feeling half of pity, half of shame filled the young man's heart.
"I--I am sorry," he stammered.

"You need not pity me." Salomon smiled his old gentle smile. "I have
been given a chance to serve the cause of freedom with my fortune; I
have been of service to my own people, too, the Hebrews of
Philadelphia, and it gladdens my heart to believe that my children's
children will worship the God of our fathers here in this place in the
synagogue I have helped to build. I do not think my life has been such
a very great failure after all," he ended, naively. "And it is good to
know that what I have done has borne fruit. That is why your coming
here tonight to thank me has heartened me more than news of the safe
arrival of those missing merchant-ships at port."

Louis arose, his honest face red with shame. "I did not want to hurt
you," he said, speaking with difficulty. "When I came here tonight and
you both thought it was just to thank you before I set sail for
France, I was ashamed to tell you the reason of my visit. For I am
like the others; I would not have come to thank you for favors past;
not knowing of your misfortune, I only came to ask new bounties; that
is why I am ashamed."

"Then why do you tell me now?" Salomon's voice had grown very tired.
"I should have liked to believe that you were not here for favors."

"I could not go away and have you believe a lie. You are too honest a
man to lie to, Mr. Salomon. Are you sorry I told the truth?"

"No. That takes the pain away." A long silence while the January wind
howled outside. At last Haym spoke. "What did you wish of me--though
now I may be unable to grant it."

"I leave shortly for France," answered the young man, flushed beneath
the other's quiet gaze. "Although I return a poor man, my betrothed
has waited for me and I desired to buy a bit of land for my own that
we might become householders as our parents were before us. I knew you
would trust me and that is why I came to you, my one friend in
America."

"Now I am truly sorry for my losses," answered Salomon. "If I could
only help you--but, perhaps, Mr. Morris--yes, I will give you a note
to him, and though I am not prosperous today, he will be willing to
trust me as your security."

But Louis di Vernon shook his head. "I cannot think of it," he
answered, stubbornly. "Do not insist, or I shall be sorry that I told
you of my desires. Please have this visit as it should have been; to
thank you for your great kindness to me; not to ask more favors."

"As you will," answered Haym with a smile. "But you must not leave us
without a little token for your betrothed." Going to the mantel piece,
he took down a silver cup, quaintly carved, and slipped it into the
young man's unwilling hand. "Nay, lad, take it, it is all I can give
you--this and my blessing for your future." Again the wind shook the
window pane. "It is a bitter night outside. We have no guest chamber,
but if you care to sleep beside our fire----"

"Nay, after Valley Forge a soldier is not afraid of the storm,"
laughed the Frenchman. "And I cannot thank you for this--and all your
kindness. But she is a woman and when I tell my Mairie, she will write
you all the love and gratitude that is in our hearts." He bent over
Mistress Salomon's hand with all the courtly breeding of his race.
"It is only _Au revoir_ tonight, Madame, for I will try to see you
again before I leave Philadelphia."

He gathered his cloak about him and went out into the storm, leaving
Salomon to meet his wife's reproachful eyes. "Yes, I know, heart's
dearest, that I should not give silver cups to beggarly Frenchmen," he
told her with a whimsical smile, "for who knows when we will have to
pawn the little that remains of our silver. But until then--" he
shrugged goodnaturedly, and a fit of coughing drowned the rest.

Several days later young Louis di Vernon sat in a coffee house, his
traveling bag and a bundle of toys and goodies for the little Salomon
children at his feet. Over his cup he read the latest edition of the
"Pennsylvania Journal and Weekly Advertiser," pausing to stare at a
modest notice tucked in an obscure corner of the sheet. He put down
his cup untasted and read it again with whitening lips: "On Thursday
died Haym Salomon, a broker."




ACROSS THE WATERS

_A Story of the City of Refuge Planned by Mordecai Noah._


The two children stood hand in hand in a corner of Mr. Mordecai Noah's
handsome library in New York, both badly frightened, although the boy
tried hard to appear at ease in his strange surroundings. They still
wore the dress of their native Tunis; Hushiel in silken blouse and
short black trousers, with mantle and fez such as Mohammedans wear,
his little sister, Peninah, a quaint picture in her short jacket,
baggy trousers and pointed cap. No wonder the old family servant, who
had gasped when admitting them, had gone off to summon his master,
declaring to himself that these visitors looked even more heathenish
than the painted Indians who occasionally called upon Mr. Noah at his
Buffalo home.

"Do sit down, Peninah," suggested the boy in a half-whisper, too
overawed by the elegant furnishings and long rows of books to speak
out loud. He pointed to a tall, carved arm chair but Peninah shook her
head and clung more tightly to his arm.

"It's all so strange," she whispered back, "just like an old tale
Nissim, the story teller, used to tell sometimes at home--all of it,
the big ship, and the many people when we came on shore in New York
and this room--" with a gesture towards the table on which stood a
tea service of heavy silver. "He must be a prince to have such
treasures. Aren't you afraid to speak to him when he comes in?"

"A man is never afraid," answered twelve-year-old Hushiel, stoutly.
"He may not remember me, but I am my father's son and he will do us
kindness for his sake." He stopped suddenly as Mr. Mordecai Noah
entered the room.

The master of the house was about forty, with deep, kindly eyes and a
heavy mane of black hair brushed back from his benevolent forehead. He
carried himself with the dignity befitting an author and statesman who
was, perhaps, the most distinguished Jew in America in 1825. Yet in
spite of his touch of hauteur there was a real kindliness in the
manner in which he held out his hands to the strangers and bade them
welcome.

"You have come a long way," he said, with a quick glance at their
foreign garb. "Let me make you welcome to America." He drew them to
one of the carved settles he had brought from England and seated
himself in the great armchair before it, smiling at the quaint picture
little Peninah made, her slippered feet dangling high above the floor.
"And how can I serve you?" he asked graciously.

Hushiel felt his shyness disappearing before the great man's courtesy.
"We are from Tunis," he answered, "and you may remember me, though I
was but a tiny lad when you were the American consul there and visited
my father about ten years ago. My father was Rabbi Reuben Faitusi," he
added, not a little disappointed as the loved name failed to awaken
any memories in the eyes of the man before him.

"I met so many rabbis while I was in the East," apologized Mr. Noah,
"that the name means nothing to me for a moment. But if I were to meet
your father again I am sure I should know him at once," he ended
politely.

"My father died six months ago," answered the boy, "my mother when she
was born," and he nodded toward Peninah, who sat clutching his sleeve
in her pretty bashfulness. "Before he died he told me how you visited
our house and spoke long and bitterly of the persecution of our
brethren which you had encountered through Europe and Africa on your
travels. My father knew of what you spoke only too well, for the lot
of our people has often been a harsh one in Tunis. And we have
suffered for a long time." He drew himself up proudly. "My father's
house are of the Tunsi, who some believe have been in the land for
centuries--even before the First Temple was destroyed. And he told me
what it meant for him to listen to the words of a stranger from a new
land which was a land of hope for our ancient people."

A satisfied smile played about Noah's lips. "Yes, he was like so many
others," he nodded, "thirsty for the message of comfort I brought my
brethren across the seas. For, as I told him, I dreamed even then that
this America of mine would be a Land of Promise for the Jews over the
entire earth and that I might be permitted to be the Messiah to lead
them here."

Hushiel tried not to look shocked. He had heard too many tales of the
Messiah, the princely leader of the House of David, who would some day
appear in all his glorious might to restore the Chosen People to their
own country, not to wonder how even this powerful prince in Israel
should dare to use his name so lightly. But his eyes sparkled at the
memories his host's words had awakened.

"My father spoke to me of his talk with you many times," he told Mr.
Noah, "and how he dreamed that he might come to dwell in the city of
refuge you planned for our people. And he promised to take me and
her," with a gesture toward Peninah, who nodded vigorously. "But his
eyes closed before he could behold our return. Year by year he had
saved a little to make the journey; this he gave me and to it I added
my mite that I had laid aside from my earnings as a mechanic; then I
sold our household goods and came with Peninah to you that we might be
among the first to enter your city, even as our father wished us to
be."

A strange look crept into Mr. Noah's eyes; a look of exultation and
joy; he seemed for a moment like a man who sees a great hope fulfilled
and is glad. "Your father had the faith of God in his heart," he said
at last, "and you two are worthy of being called his children.
Sometimes I myself have doubted whether I could forge my dream into
reality. But when you come to me with your young and fearless hearts,
trusting so in my mission, I must believe that I cannot fail. And you
seem to have been sent here by a miracle. All through the ten years
since I was consul to Tunis I have planned for a city of refuge for
our people. Perhaps some day we will return to Palestine, but
meanwhile--" he made a sweeping gesture--"meanwhile the virgin
wilderness of this land awaits our people. Here we will build and
plough; here we will launch our trading vessels--the Phoenicians of
the New World." He had forgotten his listeners and spoke as though
addressing a great multitude. "And others have shared my dreams. My
good friend, Samuel Leggett, although a Christian, has seen my vision,
and has aided me with his sympathy--and his gold." His dream-filled
eyes actually twinkled and now he spoke simply with no thought of a
vast audience to listen. "I am grateful for his sympathy, but his
gold--with my own private fortune--helped me even more. With it I have
purchased a great tract of land on the Niagara River for the site of
our Jewish colony. Yes," he repeated, proudly, "I have purchased over
two thousand acres of land on Grand Island. Persecuted Jews from all
over the world will plant their farms there. And some day it will be
one of the greatest commercial centers of the world, as well as a
farming colony, for it lies close to the Great Lakes and opposite the
new Erie Canal, through which our vessels loaded with the produce of
our farms will sail to feed the nations."

He paused for breath and Hushiel nodded, understanding but little the
reason of his hosts' enthusiasm, but at least grasping the fact that
the city of refuge of which his father had dreamed so long was about
to be built.

"And what will you call your city?" he ventured.

"Ararat," answered the founder. "Some of my friends have tried to
persuade me to name it after myself; this I would not do, but since I
would have future generations know of my share in the building of the
city, I shall call it Ararat, which they may interpret as the city of
Noah. But above all would I remind all that hear its name that it is a
city of refuge, even as the mountain Ararat was a place of safety
after the flood which destroyed the earth in the days of Noah of old.
Our people, tossed for so long upon the seas of bitterness and hatred,
will rest here as the ark rested upon the mountain Ararat when the
waters of the flood subsided."

"But will only Jews be welcome there?"

"It will be as open as Abraham's tent to every wanderer who seeks
shelter there," replied Mordecai Noah with a magnificent gesture.
"Especially to our brethren, the Indians. For I firmly believe," he
went on, not pausing to think that the boy from across the seas could
not possibly understand him, "I firmly believe that the red men are
descended from the lost tribes of Israel and are ready to extend to us
the hand of brotherhood and forsake their own gods for the God of our
fathers. You have never seen our Indian brothers?" Hushiel shook his
head, but Peninah, thoroughly worn out by her journey and the long
talk which she could not comprehend, had fallen asleep and could not
answer. "Then you will see them for the first time at the dedication
ceremony of our city of Ararat," he promised graciously.

"And when will the city be dedicated?" The boy's tone was eager.

"Next week. And I will take both of you to Buffalo with me that you
may see the ceremonies. You see you have come in good time," answered
Mr. Mordecai Noah.

       *       *       *       *       *

"But I won't go in these clothes," objected Peninah hotly.

For almost a week she and her brother had been guests in Mr. Noah's
household, and every day one or another of his Christian or Jewish
friends had come to visit them. They were very wonderful people, these
Americans, thought Peninah, and most wonderful of all were the little
girls of her own age, with their full skirts and dainty bonnets. True,
they had never seen the Sahara Desert or crossed the mysterious ocean,
yet she envied them their pretty clothes, feeling outlandishly queer
in her pointed cap and baggy trousers. Mr. Noah had been very kind to
her; he had brought her several pretty trinkets and a box of
sweetmeats, almost as good as those one could buy in the bazaar at
home, she told Hushiel--but on one point he was firm and nothing could
move him.

"Tomorrow will be a great day for every Jew upon the face of the
earth," he had told the children the evening before the day set for
the dedication ceremonies for which he had brought them to Buffalo. "I
should like to purchase a little present for each of you, some token
that you may show your children some day when you tell them of the
founding of Ararat, my city. What shall it be?" he asked, smiling into
their eager faces.

"You have given us too much already, more than we can ever repay,"
protested Hushiel, but his modest answer was quite drowned by
Peninah's shrill:

"I want a new dress and a bonnet with strings and slippers like the
little American girls wear!"

"Peninah! Aren't you ashamed to ask for so much," chided her brother.

"And I want a little black silk bag to carry tomorrow," went on
Peninah, unabashed. "And I think I'd like blue ribbons on the bonnet."

Mr. Noah smiled indulgently, but he shook his head. "I will get you an
outfit such as little American girls wear," he promised, kindly, "but
you must not wear it tomorrow."

Peninah stared at him. "But I want them for tomorrow," she protested.
"All the little girls I have met here in your house are coming
tomorrow and if I am dressed as they are, they will not stare at me as
though I were a dancing girl at a fair. I'm going to take off these,"
she tugged angrily at the bright beads about her neck, "and these,"
and she gave a defiant twitch to her hated Oriental trousers.

"Your clothes are very pretty," soothed Mr. Noah, "but if you prefer
to dress like the people of our country, I will buy you everything you
need. Only tomorrow you must wear the clothes you wore at home--even
if the people stare."

"But why?--I look so different----"

"It is just because your clothes are so different," explained
Mordecai Noah patiently, "that I want you to wear them. My dream is to
have our city a refuge for the Jews of all the nations of the earth.
Many people of Buffalo have heard your story, but they have not seen
you. When they see you and Hushiel in your native dress, it will
impress them greatly as they realize that even the children of the
lands far across the sea have sought my city and long to make their
home there. You understand, don't you?"

Hushiel nodded, but Peninah stamped her small, slippered foot angrily.
"I won't go if I have to wear these horrid clothes which make people
stare at me," she declared angrily, and ran from the room, crying as
she went. Mr. Noah seemed really disturbed and was about to call her
back, but Hushiel only laughed a little and shrugged at her anger.

"'The camel wanted to have horns, so he lost his ears for his
greediness'," he quoted in Hebrew. "It is hard to satisfy a woman.
Just let her have her cry and she will be as gentle as a lamb in the
morning."

But Peninah was decidedly sulky at breakfast the next morning and as
the hour to attend the dedication ceremony drew near she grew actually
violent in declaring that she wouldn't leave the house to be "a show
thing for all those strange people to look at!" "They can look at you,
Hushiel, all they want to," she exclaimed, "but I won't go out into
the streets until I have new clothes!" She folded her small arms
defiantly and glared angrily at her brother.

Hushiel, usually patient and long-suffering, was now really angry. He
grasped her shoulders and shook her so energetically that her bright
beads rattled merrily together. "Now listen to me," he began sternly,
as he released her, and she stood gasping for breath, staring at him
with eyes wide with hurt astonishment. "I've been listening to your
foolish words till I'm tired. So you must listen to me now and obey me
for I take our father's place in our household, don't I?" She nodded
sullenly, for she knew that in their native country a lad as young as
Hushiel would be considered grown to manhood. "If he were here today
he would command you to dry your foolish tears and come to the place
where they are celebrating the founding of our new city. If he who has
given us so many gifts and welcomes us to his home desires you to go
there in your native dress, you will obey him. Else you will have to
deal with me," and he scowled so fiercely, that even the dauntless
Peninah was a little frightened. "Besides," he ended, craftily, "you
are so anxious to see the Indians and Mr. Noah himself has promised
that there will be red men at the great festival today."

With a shrug of elaborate carelessness which didn't deceive her
brother in the least, Peninah dried her eyes and began to smooth her
rumpled attire. "I'll go," she said, indifferently, "but not because I
have to obey you. It's just because I do want to see those Indians."

Peninah's wish was gratified, for there was a goodly sprinkling of red
men at the dedication ceremonies of the city of Ararat held in Buffalo
on that bright September day so long ago. So many citizens had
expressed their desire to be present that it was discovered that it
would be impossible to secure enough boats to convey them to Grand
Island. So, although a monument was erected on the spot where the city
of Ararat was to be built, the dedication ceremonies were held in the
large Episcopalian church of Buffalo, which was soon crowded with
those who either wished Mr. Noah success in his strange undertaking or
were drawn by idle curiosity to witness the festival.

Neither of the children from Tunis ever forgot that day. First there
was the long and impressive procession down the main streets of
Buffalo, led by a band of musicians playing stirring melodies all the
while. After the musicians came companies of soldiers, many of whom
had distinguished themselves in the war of 1812, in which conflict
Noah had received the rank of major; behind them, garbed in their
picturesque regalia, walked several companies of Masons, for Mr. Noah
was a prominent member of that organization; and then came Mordecai
Noah himself, wearing a magnificent robe of crimson silk trimmed with
bands of ermine. Behind the Governor and Judge of Israel, as he styled
himself, followed men prominent in the affairs of the city and state,
a distinguished company, all eager to show their interest in the
proposed Jewish city of refuge. At last the procession filed slowly
into the church. The dim, rich light struggling through the stained
windows fell like an enchanted robe upon those who had marched and
those who were gathered there; it was a picture the like of which has
never been seen in America since that day.

The two children from across the seas sat wide-eyed as they looked
about them. The citizens of Buffalo, the richly garbed officials and
soldiers who had marched in the procession, above all, the Indians in
their feathers and blankets and beads, stern-faced and tall and
slender, seemed people from another world. For a moment Hushiel was
troubled: would his father think it right for him to attend a
Christian church even on such a day? Then he forgot his scruples as
Mordecai Noah, still in his crimson mantle, advanced on the platform
to speak to the people. The boy looked from his regal figure on the
Christian clergymen in their dark, plain robes, and his heart thrilled
with pride. Mordecai Noah, he thought, stood head and shoulders above
all other men, as Israel, under his wise guidance, would some day
stand above the nations. He heard not a word of the long oration that
followed. Instead he dreamed of the city which would arise on Grand
Island, a city as mighty as Jerusalem of old, and in his dream he saw
the nations of the earth entering its gates to pay tribute to its
crimson-clad king. So he happily built his city of the clouds until
the ceremonies were almost over and a salute of twenty-four guns made
little Peninah start with terror and cling to him, crying aloud in her
fright.

And now came busy, happy days for Hushiel and Peninah. Peninah,
dressed "just like a little American girl," as she proudly told
herself a dozen times a day, was sent to a school. But Mr. Noah,
really interested in Hushiel, undertook to teach him himself,
delighting in the boy's fine mind, so well trained by his long
Talmudic studies with his father. As soon as he learned to read and
write English, the lad proved to be of great assistance to his
benefactor, copying Mr. Noah's manuscripts for the press, for that
gentleman was an eminent journalist and one of the most popular
dramatists of his day, and, in time, even assisting him with his
foreign correspondence.

The letters from abroad grew extremely heavy, for directly after the
dedication ceremonies, Mr. Noah, as self-appointed Judge of Israel,
sent a proclamation to all of the leading Jewish communities of the
world, declaring that Ararat was established and inviting citizens of
every country to come and make their home there. Those who were
content in their adopted lands, he wrote, might remain in their homes,
and he begged all Jewish soldiers in foreign armies to remember that
the Jew must be true to the obligation of the state in which he lives.
But he urged every loyal Jew who longed for the restoration of
Israel's glory to pay a yearly tax of three shekels (ancient Jewish
coin worth about a quarter in our currency) and to appoint deputies in
their respective countries who would elect a new ruler or Judge of the
Jewish state every fourth year. And that the new state should be
thoroughly democratic, Mordecai Noah appointed influential Jews in
every important Jewish community to act as his commissioners in
governing the city of Ararat.

To Hushiel the proclamation seemed all that could be desired and he
waited eagerly for the warm response he felt must come from every Jew
to whom Noah appealed. But to his great surprise, the post brought
letter after letter either of ridicule or denunciation; even the Jews
who lived in the countries of darkest persecution refused to listen to
his offer of a home in the new Jewish colony. True, many of them
longed to emigrate to America, the land which had been a place of
refuge to their brothers for so many years. Others dreamed of a return
to Palestine, willing to live there as exiles in their homeland until
the coming of the Messiah brought Israel's freedom. Letter after
letter from across the seas refused to aid Noah in his dream for
Jewish emancipation. "We are happy in our adopted land," wrote one.
"When God in His mercy sends the Messiah, then will He lead Israel
back to the Promised Land, Palestine, and not before," wrote another.
While the Jews of America, in their pride as American citizens, were
as swift as their brethren abroad to ridicule Noah's plans for Ararat,
denouncing them as impious or impractical.

But the boy's faith in the project never wavered. He did not venture
to offer his master sympathy for his disappointment, but in his shy,
boyish way, he did manage to assure Noah again and again that he still
believed in the city of refuge and longed to dwell there. And Noah
never failed to smile at his half-uttered assurances, although he
never answered them directly. Once he kindly placed his hand upon the
boy's shoulder and Hushiel felt as proud as a young squire whom his
master had dubbed knight.

Gradually the correspondence concerning Ararat diminished and finally
it ceased altogether. Mordecai Noah made no comment; there was still
plenty of work for Hushiel with the newspaper articles; he also copied
portions of the Book of Jasher which Mr. Noah was translating from the
Hebrew. So the two labored together day after day, but neither even
mentioned the dream that had called Hushiel across the seas.

"I am going to Washington on business," his master informed Hushiel
one morning as they sat in his study, ready to begin work on the day's
tasks. "I may be gone for some time. You have been working hard and
faithfully," he added kindly, "and you deserve a holiday. Would you
care to go to Washington with me?"

Hushiel answered with difficulty, his eyes seeking the floor, for
suddenly a daring idea had captured his brain. "You are very kind," he
stammered, "but--if I might--may I spend my holiday as I please, if I
am back at my tasks in time?"

"Surely." Noah's hand sought his wallet. "Here is money. Give Peninah
a little treat, too, and do not hurry back to your desk too soon. When
you are ready for work again, you will find plenty of manuscript which
I will leave for you to copy during my absence. I think I will be gone
a fortnight."

"My holiday will not last that long," answered the boy, turning back
to his papers. "And, please sir, do not mention this to Peninah. I
will buy her some pleasure with the money you have just given me. But
I must have my holiday alone."

So Hushiel was alone when he stood before the monument of brick and
wood which had been erected on Grand Island, the proposed site of the
city of Ararat. To the lad, unused to the wilderness of America, the
journey down the river had been a fascinating one. Now he stood alone
in the vast silence, broken only by the roar of the Falls in the
distance. How long he stood here before the pile of bricks and wood
Hushiel never knew. When he tried to recall the scene years
afterwards, he pictured clearly a slender, dark-skinned boy lying upon
the ground, weeping bitterly as he listened to the rumblings of
Niagara which seemed to mock him as he grieved for the city which had
perished at its birth. For now he realized without a word from
Mordecai Noah that the dream had failed--that his people must wait a
little longer for a real Messiah to lead them into the Land of
Promise. Bitterest of all, even more bitter than the breaking of his
dream, was the realization that Mordecai Noah, for all his lofty
ideals, his generous motives, was not of the stuff of which leaders
are made. His voice, no matter how eloquent, would never be heeded
should he again seek to call the wandering children of Israel
together. And thinking of these things, the boy wept like a little
child.

Years later, when the monument on Grand Island had fallen into decay,
Hushiel saw the cornerstone of the dream city, Ararat, displayed in
one of the rooms of the Buffalo Historical Society. He was no longer
a sensitive boy, yet the tears sprang to his eyes as he re-read the
old inscription which you may still read if you visit the Society's
rooms today: "_Shema Yisroel, Adonoi Elohenu, Adonoi Echod_ (Hear, O
Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One). Ararat, a City of Refuge
for the Jews, Founded by Mr. M. Noah in the month Tishri, 5586, Sept.,
1825, and in the 50th year of American Independence."




THREE AT GRACE

_The Story of the First Jewish Settler in Alabama._


Colonel Hawkins, the Indian agent for the government at Pole Cat
Springs, Alabama, in 1804, leaned across the pine table to extend a
cordial hand to his visitor. Abram Mordecai, who stood before him,
although almost fifty, gave one the impression of a much younger man.
Lean and lithe as a panther, with shaggy black hair and keen eyes, his
distinctly Jewish features were so tanned and weather-beaten that he
looked far more the Indian than the Jew. He nodded gayly to his
employer before he flung himself into a chair, his gun-stock between
his knees, his great brown hands clasped behind his head. As he sat
there dressed in the buckskin shirt and trousers of his half-civilized
Indian neighbors, every free movement of his large body suggesting his
life in the wilderness, the Jewish adventurer presented a perfect
picture of the pioneer of his day.

"I have come, Colonel Hawkins," he began in his usual abrupt manner,
"to ask your help in building a cotton gin. Yes," as the other showed
surprise, "I know the enterprise seems a strange one for a rover like
me to suggest, and, perhaps, a foolish undertaking in the wilderness.
Yet the wilderness must pass and we must build now for the days to
come."

"Go on, Mordecai," encouraged his chief. "What are your plans?"

"I know how eager you are to civilize the Indians in our region and
teach them the arts of peace," went on Mordecai. "Thus far we have
done nothing but trade with them for pelties and healing barks and
oils. But could we not have the squaws raise the cotton and bring it
down the river in their canoes and prepare it in our gin for the
market in New Orleans?"

"Good." Hawkins nodded approvingly. "First we must gain permission of
the Hickory Ground Indians for the erection of our gin, for it will
not be wise to risk their enmity at the outset. But there is not
another gin in the state. Where shall we find a pattern; where shall
we get the workmen to fashion one for us; or the needed tools?"

"I have thought of that," Abram Mordecai told him. "There are two Jews
of Georgia, Lyon and Barrett, who have both the tools and the skill
for the task. I met Lyon when we were both young men serving in the
army under General Washington. You can rely upon him for faithful
service."

A little smile curved the agent's lips. "You Jews!" he exclaimed. "Is
there any enterprise in which you have not had a hand? Even back to
the building of the pyramids in old Egypt! It is like a Jew to plan
the first cotton gin in Alabama--and to bring two of his race to build
it."

"We are indeed builders," answered Mordecai a little dryly, "but not
always for ourselves." He rose. "Shall I send for them?"

"The sooner the better. And it will be good to meet your fellow
Hebrews again, eh, Mordecai?"

Abram Mordecai, already at the door, turned a moment. His eyes, a
striking hazel in the tan of his roughened face, grew wistful for a
moment. "I am more Indian than Jew, more savage than white man," he
answered gravely. "Perhaps it is a pity," and he was gone.

Mordecai, the child of the wilderness, where the struggle against
savage and beast of prey sharpen the wits and teach the pioneer the
need for rapid decisions, lost no time in executing his commission. As
soon as word could reach Lyon, he informed his old comrade of the work
he had in mind for him. The next post told Mordecai that the two men
with their tools, gin saws and other materials loaded upon pack
horses, were already on their way to Alabama. He waited eagerly for
their arrival. The gin meant more to him than a source of revenue,
were he successful in the cotton market. For, as Hawkins had observed,
the Jew was not content to be a mere trader and hunter, like so many
adventurers of the back woods. He longed to build, to create something
lasting even in that ever-changing wilderness. And perhaps, mingled
with his impatience, was a queer longing to see his own again, not
merely white men like Colonel Hawkins, but Jews such as he had known
before leaving his native Pennsylvania so many years ago. He smiled to
find himself actually counting the days before he could expect Lyon
and Barrett to arrive.

They came at last one evening near sunset, two brown-skinned rovers
in half-savage dress affected by the backwoodsmen of that day; Lyon,
grave and silent, Barrett, with a boy's laugh, despite the sprinkling
of gray in his curly hair. Mordecai stood at the door of his hut to
greet them. A little behind him, humbly respectful like all the women
of her nation to her lord and master, stood a squaw clad in a blanket
with strings of beads woven in the long, dark braids of her hair. Her
bright, black eyes sparkled with interest as she surveyed the
strangers; but as they came nearer, she turned quickly and went back
into the hut, where she continued to prepare the evening meal. But
Mordecai advanced toward the travellers, his hand extended in welcome.

"_Shalom Aleichem_," he began, his tongue faltering a little over the
old Hebrew greeting he had not used for so long. "I am glad you have
come at last."

"_Aleichem Shalom_," answered Lyon. "It is long since we have met,
Abram Mordecai." He took his old comrade's outstretched hand and
indicated Barrett with a curt nod. "My friend," he said, briefly. "He
will help us build the gin."

"You are both welcome," their host assured them. "Becky," he called,
and the Indian woman appeared at the door, "unload the horses and bed
them for the night with ours," and he indicated a roughly constructed
barn a little way from the hut which it so resembled. "But first bring
a pail of fresh water from the spring that these gentlemen may wash
after their journey."

Becky, still devouring the newcomers with her eyes, curiously, like
those of an inquisitive squirrel, caught up a wooden bucket that stood
by the open door and started down the winding path that led to the
spring. "My wife," explained Mordecai, pretending not to see the look
of surprise with which his former friend Lyon greeted his statement.
"Yes," half in apology, "I know it seems strange to you. But for so
many years I felt myself a part of the Creek nation, that when I was
ill with malarial fever and she nursed me back to health, I was glad
to lessen my loneliness and make her my wife according to the customs
of her people. Yet," and he smiled a little bitterly, "yet, strange as
it may seem, I still remember that I am a Jew."

He led them into the little cabin with its one window and floor of
clay. At one end stood a rude fireplace made of bricks where a huge
kettle swung Indian-fashion above the logs. At the other end of the
room several heavy blankets indicated a bed, the only furniture being
a few rough chairs, a table and an old trunk half covered by a gayly
striped blanket such as Indian women weave. "A rough place, even for
the wilderness," confessed Mordecai, "but I dare attempt no better. Of
late, the Indians once so friendly, have grown surly and suspicious;
they rightly fear that the white man will wrench the wilderness from
them. Especially Towerculla, a neighboring chief, who hates the ways
of the whites and has been murmuring against me ever since he has
heard that a cotton gin will be erected through my agency. So who
knows when I will be driven from this place by the red men--providing
that they allow me to escape with my life."

"And have you no white neighbors?" asked Barrett, who had seated
himself upon the trunk, where he sat loosening his dusty leggins.

"There is 'Old Milly'." Mordecai's hazel eyes twinkled a little. "She
is the wife of an English soldier who deserted from the army during
the Revolution. After her husband's death she took up her abode here.
She is a woman of strong and resolute character and has considerable
power over the Indians of this district, who stand greatly in awe of
her. She lately married a red man and is really a great person in our
little community, for she owns several slaves and many horses and
cattle. Tomorrow I will introduce you to my only white neighbor. But
here is Becky with the water," as the squaw entered with the brimming
pail. "Wash the dust from your faces that we may sit and eat, for you
must be nearly famished."

The travelers, having washed in the wooden basin that stood on one of
the chairs and shaken some of the dust from their garments, now came
eagerly enough to the table, which the silent Becky had prepared for
them. Upon the bare boards she had set several mugs and heavy crockery
bowls, pewter forks and a large, steaming vessel of the stew which she
had taken from the fire, as well as several cakes made of corn flour
and cooked in the ashes. Such fare was familiar enough to the
pioneers, but the two guests could not help staring at the book that
lay at each plate, a worn _Sidur_ (prayer book), the ancient Hebrew
characters looking strangely foreign in the primitive forests of
America. Abram Mordecai saw the two men exchange glances and flushed a
little beneath his tan.

"A foolish thought of mine," he murmured. "When I left my father's
house in Pennsylvania I carried one of these in my pack, wrapped in
the _talith_ (praying shawl), he had brought with him from Germany.
And later I found the two others in the bundle of a Jewish peddlar
murdered by the Indians. The Indian agent at St. Mary's sent me to
ransom him and several other captives taken by the Creeks, but I came
too late. Somehow, I could not bear to throw them away or destroy
them. They have been with me in all my wanderings and more than once
when I thought it about time for the fall holy days have I read the
prayers and wished that I might have a few of my brethren with me to
observe them aright. And tonight--" for a moment the confident,
self-reliant adventurer seemed as embarrassed as a bashful child, "and
tonight I hoped that since there would be three of us at grace, we
might read the benedictions together--if you care to--and I would know
how it feels to be a Jew again."

Barrett laughed, his hearty school boy laugh, as he flung himself
unceremoniously into a chair beside the table. "It's many a day since
I've said or heard a _brocha_ (blessing)," he said, "but I'll go
through it without any book, thank you."

Lyon said nothing, as he took the place Mordecai assigned him at the
foot of the table, but there was a tender look about his grave mouth.
Perhaps he realized how difficult it had been for Mordecai to confess
his loneliness for the customs of his people; but, according to his
wont, he said nothing.

Smiling almost childishly, Mordecai passed a bowl of water to each of
his guests that they might wash their hands, which they did, murmuring
the blessing as they did so. Then, taking his place at the head of the
table, he poured water over his own hands, saying the Hebrew
benediction as he wiped them upon a faded red napkin which lay beside
his _Sidur_. Somehow, after his brief confession, he felt ashamed to
tell his guests that the napkin had belonged to his mother and had
rested beside the neglected _Sidur_ for so many years. Then, breaking
a bit from the bread and handing it to each of the men, he repeated
the blessing for which, although he had not recited it for so many
years, he need no prompting from the worn black book beside his plate.

"Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe, who bringest
forth bread from the earth," he said in Hebrew.

Becky, as her husband called her, stood in the background as silent as
a bronze statute until the little ceremony was over. If she was
impressed by the strangeness of it all, she gave no sign. For so many
of the customs of her husband's alien race were strange to her that
she had long ago ceased to wonder or desire any explanation. Now at a
sign from Mordecai, she took away the bowl of water, and, filling a
plate with the savoury stew, took it to the corner of the hut, here,
crouched upon the blankets, she ate her supper, quite content to
watch the white strangers from a distance.

Mordecai served his guests, then himself, and over the stew and corn
bread the men exchanged stories of their experiences in the
wilderness. The host told a little of his own adventures since leaving
the east, of his life as a trader with the Indians, of the peace
treaty he had brought about with the Chickasaw nation, of his journeys
south to New Orleans and Mobile, his furs and medicinal barks piled
high in the barge with no companions but the painted savages to assist
him. A life of highly-colored adventure with variety enough to satisfy
any spirit, but even now Mordecai was growing restless and longed for
another enterprise to occupy him after the cotton gin should be
completed.

Then, the meal being over, Mordecai, with the same shamefaced
bashfulness he had shown when speaking of the _Sidurim_, turned the
pages of the book, saying almost wistfully: "I know that tonight is
not a festival or Sabbath with us, gentlemen, but if you would care to
go over the psalm with me----"

"We've been waiting a long time for this and we'll give good measure,"
laughed little Barrett, but his eyes did not jest as Mordecai in the
quaint old sing-song of the synagogue began "When the Lord turned
again the captivity of Zion" and Lyon gravely followed.

"And now," Mordecai's face fairly glowed with pleasure, "now we will
have the special grace, since there are three of us at the table."

"Let us say grace," he began, with hardly a look at the Hebrew.

"Blessed be the name of the Lord from this time forth and forever,"
responded his guests.

"With the permission of those present," went on the host, "we will
bless Him of whose bounty we have partaken."

"Blessed be He of whose bounty we have partaken," answered the others,
"and through whose goodness we live."

As Mordecai repeated the Hebrew phrases, learned in his almost
forgotten _Cheder_ (Hebrew School) days, a great longing came upon him
and the tears coursed down his cheeks. To return again to this home,
to keep the customs of his people and to die at last with Jewish
friends about him and the Hebrew's declaration of faith upon his lips!
But, as he closed the book, his eyes glanced about the little room and
they grew dark with pain. The gun standing in the corner, the furs
drying upon the wall, Becky crouching upon the blankets--all spoke to
him of a life he had lived too long to exchange for the quiet
existence of which he sometimes dreamed. He rose, and, with an abrupt
gesture, pointed to a shaggy robe before the fire place.

"I have no better bed to offer you," he said, "but I know you are not
used to a soft couch. You must be tired from your journey. Becky will
tend to your horses so you had better sleep now, that tomorrow we may
start out early and visit Colonel Hawkins. He would see you before you
begin work on the cotton gin."

The cotton gin, the first to be built in Alabama, was completed in due
time, and Barrett and Lyons, their pack horses again loaded with their
tools, were ready to return to Georgia. If Mordecai felt any pain at
having his co-religionists depart, he was skilful in concealing it.
For, after his confidence over the supper table, he had slipped back
into his stoical reserve and not even the taciturn Lyon was more
silent or chary of speech in anything that did not directly concern
the business in hand. So it was merry little Barrett who alone
mentioned the occasion that for a moment had brought the strangers of
the wilderness together and had made them brothers.

"We'll be coming back again when we want a taste of Becky's good
stew--and a blessing afterwards," he jested as he swung himself into
his saddle and reached down to shake hands with Mordecai.

"Or to build another gin if the Indians do not molest this one and
drive me off," answered Mordecai lightly, but the jest lingered in his
mind. His life among the superstitious savages, his solitary hours in
the wilderness, had helped to tinge his shrewd, practical mind with a
strong mysticism. He tried to dismiss the matter; but, as he walked
back to his hut that evening, Barrett's light words haunted him and
gave him no rest. "Perhaps," he muttered, "perhaps, before my life is
over, we will meet again and there will be three of us at grace."

But his fancies fled and his dreamy face grew hard and alert as he
came to the clearing before his hut. There, in the midst of his
Indian followers, all armed with long poles, stood Chief Towerculla,
threatening Becky. The squaw had placed herself in the door of the
hut, where she stood with folded arms, listening to the Chief's angry
threats. If she felt any fear, there was no trace of it in her
expressionless face. Nor did she seem relieved when Mordecai pushed
between her and the angry Indian and demanded what business had
brought him there. She merely shrugged a little, hitched up her
buckskin skirt and resumed her task of pounding corn between two
stones at the door of the hut, appearing to take no interest in the
quarrel that followed. For like a good squaw, she did not think it
seemly to interfere in her husband's business affairs.

"And now, Towerculla," began Mordecai in the Indian tongue which he
spoke fluently. "Why do you come here and seek to frighten my squaw in
my absence? And why have you brought your men with you?"

The Chief grunted in disgust. "And why do you bring the pale face here
to build?" he answered Mordecai question for question. "Our squaws are
well satisfied to work in the fields, to make oil from the hickory
nuts, to weave blankets. But you would have them sell you cotton to
make you rich; you would build a store and other white men would be
greedy to trade with our women and build other gins and other
stores--and soon there would be many of your people while we--" he
waved his hand toward his warriors, "we children of the red men would
be driven further into the wilderness. You have already driven us too
far, you white men. I am willing to spare you for the sake of 'Old
Milly,' whom we do not fear, for she is one of us. And she has pleaded
for you more than once. So I will allow you and your squaw to depart
in peace. By tomorrow morning leave for some other place--for it is
not good to dwell here any longer."

For a moment Mordecai was too astonished to answer. Then he laughed
boldly into the Indian's angry face. Towerculla sprang for him, but
Mordecai swiftly stepped aside, and crouching, sprung upon the Chief
and struck him to the ground. For a minute the two struggled together.
Then the Indians fell upon Mordecai and released Towerculla, who rose
from the dust, his face terrible in his anger. Mordecai struggled in
vain against the blows of Towerculla's followers. As he sank to the
ground overpowered, he caught himself murmuring, "They cannot kill me,
until we three say grace together again," even while he longed for
death to cut short the agony which was beginning to wrack every limb
of his cruelly beaten body. Then out of the mist of red which seemed
to swim before his eyes, a merciful black cloud descended and he knew
nothing more until he regained consciousness and found himself in "Old
Milly's" cabin, with Becky, still calm of face and quiet of voice
bathing his wounds with cool water from the spring.

"What has happened?" he asked, trying to rise, but falling back
moaning in his pain.

"Old Milly," a tall, sharp-faced woman, who sat weaving a basket as
skillfully as any squaw, answered him. "Towerculla would have slain
you, had not Becky brought me in time. He is not a good enemy to have,
Abram Mordecai. When you are stronger, you must take his advice and go
away. The Indians did not burn the barn, so your horses are safe, but
the house was in flames before I could reach it and persuade
Towerculla to leave you in peace."

Becky rose and walked to the table. Returning to where her husband
lay, she placed in his hand three books with worn black covers and a
faded red napkin. "I ran and got these when I saw they were destroying
our cabin," she told him. "I knew you had kept them long; that they
were dear to you as the gods of our people are to us--like a charm,
maybe, to keep death away. And perhaps, when the white men come again,
you will want to have them on the table and sing."

For the moment, Mordecai forgot that Becky was only a squaw,
undeserving, according to the custom of her people, either thanks or
praise. "You are a very good wife," he said, gently, "and I will buy
you real gold earrings with the first money I earn from the cotton
gin." And since he was so weak, neither woman dared to tell him for
several days that the vengeance of the Indians had extended to the gin
house, which now lay a heap of black ruins hear the river.

Broken in body and ruined in fortune, Mordecai accompanied by the
faithful Becky, bade farewell to Colonel Hawkins and journeyed further
into the wilderness. For the Indian agent prudently refused to erect
a second gin while the Indians still planned to injure Mordecai, and
the adventurer himself felt that it would be hopeless to seek to gain
the friendship of the embittered Chief. Trader and trapper, he led his
solitary existence in the south, with no companionship but Becky's,
until her death left him entirely alone.

He had regained his former vigor by this time and sometimes dreamed of
returning to his boyhood home. But from the pioneer towns springing up
wherever he passed, he knew that a new civilization was rising in
America; that he was of the generation that must pass away as surely
as the Indian and he realized that he would feel sadly out of place in
the surroundings that he had known as a boy. Yet, dreamer that he was,
he never ceased to picture himself, a sober stay-at-home citizen,
living out the last years of his life in communion with his fellow
Jews, who had never left their quiet firesides. Nor in all his
wanderings did he ever part with the three _Sidurim_ and the faded red
napkin. For as he grew older, the fantastic notion grew ever stronger
that before he died he would again say grace with the builders of his
cotton gin.

Almost a century old, he wandered back at last to Montgomery county,
seeking the very spot where his hut had stood before Chief Towerculla
had driven him away. Now the settlement of Dudlyville, so close at
hand, made him feel cramped and uncomfortable. Colonel Hawkins had
long since left Pole Cat Springs; Chief Towerculla, driven away by
the white men he had always feared, was dead; "Old Milly" no longer
lived in her savage kingdom with her husband and her slaves.

But he felt too tired to travel further; perhaps he realized that no
matter where he went he would feel lonely as the survivor of another
day and generation. So he built a tiny cabin for himself, even putting
together some crude furniture. Here he lived, never seeing a human
face unless he walked to the village to secure supplies, which the
settlers, vaguely touched by his loneliness, never failed to press
upon him. He talked to them sometimes of the days before the
wilderness had been conquered, speaking too, of the first cotton gin,
which the Indians had destroyed. "I love the spot," he used to say,
"but it is growing too crowded; yes," with a shake of his white head,
"too crowded for one who needs plenty of fresh air to breathe. Next
spring I must journey on." But when spring came, he would wait until
fall, and again through the long winter. For his old ambition had left
him and though his heart still wandered afar through the forests, his
feet were too weary to follow it.

But one evening he felt strangely strong and refreshed. He had worked
hard all the afternoon cleaning his little hut and now the humble room
looked as spotless as spring water and vigorous scrubbing could make
it. Even the table and chairs were scoured and the fireplace cleaned,
while, to complete the day's task Mordecai had emptied an old barrel
in the corner, burning the heap of odds and ends which had accumulated
since his return. But now as he stood behind the table he held in his
hand three black books and a faded napkin which he could not bring
himself to destroy. As he stood there with the rays of the setting sun
falling through the open door on his shaggy white head, old memories
burned in his faded eyes and a strange, dreamy smile played about his
mouth.

"I have found the books--it is time for them to come and say 'grace',"
he murmured to himself. "I have put my house in order. I know it is
time for me to go away--into the Great Wilderness--but not until we
have three at grace once more."

Carefully placing a book at each place, he drew up two chairs and a
box, spread the napkin at the head of the table and set out his few
poor dishes and humble evening meal. Then he took his place, opened
his book and waited. The Hebrew letters seemed strangely blurred; for
the first time in his life his keen eyes failed him. But, glancing up,
he thought he saw his two guests, Lyon and Barrett in their places
waiting for him to begin the blessing before the meal.

"I am ready," he said, and even as he spoke, his head dropped upon the
open book and Mordecai's restless spirit was at rest forever.




THE LUCKY STONE

_The Adventures of Uriah P. Levy, the First Naval Officer of
his Day._


A little brown sand piper scudded along the beach. Uriah Levy, a
brown-faced lad who looked several years older than a boy who had just
passed his eleventh birthday, lay upon the shore and smiled to see it
flirt importantly past him as though in a tremendous hurry to reach
its destination. Then his keen eyes turned toward the sea, blue and
stainless, as level as the long looking glass in his mother's parlor
at home. Several sea gulls skimmed the quiet waters, now rising until
their gray-white plumage melted into the clouds, now seeming to float
upon the tide. Uriah was a trifle sorry when they disappeared at last,
for he loved the sea gulls dearly. They seemed so akin to him in their
wild freedom, in their love for the solitary waste of waters. Ever
since he could remember, he, too, had loved the sea, since the days
when he was a tiny boy, sailing his paper boats to strange ports
across the ocean. And tomorrow he was going to sea at last--a real
cabin boy in a real vessel! He threw himself back upon the warm sands
and with half-closed eyes lay dreaming of the future.

He was aroused from his day dreaming by the strange uneasiness that
comes to one who feels that he is being observed. Sitting up, he saw
that Ned Allison, a lad whose father owned a fishing shack near by,
had come down to the beach and was now standing over him, his hands
thrust into the pockets of his ragged trousers, his bare, brown toes
kicking among the pebbles at his feet. The newcomer was a few years
younger than Levy, a grave, stolid lad with bright, restless eyes.

"Hello, Ned," Uriah greeted him. "Did you know I was going to sea
tomorrow?"

"No. You're lucky." The other's tone was delightfully envious of
Uriah's good fortune. "I've got to wait till I'm twelve or maybe
fifteen, I guess. Father's rheumatism is bad lately and I have to help
him. How're you going?" He sank beside Uriah on the sands and gazed
longingly over the blue waters.

"I'm going to ship as cabin boy; but I won't be gone long." Uriah
couldn't help bragging a little as he told his good fortune. "I'm
going to be like Paul Jones and that crowd--if it takes a hundred
years."

"You'll be too old then," observed Ned dryly. He began to turn over
the heap of pebbles that lay between them. "Now if you were to find an
oyster or clam shell with several big pearls you could buy a ship of
your own right now and----"

"I'd make you first mate," promised Uriah, generously. Leaning on his
elbow, he too began to turn over the pebbles, for like every boy of
his years he never gave up hope of finding an oyster shell thickly
studded with pearls, each one milk-white and shining and worth a
king's ransom. "Yes," he went on, dreamily, "I'd rig out a brig right
away and sail the seas till I got tired. First, I guess, I'd clear
the Spanish Main of pirates and then I'd visit far-off countries
across the ocean. Remember what old Captain Ferguson told us about
'em; palm trees, and naked black men who'll sell you ivory and
precious stones for a string of beads or a piece of red cloth? That's
what I'd do if I had a ship of my own."

"I think I'd rather go to war," observed Allison with equal
seriousness.

"Of course! If there would only be a war with some country or other,
I'd like to be captain of the American Navy and capture all the other
nation's vessels and tow 'em into port." His eager face clouded. "But
I've heard my father say that this country's lucky to have peace after
the Revolution; that we have to rest and grow strong. I suppose it
isn't any more likely than either of us ever finding a pearl among all
these stones." Suddenly he interrupted himself with a shrill whistle
of delight. "I found a lucky stone," he exclaimed, "a beauty," holding
it up for Ned's inspection. "And I'm going to wear it for luck as long
as I'm a sailor." He took a piece of string from his pocket and ran it
through one of the holes. "Maybe," he laughed, hanging the charm about
his neck, "maybe this is almost as good as finding a pearl. Anyhow, I
don't care about being rich as long as I can go to sea."

Uriah Levy stood upon the sea shore, no longer a dreaming boy, but a
stalwart youth of twenty. At sixteen he already held the position of
first mate after becoming part owner of the brig, "Five Sisters," on
which he had made five voyages. It had not been easy for a youth with
the down of manhood scarcely visible upon his cheeks to rule a crew
gathered in that day from the riff-raff and scum of the sailing-ports.
Yet the Jewish lad, who one day was to make it his boast that he had
abolished the barbarous custom of corporal punishment from the United
States Navy, by resorting to force ruled without difficulty when his
lawless seamen once realized his courage and the strength of his
fists.

But in the year 1812 the times were still wild times upon the ocean
and it was no uncommon thing for a law-abiding crew to grow weary of
the restraints of their commander, mutiny and follow the sea after the
manner of the pirates who still ruled the Spanish Main. And so, when
Uriah P. Levy became master of the schooner, "George Washington," not
even his iron discipline was strong enough to withstand the plotting
of several of the bolder spirits of his crew. Almost under his very
eyes, the mutiny had been hatched and had grown to a head.

Standing upon the lonely sea shore, Uriah recalled the swarthy,
leering face of Sam Jones, recently punished for infraction of
discipline, and the crooked smile of Martin, he who puffed
everlastingly at his pipe and wore a red handkerchief for a turban and
earrings of heavy gold. He had known them for the ringleaders in the
plot against him, even before they had seized command of the vessel
and taken possession of the cabin that they might hold council whether
their master should be spared or cast into the sea.

"He's but a boy," Martin had argued. "Let him go. Put him in a boat
and set him adrift. We're off the coast of Carolina now and even if
he gets there with a whole skin, he's not likely to worry us when
we're flying the black flag on the Main."

But Sam Jones had urged instant death. "Let him walk the plank," he
suggested, his small eyes glittering with hate. "He's only a boy, but
I tell you I'm afraid of him--sore afraid."

Martin laughed scornfully, puffing at his pipe. "I'm willing to take
the risk," he declared, "though it's no concern of mine. So let's
shake dice and the man who wins will say what's to be done with him."

There in the dimly lighted cabin, Levy with his arms bound behind him,
had watched the game of dice as calmly as though his life did not lie
in the hands of the two who played for such a ghastly stake. Out on
the deck, the mutineers drank and jested and sang uproariously in
their new freedom. He wondered if that were to be the end: a short
plank, a blow to thrust him into the dark waves of the ocean which he
had loved so well. Uriah closed his eyes, swaying a little; but he was
quite calm, even smiling, when Jones sneered in disgust:

"Born to hang, will never drown. You win, Martin." He pushed the dice
aside and rose to release Levy from his bonds. "Here you," he called
to several sailors loitering near the door, "get a small boat ready
and set him adrift."

"And put in a pair of oars," added Martin. "Give the lad a fighting
chance, can't you? And some bread and a jug of water, too." Somehow he
felt suddenly uncomfortable before the boy's quiet gaze. "Aren't you
going to thank me?" he half blustered.

"I am an American gentleman," answered Levy, very slowly, "and I hold
no speech with outlaws and pirates." And before the astonished
mutineer could answer him he followed the sailors from the cabin.

And now his perilous journey was over at last, although his frail boat
had been destroyed on the rocks before he reached the shore. An
excellent swimmer, Levy had stripped off his shoes and coat and jumped
into the water. Cleaving the waves with long powerful strokes, he soon
reached land, where for several hours he lay wet and exhausted, so
bitterly discouraged that he almost wished Jones had prevailed and cut
his throat or forced him to walk the plank. Better to have fallen
asleep beneath the waves, he thought, than try to live, a hopeless and
a defeated man.

It was now past sunset and Levy mechanically set about building a fire
to warm his aching limbs and keep off any prowling beasts while he
slept. Scooping a hollow in the sand beyond the reach of the tide, he
gathered dry drift wood which he finally lighted by the aid of a spark
struck from two stones. He was hungry now and even more anxious for a
smoke than for food; at that moment he hated the crew less for making
off with the vessel in which he had had a third interest than for
casting him on this deserted shore without even the solace of his
evening pipe. Muttering angrily, he leaned over the fire to stir the
blaze; as he did so the damp string about his neck swung free and he
noticed the little lucky stone still fastened to the end.

Strangely enough, the sight of the pebble he had worn as a charm for
so many years gave him courage. His bold spirit which for a little
while had lain bruised and discouraged grew strong again; he felt that
he was not the man to submit tamely to treachery and misfortune. He
must win back all that he had lost that day, not only the stolen
vessel but his self-respect. He must not allow himself beaten.
Crouching by the fire, his chin resting on his clenched fists, his
eyes on the flames, the boy vowed not to rest until he had defeated
his enemies and secured what was his own. "I'm strong and young," he
told himself, confidently, "and so far my luck has never failed me."
And he fingered the little stone on the string about his neck. At last
the fire died down, but there was no one to stir the dying embers, for
Uriah Levy had fallen asleep upon the sands, the luck stone still
clutched between his strong, brown fingers, a confident smile upon his
lips.

In the days that followed, it was not an easy thing for young Levy to
smile confidently in the faces of those who predicted certain failure
in his undertaking. "Other merchants and commanders have suffered from
pirates and mutinous crews before your day," he was informed at every
turn. "Better ship again and look for better luck."

Kindly and well-meant advice, but Levy would have none of it. He still
smiled, though now somewhat grimly, as he went from friend to friend,
insisting that he would not fail to bring his piratical crew to
justice. And so confident was he that he would eventually find a
backer, that he even spent several days roaming about the wharves in
order to pick out a trustworthy crew, should he find anyone willing
to send him to sea on his own vessel again.

"Why, Uriah Levy," exclaimed a deep voice as a stout sailor came
toward him. "You surely haven't forgotten me?"

"You're Ned Allison," said Levy after a long look had convinced him
that the slender fisher boy had grown into the burly man before him.
"And do you follow the sea now as you planned?"

"Yes. My poor father died two years ago. So I sent mother to live with
her sister and here I am. I just hit port last week and now I'm ready
to leave again as soon as I find a good berth. Just can't feel at home
on dry land anymore."

Levy nodded understandingly. "Take me to a good tavern around here,"
he suggested. "I want to talk to you."

Allison willingly led the way to a tavern in the neighborhood much
frequented by sailors, chatting lightly as they walked. Levy hardly
knew him for the shy, taciturn playfellow of his boyhood. He sipped
his ale slowly as he studied Ned's bright, eager face. Somehow he felt
encouraged at the thought that he might induce Allison to accompany
him, should he set out on what seemed to be a hopeless voyage.

"And what have you been doing?" asked Allison, pausing for breath.
"The last I heard of you, you were master of the 'George Washington'
and part owner. Not that you look very lively and prosperous," he
added with a keen glance.

Levy briefly related the story of the mutiny and his hope to pursue
and punish his mutinous crew. "And I'll do it, too," he added,
passionately. "Though I suppose you, like the rest, think it's a mad
venture," he ended, doubtfully.

Allison put down his mug before replying. "I can't say that I do," he
answered slowly. "Though it's risking a good deal if you catch up to
the dogs and they sink your ship in the scuffle. You couldn't afford
that, could you?"

"I'm not thinking of the money alone," insisted Levy. "Nor of revenge;
although I've been treated pretty shabbily and they'll pay for it, if
I live long enough to track them down. But it's a matter of conscience
with me, too, Allison. I'm going to do my share in making the sea
clean of piracy. Maybe there won't be a war in our time, though they
say there's trouble threatening with England, but I'll serve my
country in this way at least. Want to help me?" and he leaned across
the table, looking straight into Ned's eyes.

"I'd rather ship with you as master than any man I know, Sir,"
answered Allison, gravely.

Less than a week later, Uriah Levy succeeded in convincing several
wealthy friends of the sanity of his plan. They advanced the necessary
funds and with a carefully picked crew he started out on a vessel of
his own with Allison as first mate in pursuit of the sailors who had
cast him afloat near the Carolina shores.

Of all the tales Ned Allison loved to tell his grandchildren when he
had grown to be an old man, they clamored most for the story of the
sea fight in which Uriah Levy conquered the pirate crew of the "George
Washington." It was a short battle, but a terrible one, which he
fought a year after the mutiny; and before the mutineers finally
lowered their black flag in token of surrender, a third of the crew
lay dead or wounded upon the slippery decks. Old Martin, his pipe
still between his teeth, lay among the dead, but Sam Jones, his right
arm hanging limp and useless at his side, was among the survivors who
were put into irons when their vessel was taken in tow and Levy turned
his face homeward. Like the other mutineers Jones never doubted what
his fate would be, for those days were hard days and the men who lived
by the sword knew only too well that at any moment death by the sword
might be their portion. Hourly they waited for Levy to pass judgment
upon them, to hang them from the yard arm of the ship which they had
sailed under the flag of piracy. While Levy's own crew grew impatient
until the first mate, Allison, ventured to speak to him of the matter
as they sat in Levy's cabin the night after the battle.

"I can't help wondering, sir," Allison began, doubtfully, "why you
have said nothing so far concerning the fate of our prisoners, since
it is practically in your hands."

Levy shook his head as he puffed thoughtfully at his pipe. Perhaps he
was thinking of the night when Jones had threatened him with death and
laughed at his helplessness. "According to the 'unwritten law' which
is made to cover so many lawless acts, I have the power to deal with
them as I think fit," he answered. "And I must confess I was sorely
tempted to take the law into my own hands when I knew the mutineers
were in my power. But," smiling a little, "it is much better to leave
it to the law courts when we reach port."

"And if they should be acquitted?" Allison's eyes snapped with
excitement. "Sir, if I were in your place----"

"If you were in my place, you might not be censured for yielding to
your desire for revenge," returned Levy, very quietly. "But I--" his
voice took on a tinge of bitterness, "I am a Jew and these wretches,
no matter how criminal, would be pitied as the victim of a Jew's
vengeance. Even in America, my dear Allison, and in spite of the
liberal influence of men like Thomas Jefferson, it is not always easy
to be a Jew."

The civil authorities, however, were entirely on Levy's side at the
trial and the mutineers were duly tried and condemned to death. The
young sailor was about to put out to sea again, for he longed for
further adventure, when the outbreak of the war of 1812 set him
a-dreaming once more of serving his country upon the sea. In spite of
his youth, he was commissioned sailing master in the United States
Navy, serving on the ship, "Alert," and later on the brig, "Argus,"
which ran the blockade to France, Mr. Crawford, the American minister
to that country, being aboard. The "Argus" captured several English
vessels, one of which was placed at Levy's command; but his triumph
was short-lived; recaptured by the English, Levy and his crew were
kept prisoners of war in England for over a year.

Regaining his freedom, Levy returned to America to be promoted to the
rank of lieutenant. It was then that he realized how just had been his
complaint to Allison, for on every hand those who were envious of his
good fortune proved even more malicious because of his loyalty to his
faith. Levy suffered, too, from the hatred of those naval officers who
looked upon him as an intruder into their ranks. For, with the
exception of a year's attendance at the Naval School in Philadelphia,
he had had no naval training and had worked his way up from the ranks.
Perhaps his long fight against the practise of flogging unruly sailors
helped to add to the number of his enemies, for those in authority
were outraged that this Jewish upstart should criticise a custom so
deeply rooted in the traditions of the navy. Another man of quieter
temper might have tried to combat the prejudice and hatred which met
him at every turn; but Levy's nature was not a patient one. When
raised to the rank of captain, he felt that he could not allow the
slanders of one of his enemies to go unanswered; he challenged the
Jew-hater to a duel and caused his opponent to pay for his insults
with his life.

Although the duel was still recognized as an honorable means of
settling a controversy between gentlemen, Levy was made to pay
bitterly for his vindication. His enemies were too strong for him. He
fought them bravely and with his old proud spirit, but when the trial
was over, Allison still serving in the navy, read in one of the
newspapers that his old master had been court-martialed and dropped
from the roll of the United States Navy as captain.

"I knew they'd get him," thought the honest seaman. "Ah, he was too
good for them and now they put him to shame. I couldn't blame him if
he turned against his country when he's treated so after all his
services. And I wonder what'll happen to him if he doesn't follow the
sea."

Allison was right in suspecting that his old playmate would turn in
his trouble to the sea as a child when hurt or tired runs to its
mother for comfort. Glad of an offer to take charge of an important
business commission in Brazil, Levy left the United States, hoping
that the long sea voyage might do a little toward easing the pain in
his heart. But he found that he had been mistaken, although no one
ever knew how deeply he suffered from the moment he left the land he
had sought to serve from his boyhood. Disgraced by his country, tired
and broken in spirit, he spent endless hours in brooding over his
misfortune. No longer the commander of his men, not even a common
seaman, he spent the long days on board leaning upon the rail, looking
with somber eyes upon the waves. His proud heart was bitter against
those who had goaded him on to his ruin; he felt that there was no
justice for the Jew in the whole world, not even in America. Although
he had already set the wheels in motion for a new trial, he was
confident that his enemies would again prove too powerful for him. It
was a hopeless and a heartsick man who landed at last and began his
new duties at the Brazilian Capital.

Several days after his arrival, Uriah P. Levy stood by the window of
his room reading a letter, his brows knitted in thought. The note was
written on the royal stationery and requested him to appear the next
morning for an audience with Emperor Dom Pedro. Levy could think of
but one reason for such a strange command. Perhaps the slanders of his
enemies had preceded him even to this far-off place; perhaps he was
already under suspicion and the audience with the emperor might lead
to imprisonment or ejection from the country. The thought of new
difficulties to encounter wakened his fighting spirit; he was
strangely elated and the dreadful langor which had seized him during
his journey disappeared.

"I am ready for another good fight," he told himself grimly as he
prepared for bed. That night for the first time since his
court-martial he slept the long hours through, and he rested as
peacefully as a little child.

Dressing himself with his usual care and holding his head as proudly
as though he still wore his country's uniform, Levy appeared at the
palace and was immediately ushered into the emperor's presence. His
quick eyes, long trained to notice the smallest detail, quickly took
in every feature of the richly appointed room, noting even the
fantastic carving of the chair on which the emperor sat, and one of
the rings he wore, a flat green emerald with a mystic letter carved
upon it making the jewel, so he judged, a sort of talisman. He smiled
in spite of himself as he remembered his own humble charm, the lucky
stone. Perhaps the pebble's usefulness was over; he could hardly call
his career especially fortunate just now.

Emperor Dom Pedro was a man of a few words. He murmured a few polite
phrases of greeting, asked Levy of his voyage and whether he had
completed the mission which had brought him to Brazil. "For if you
have," he ended, "I may have matters of interest to discuss with you."

"I am not quite finished with the business which brought me here,"
answered Levy, "but naturally I am honored by your majesty's request
to appear before you and not a little eager to learn what matters you
may care to discuss with me."

The emperor twirled the ring with its strange green stone about his
finger. "I have heard much of you," he returned, briefly, "and I need
men of your daring and enterprise in my service. Will you take an
important commission under the Brazilian government?"

For a moment Levy wavered. Already an exile in spirit, he felt he did
not have the courage to return to his native country. Here was an
opportunity for an honorable career which would bring him position,
wealth, all the excitement his daring heart desired. Then, curiously
enough, as he gazed at the emperor's ring, there flashed across his
mind the picture of a brown-faced boy upon the sands, a boy turning a
lucky stone in his fingers as he dreamed of a glorious career in the
country of his birth. He turned to the emperor and spoke quietly, but
with his characteristic decision.

"Your majesty," said Uriah Levy, "I thank you. But the humblest
position in my country's service is more to be preferred than royal
favor." And bowing before Dom Pedro, he left the court.

Nor was Levy's trust in the justice of his country unfounded. Just as
he had persisted in bringing his mutinous crew to punishment, now he
showed the same determination in insisting that a court of inquiry be
established to question the justice of his court-martial. He prepared
his own defense--merely a statement of his record while in the service
of his country--a record that won his complete and honorable
acquittal. Not only was he restored to his old rank in the United
States Navy, but shortly afterwards he rose to the advanced rank of
commodore.

When the Civil War broke out he was holding the position of flag
officer, the highest rank in our navy at that time. The years had been
kind to the little cabin boy and his private inheritance had grown
into a considerable fortune. He had already purchased Monticello, the
home of his old idol, Thomas Jefferson, intending to preserve it as a
national shrine, and had presented a statue of the author of our
Declaration of Independence to the nation's Hall of Fame. Now he felt
that there was but one cause to which he cared to devote his wealth;
he sought an interview with President Lincoln and placed his entire
private fortune at the nation's disposal.

A few days later, his boyhood friend, Ned Allison, now crippled with
rheumatism but with a laugh as hearty and boyish as of old, visited
his former master. He found Uriah Levy grown frail and listless, the
fires of his youth beginning to burn low as he neared his seventieth
year. To be sure the commodore tried to rouse himself, asking after
Ned's children, and even laughing feebly at the latter's account of
his youngest grandson, "named Uriah Levy Allison, after you, sir," who
now toddled along the beach where the two boys had searched among the
pebbles so long ago.

"We didn't know we'd live to see two wars, did we, sir," mused
Allison, "when we were just lads playing before my father's shack.
Well, even if we're past our prime now, they can't say we didn't do
our part back in 1812," and he chuckled a little in his pride.

But Levy's eyes were sad. "We have lived a little too long, Allison,"
he said, gravely but without bitterness. "When this war broke out I
tried to help once more. But my offer of my entire fortune--and it was
little enough to offer my country--has been refused, although I am
allowed to subscribe to the war loan. Yet money means so little in a
time like this. Whenever I hear the call for volunteers, I am like the
old war horse that is turned out to grass. I am an old man now, nearly
seventy, and must sit at home by the fire. But it hurts a little,
Allison; it hurts a little."

For a while there was silence between them. When Allison rose to go,
Levy followed him to the door, stopping a moment at the drawer of his
desk to wrap a small package which he thrust into his old friend's
hand.

"'Tis for the boy, my name-sake," he explained. "The money will buy
him some toy--maybe a small vessel to sail when the tide is low--and
the other--," he laughed a little confusedly. "I found the trifle
among some old keepsakes and papers the other day when I put my
affairs in order. Give it to the boy and tell him of the day we found
it. And come again soon, Allison, and talk over old times."

Out in the street, Ned Allison removed the wrappings from the little
package. It contained a gold piece and a lucky stone with a bit of
soiled string still fastened through one of the holes.




THE PRINCESS OF PHILADELPHIA

_The Story of Rebecca Gratz and Washington Irving._


The spring rain fell on the roof with a gentle murmur, tinkling
merrily as though it were pleased to hear the happy laughter of the
children playing in the garret of Michael Gratz's house in
Philadelphia. Six children romped there that Saturday afternoon in
early springtime, away back in the year 1712, Rebecca Gratz, her
younger brothers and sister and the one guest she had invited to her
eleventh birthday party, Matilda Hoffman, a girl about her own age,
whose fair long braids formed a striking contrast to Rebecca's dusky
curls.

Just now the merriment was at its height for Rebecca, aided by
Matilda, was setting the table, while nine-year-old Rachel tried to
amuse baby Benjamin who was making violent efforts to nibble at the
trimmings of the birthday cake. Joseph and Jacob, fine sturdy fellows
of seven and six, had found a pair of fencing foils in one of the old
trunks in the corner and were engaged in a lively duel, displaying
such recklessness that had their mother seen them she would have
confiscated the weapons without delay. Perhaps Rebecca would have
stopped this dangerous play had she not been too busy with the
banquet-table--really a board placed upon two barrels and covered with
a gay red scarf Rachel had found with the fencing foils.

"It does look nice," she admitted, viewing her efforts with her head
on one side as Matilda poured out the last glass of gooseberry wine
and set it in its place. "Only," with a little sigh, "I do wish my
birthday hadn't come today so we could have had candles instead of
those wax roses on the cake."

"Why couldn't you?" Matilda asked curiously.

"It isn't right for people to light birthday candles on _Shabbas_,"
explained Rachel. "Jewish people, I mean," she qualified as she tied a
napkin around Benjamin's fat neck and deposited him in a seat at the
table furtherest from the birthday cake. "But it's different for you
'cause you're not Jewish."

"It's queer people are all different and go to different churches,"
puzzled Matilda. "My mamma says----"

But no one ever heard her mother's opinion on the subject, for Joseph
and Jacob on seeing Rebecca take her place at the head of the table
raced to their seats with howls like hungry Indians at dinner time.
For a few minutes the children's noisy tongues were hushed as the
little hostess passed out sandwiches and jelly tarts. But when all the
plates were empty to the last crumb and only the birthday cake
remained in solitary splendor, just beyond the reach of Benjamin's
greedy fingers, Joseph remarked with a satisfied sigh:

"This was just like one of those king's dinners in the fairy books.
Like the banquet Esther gave the king at Purim."

"I wish it was Purim again," observed Jacob, who, seeing that the
pitcher was empty, began to wish that he had drunk his second glass of
gooseberry wine a little more slowly. "Don't you remember last Purim,
Becky, how you wore mother's old black silk and played you were Queen
Esther? But Joe and Hyman took all the good parts and wouldn't let me
be a king or anything."

"We don't have to wait till Purim to dress up and play king and
queen," Rebecca told him, her brows knit in her effort to divide the
pink and white cake into six slices of equal thickness. "As soon as
we've finished our cake, we'll look through those old trunks over
there. There're ever so many dresses and things from Austria and an
Indian blanket and beads and such things and I know mother wouldn't
care if we played with them as long as we put 'em all back again."

Joseph sprang up, his piece of frosted cake in his hand. "I want the
Indian stuff," he cried.

"And I'll shoot you with my gun," challenged Jacob, pushing Rachel
away from the trunk. "You're so slow, Rachel, we'll never get anything
out."

The other children followed, all but little Benjamin. Benjamin was
still too young to be interested in the game of "dressing up." So he
toddled about the deserted table, picking stray crumbs from the plates
and turning over the empty glasses in the hope of finding a few drops
of gooseberry wine.

Strange, isn't it, that no matter how long it takes to get ready for
breakfast, the slowest boy or girl can button himself into a
make-believe outfit in the twinkling of an eye. In an incredibly short
time, the five youngsters were dressed, each to satisfy his own
peculiar taste: Joseph as an Indian in blanket and beads, with a
crimson band about his head; Jacob, carrying a sword, wore a
moth-eaten smoking jacket, a bright sash and crimson Turkish turban;
Rachel and Matilda were two dainty ladies in full skirts of blue and
pink, with deep bonnets; while Rebecca was rather splendid in a yellow
silk wrapper, a long veil fastened about her head with a string of
pearl beads she had found in the treasure trunk. Laughing merrily,
they all raced to the long mirror which stood at the other end of the
garret; though cracked and discolored they were able to distinguish
the gaily clad figures within its mottled depths, more like the quaint
images of an old tapestry than happy, romping children at play. Then
they scattered to their own games, the boys to stage an exciting
battle between a red skin and a gallant soldier, the little girls to
comfort Benjamin, who, having cleared the table, began to howl
dismally that he wanted to get "dwessed, too!"

Laughing at his earnestness, the girls dressed him in a bright
dressing gown striped in red and yellow, even providing him with a
cane "for a gun like brother's." Then, the boys having grown tired of
their Indian warfare, the entire company began a gay game of blind
man's buff which ended somewhat abruptly as it was easy to tell at a
touch just who was "caught" by the peculiar costume he wore.

"Ball--play ball," suggested little Benjamin, wandering from the open
trunk, a small crystal ball in his hand.

"What is it?" asked Joseph, taking it curiously, "a paper weight
or----"

"I know," cried Matilda, as she examined the crystal globe. "My aunt
has one just like it--she got it from London. You do crystal gazing in
it."

"Crystal gazing?" Rebecca was frankly puzzled.

"Yes. She showed me how to do it. You just sit with the ball in front
of you and look into it for a long time and don't think of anything
else and all of a sudden you see pictures; that's what aunt said."

"What kind of pictures?" Joseph demanded.

"Pictures of what's going to happen. You see just what you're going to
do when you grow up."

"I don't believe that nonsense," declared Rebecca, with an emphatic
shake of her dark curls. "Father says it's all foolishness--like
believing what a gypsy fortune-teller promises you."

"Well, let's try it, anyhow," suggested Rachel. "It won't do any harm
and it'll give us something to do till the rain's over and we can go
out and play again."

The crystal ball placed upon the table, the five dark and the one
flaxen head bent over it eagerly. "But we'll never see anything this
way," corrected Matilda. "It's Rebecca's party, so let her have the
ball first. No one else must look or say a single word till she's seen
her picture."

Cheeks flushed with excitement, shining dark eyes fastened upon the
crystal, Rebecca sat motionless, scarcely daring to breathe as she
waited for the picture of her future to appear in the glass. The
others clustered about her, expectant and silent. At last she shook
her head and pushed the ball aside. "I can't see a single thing," she
complained.

"But I want to try it," declared Jacob, reaching for the crystal. "Now
all keep quiet and maybe I'll see something, even if Becky couldn't."

Again patient waiting until Jacob got up in disgust. "It's a silly
game," he jeered. "Maybe your aunt could see things in an old glass
ball, but nobody else can."

"It's more fun just playing 'pretend'," declared his sister Rachel.
"Let's do it." She flung herself upon an old fur rug near the window,
pulling Benjamin down beside her. "We'll just sit in a circle and
pretend we've looked in the glass ball and it told us just what we
were going to do when we grow up. I want to tell my fortune first,"
she ended importantly.

"That's a silly girl game," objected Jacob; but, tired of romping, he,
too, threw himself upon the rug and waited with the rest of the circle
for Rachel to disclose her future.

"When I'm grown up," began Rachel very slowly, her eyes fixed on the
trees beyond the window, dripping with rain, "I'm going to be very
beautiful like Miss Franks in New York used to be, and go to parties
and balls every single night and have all the officers in the army
writing poetry about me and making toasts for me, just as she did. And
I'll always wear pink silk," she concluded, with a glance at her rosy
ruffles.

"I should think you'd get awfully tired of balls every night,"
observed Matilda. "I'd much rather be like my governess. She isn't
pretty at all but she knows just everything and she writes verses,
too. When I grow up, I'm going to write a whole book and everybody
will say how smart I am." She spoke very seriously and the others
looked at their ambitious little friend respectfully. Happy children
as they were, they could not read the future and see that Matilda
Hoffman, although one of the most accomplished young women of her
time, would never write the wonderful book of which she dreamed. Nor
could they guess that instead her lovely life would be an inspiration
to a writer whose books every American would come to know and cherish.

"And I'm going 'way west to the lands father's just bought," declared
Jacob, "and live with the Indians and wear a blanket and go hunting
all the time."

"And I'm going with you," piped Benjamin, not understanding what the
game was about, but determined not to lose any of the fun. Though
something of that afternoon's pretending came to pass for him, for
when a man he actually sought what was then the far western territory
of Kentucky and became one of the leading citizens of Lexington.

"Well, I'm going to be a merchant like father," Joseph spoke with his
usual grave determination, never dreaming of the day when he would
become a senator. "And what are you going to do, Becky?"

Rebecca considered for a moment. Although older than the others, this
child's play was very fascinating to her. "The other day," she said
slowly, "I had the legend of St. Elizabeth for my French lesson. I
think I'd like to be just like her when I grow up."

"Was she beautiful and everything like that?" asked Rachel.

"I suppose so." Rebecca's voice had grown rather dreamy. "The ladies
in stories always are beautiful, aren't they? But I liked her because
she went about doing good among the poor peasants, even if her mean
husband wanted her to stay at home."

"Did he ever find out?" asked Jacob.

"Once he thought he did." Rebecca smiled at the recollection. "She was
going through the castle courtyard with a basket on her arm and some
one told him she was taking bread to the poor people. He was very
angry and ran after her and asked her what was underneath the napkin
on her basket. You can just imagine how frightened she was!"

"Did she tell him?" Matilda wanted to know.

"I suppose she was so frightened she just didn't know she was telling
a lie," Rebecca excused her heroine, "and before she knew what she was
saying, she told her husband that she was carrying roses. And it was
in the middle of the winter, too! And when he snatched the napkin off
the basket--" the story teller paused impressively, "what do you
suppose he found there?"

"Bread," chorused her listeners.

"No!" Rebecca shook her curls. "Because she was so good, God saved her
from telling a lie and her basket was filled with beautiful red roses.
And when her husband saw how much God thought of her, he became good,
too, and tried to help Elizabeth care for all the poor people in the
country."

"She must have been very rich to help so many poor people," observed
Joseph.

"Oh, she was a real princess and I guess all princesses have plenty
of money," answered his sister easily.

"Then you can be just like her, if you want to," the admiring Matilda
assured her. "Your papa's one of the richest men in Philadelphia, I
guess, and you're beautiful like Elizabeth and with that long veil and
those pearls you look just like a real princess this minute, doesn't
she, Rachel?"

"Let's play the princess in the tower?" cried Joseph, springing up,
already weary of the game. "Becky, you get on top of that trunk and
we'll put chairs around it and play it's a high tower and Jacob and I
will be princes and come and rescue you and take you away on our
horses--the way they did in the fairy book you read us the other day."

"But what'll we be?" cried Rachel and Matilda together.

"You can be her ladies-in-waiting or something," Joseph decided, "and
Benjamin can be our page and hold our horses while we climb into the
tower." He straddled one of the fencing foils and pranced across the
room. "A rescue!" he called shrilly to his brothers, "a rescue for the
lovely Princess Rebecca."

Hyman Gratz, Rebecca's sixteen-year-old brother, entering the room at
that moment, smiled at their sport. Swinging Benjamin to his shoulder
he advanced toward the tower which sheltered the three lovely ladies
and pulled Rebecca's face down to his for a kiss. "Having a happy
birthday?" he asked.

"Just splendid." Rebecca's eyes danced with happiness. "We're playing
the princess in the tower and I'm the princess."

Hyman, his face suddenly grave, looked over the happy, dancing figures
in their fantastic dresses. Although he did not know why, he wished at
that moment that the children playing in the old attic need never grow
up, but might always be carefree and laughing in their idle games. His
eyes lingered longest on Rebecca, such a dainty little princess in her
yellow silk and pearls and he sighted a little. But all he said was:
"If I were you youngsters, I'd play in the garden. The rain's all over
and there's a fine rainbow just behind the old chestnut tree."

       *       *       *       *       *

Washington Irving sat crouched in one of the great arm chairs of the
drawing room in Mr. Gratz's house in Philadelphia. His elbow on his
knee, he sat with his hand shading his face, his eyes seeking the
floor. When Rebecca Gratz entered the room, he seemed about to rise,
but with a gesture she urged him to remain seated and took a chair
beside him. For a long time they sat there in silence, Rebecca's hands
twisting a small package that lay in her lap, her face pale and tired,
her dark eyes filled with tears.

Sitting there with the soft candle light falling upon her simple blue
dress and white arms, she made a picture which young Irving would have
appreciated at any other moment. The slim little princess of the
nursery had grown into a graceful young girl of gracious, yet
dignified bearing, her abundant hair brushed simply back from her
forehead, the gravity of her sweet face increased by the earnestness
that never left her large dark eyes, even when she smiled. For even
in her gayest moments there was always a hint of gentle gravity about
Rebecca Gratz; tonight, when utterly exhausted from watching at the
deathbed of her childhood friend, Matilda Hoffman, she looked like a
beautiful graven image of Sorrow.

At last Rebecca spoke, her low voice tremulous with tears: "The end
was very easy--God was good to her at the last. And I do not think she
suffered much lately. Matilda just seemed to fade away, not like one
ill, but very tired. She often spoke of you when we were together;
that is why I asked brother Hyman to send for you. I thought you would
like to hear it all from me."

The young man in the arm chair shifted a little. "Yes, I would like to
hear everything from you," he answered, not trusting himself to meet
her eyes.

Simply, tenderly, Rebecca told young Irving of the last illness of the
young girl whom he had hoped to marry. Now and then her voice broke,
for she had loved Matilda Hoffman dearly; but she went bravely on
until the end, when she placed the little package in Irving's hand.
"She said I was to give you this," she told him, and looked away while
he opened the cord with fingers that trembled a little.

The tokens that Washington Irving now gazed upon with tear-dimmed eyes
and which were never to leave his possession during all the years when
he was to acquire fame and wealth as America's leading author were a
little prayer book and Bible. Between the pages of the latter the dead
girl had placed a lock of her bright hair; as he raised the worn
little book several faded rose leaves fell upon the carpet.

"I pressed one of the roses from her coffin for you," Rebecca told
him. "I did not think it would fade so soon."

There was a long silence between them, then, the two books pressed
again his cheek, the young man burst into a fit of passionate weeping.
"It was not right," he cried fiercely. "She was so good and beautiful
and young. And we would have been so happy together. It was not right
that she should die."

"I know--I loved her, too," said Rebecca gently.

He turned upon her almost angrily. "You can never know. I was her
lover; you were only her friend."

"'The heart knoweth its own bitterness'," quoted the girl softly.

But Irving impatiently shook off the pitying hand she had dropped upon
his arm, "What do you know of sorrow?" he demanded. "You have
everything your heart can desire; wealth, youth, beauty, friends--I
have no one."

"And with all my gifts I am more unhappy than you," Rebecca persisted.
"For I have not even the memory of a happy friendship and love like
yours to bring me comfort now."

For a moment Irving forgot his own grief. "I do not understand," he
murmured.

She smiled sadly. "You will not repeat this, I know," she told him
quietly. "Only my own family know, but you have been such a close
friend of my brother's that my secret is safe with you. I have
loved--and been loved--by a young man who was all my parents could
desire for me. But last month he went away and I shall never see him
again."

For the first time that evening Irving's eyes met hers. The girl's
glance was sad but very brave. "I do not understand," he repeated.

Again she smiled sadly. "You know how liberal my family have always
been in their religious opinions. We have always mingled freely with
non-Jews; Matilda, although not a Jewess, was my dearest friend. In
fact, a number of my relatives have married outside our faith." She
broke off a moment. "The young man was not a Jew," she said slowly.
"He loved his religion as well as I did mine. It was very hard to have
him go away." She leaned toward Washington Irving and lightly touched
the two little books she had given him. "You have lost your joy, too,"
she said, and now her clear tones trembled a little. "Neither of us
can ever be very happy again. We will both be so lonely sometimes,
that I think we must learn to be very good friends, don't you?" And
Irving pressed her hand in silence.

It was a more portly Irving, the Irving with the bright eyes and
kindly smile which we have learned to associate with the author of
"Rip Van Winkle" and "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," that waited for
Rebecca Gratz in the drawing room of her father's home about ten years
later. Since the death of Matilda Hoffman, he had grown to be a very
close friend of the Gratz family, never failing when in Philadelphia
to visit their home where he might "roost," as he put it, in the
large, comfortable guest room. He had never referred to his intimate
conversation with Rebecca when she had tried to comfort him after
Matilda's death; yet their mutual grief and confidence had created a
strong bond between them, and when Irving returned from an extended
trip abroad, he welcomed the opportunity of going to Philadelphia to
see his latest book through the press. For he longed to visit Miss
Gratz, who, so the home letters had informed him, had grown to be a
famous beauty and belle during his absence.

She came into the room with her swaying, graceful carriage of old
days, but with a new dignity and reserve of manner, carrying her
lovely head with just a little more pride than in her girlhood,
greeting Irving, for all her warm friendliness, like a young queen
graciously ready to accept homage from her subjects. She sank into a
low chair beside the fire, the flames casting a warm glow over her
arms and neck from which her gold colored scarf had slipped at her
entrance. Irving thought of another night ten years ago when she had
sat in that very chair with the candle light falling upon her blue
draperies. Then she had been a lovely girl just on the threshold of
life; now she was a cultured, well-poised woman of the world, crowned
by virtue of her beauty and position as the ruler of the society in
which she moved. He sighed a little and suddenly felt that he was
growing old. For a while they spoke of what had occurred during
Irving's absence from America, the countries the young author had
visited, the great men he had met on his travels. Finally he told her
of his visit to Sir Walter Scott, "days of solid enchantment," he
described them, from the moment when the famous author had limped down
to the gate of his estate in Scotland to welcome him, his favorite
stag hound leaping about him, as he grasped his guest's hand.

"We spent much of our time in long rambles over the hills," Irving
continued, "Scott telling me legends of the countryside as only he
could tell them. And in the evenings we would sit like medieval barons
before the blazing logs in the great dim hall at Abbotsford and there
would be more stories and confidences until long after midnight. Ah,
Rebecca, it was worth a trip across the Atlantic, just to touch his
hand."

She leaned toward him, her eyes sparkling. "How I would like to know
him--not only his books, which I love so much, but the real man in his
home," she cried.

Irving smiled mysteriously. "You may not know him, but he knows you
well, my lady. I told him of my American friends, your brother Hyman
among them, and, surely, I could not omit you, another heroine to hang
in his gallery of fair ladies of romance."

Rebecca shook her head, smilingly. "But I am not a heroine nor a lady
of romance," she protested.

"Scott seemed to think you were," Irving insisted. "I told him of your
beauty, your goodness--well, you can't deny them," as she raised a
protesting hand, "and your loyalty to your people. He had not finished
his novel, 'Rob Roy,' then, but he told me he was eager to write a new
romance, with the adventures of a lovely Jewess named Rebecca to form
the silver thread of the story. He has written me from time to time,"
went on Irving, as Rebecca smiled a little incredulously, "to tell me
how the work progressed. Much of the romance was dictated when Scott
lay on a couch too ill to write. He tells me that his two secretaries
grew to love the heroine, Rebecca, as much as he did, and that once
one of them grew so impatient to hear what became of her, that he
looked up from his manuscript and cried: 'That is fine, Mr. Scott--get
on--get on!'"

"And did Mr. Scott finally 'get on' and finish his book with a Jewish
heroine?" laughed Rebecca.

Irving reached toward the table and handed her a package he had placed
there. She broke the string curiously, a slow flush mounting her cheek
as she saw the volume, the first to be read by an American, but now in
every library in the land. "'Ivanhoe'," she read the tide, softly,
"but, surely, I am not in the story."

"He sent me this letter with the volume," answered Irving, drawing a
sheet of folded taper from between the pages. "I brought it with me
because I knew it would interest you."

And Rebecca, flushing over one of the most beautiful compliments ever
paid an American girl, read: "How do you like my Rebecca? Does the
Rebecca I have pictured compare well with the pattern given?" She
folded the paper and slipped it back between the pages. "But, surely,
I am not in the story," she repeated. "I am not a lady of romance, not
a real princess since the days little Matilda and Rachel and I used to
dress up and pretend we lived in a fairy tale."

Irving's merry eyes softened at mention of their dead friend. Then:
"You are more like a lady of romance than any woman I have ever
known," he declared stoutly, "and I have met some of the greatest
ladies of all Europe. But none of them seemed half so much a queen as
you. No, I am not flattering you, Rebecca. Hasn't your brother written
me of all your triumphs in society, here in Philadelphia, when he took
you to Saratoga Springs, when you visited your brother in Lexington
and were treated like a real princess by everyone who met you from
Henry Clay down to the negro slaves?"

"Oh, that--" Rebecca shrugged a little disdainfully. "I hope the Lady
Rebecca in 'Ivanhoe' does something worth while."

"She heals the sick and comforts the suffering; she is a great lady in
the real sense of the word; lady, a loaf-giver," answered Irving.
"Just as you are," he concluded, warmly.

"What else is there for me to do?" said Rebecca. "I shall never build
a home of my own or have little ones to love and care for. So I am
glad to use my wealth and leisure in building other homes, in being
something of a mother to the little orphans of our city."

"No matter whether they are Jew or Gentile," added Washington Irving
who had heard much of her many charities.

"We have all one Father," she reminded him, gently. "But, really, I do
not do half that I would. I am not a St. Elizabeth and no miracles are
wrought for me," and she smiled a little at her childish admiration
of the generous lady. "So I am half afraid to read what you have
brought me," indicating the volume, "for I know I shall be found
wanting when I am cast in the scale with the lovely Lady Rebecca."

"No, indeed! She is all that a princess in romance should be, but I
prefer our own Princess of Philadelphia," answered Washington Irving,
gallantly.

The Princess of Philadelphia, as the great author often called her,
half in jest, half in earnest, lived to be very old, surviving many
members of her family, and the brilliant circle over which she had
long reigned as a queen. But she was not too lonely; the young girls
whom she guided as an older sister, the orphan children who found in
her a second mother, countless unfortunates, some of them needing
gold, others a word of hope and comfort, became her subjects and
enthroned her in their grateful hearts. Her life, after all, was a
placid one. Unlike the Rebecca of the romance, she never experienced
thrilling adventures; no duels were fought in her names; no gallant
knights sought to save her from her enemies. Yet even when her
marvellous beauty faded and her glossy hair became threaded with gray,
she remained as youthful as any princess in a fairy tale, for she
never grew old at heart. And little children, divining the youth in
her soul, always felt that she was one of them.

It happened one day that Rebecca Gratz visited the Hebrew School she
had founded in Philadelphia, the forerunner of our modern Jewish
Sabbath School and the first institution of its kind in America. She
had not only donated large sums of money for its support, but had
helped to select and plan text books for the students, even writing
some of the daily prayers to be used by the little Jewish children of
her native city. It was her birthday--the seventy-fifth--and as the
gentle-faced old lady passed down the quiet corridors, she thought
half-tenderly, half-sadly of the birthday party in the garret so many
years ago. What silly things children dream! she thought with a smile.
Matilda had written no wise books and her adventure-loving brother had
never lived with the Indians. For herself--well, she was not really a
princess as Matilda had declared she ought to be, but like the
Princess Elizabeth she had been allowed to go about doing good among
the people.

A sound of stiffled sobbing reached her ear. Turning, she saw a little
girl curled up in one of the low window sills, an open book on her
lap. Rebecca Gratz hurried to her and slipped a comforting arm about
the shaking shoulders.

"Tell me what is the matter?" she whispered.

The child raised a wet face. "Oh, it's you, Miss Gratz," she
exclaimed. "I know I'm just as silly, but I can't help it. I came to
the sad part of the book where they want to burn 'Rebecca' for a witch
and I just couldn't help crying. Though I know it's going to come out
all right in the end," she added, wiping her eyes, "'cause story books
always do."

"Yes, story books do, even if real people's stories don't always end
happily," agreed Miss Gratz, sitting beside her. "Do you like the
book, Helen?"

"Ever so much, Miss Gratz. Miss Cohen, my teacher, lent it to me. And
what do you suppose she said?" She hesitated a moment, then,
encouraged by the kind eyes looking down into hers, added bashfully:
"Miss Cohen said, 'You ought to enjoy 'Ivanhoe,' Helen, because a
great many people think the character of Rebecca was taken from our
Miss Gratz.' Is that really true?" she ended, shyly.

Miss Gratz laughed as gayly as a child. "I mustn't tell," she teased.
"Only it doesn't seem likely, does it? The Rebecca in the story wears
pearls and veils every day and is imprisoned in a dungeon and goes to
the tournament. While I am just a plain old lady in a bonnet and shawl
and never do anything more exciting than visit your Hebrew classes. So
it's not likely Rebecca in the story and I are the same person, is
it?"

Helen considered a moment, her eyes fastened upon Miss Gratz's face.
When she spoke it was in a tone of deep conviction. "Maybe Miss Cohen
wasn't exactly right," she admitted, "but even if you're not a real
princess, and all that, you're just as sweet and good as Rebecca in
the story book, anyhow."




A PRESENT FOR MR. LINCOLN

_How President Lincoln Set Out for Washington and How He Returned._


Little Morris Rosenfelt stirred uneasily on the hard bench as he tried
in vain to concentrate his wandering thoughts on his Hebrew lesson. It
happened to be all about the building of the Tabernacle in the
wilderness, but Morris was not at all interested in Bezalel, the
artist of old, who built the first sanctuary for his people. Instead,
although his eyes were fastened to the coarse black characters in the
page before him, the boy was living over again the scene that had
passed in the parlor of his father's house, the night before.

Mr. Abraham Kohn, city clerk of Chicago, had dropped in to talk over
congregational matters with Morris's father, for Mr. Kohn was one of
the early presidents of _Kehilath Anshe Ma'arav_, Chicago's first
synagogue, and one of its most active members. Morris, busy in the
next room with his lessons for the next day, had paid scant attention
to their conversation, until the words, "Mr. Lincoln," and "flag"
caught his ear. Then he closed his geography with a slam, for like
every other nine-year-old boy of his day, he had heard much of the
"rail splitter from Illinois," as his opponents called him, and shared
his state's enthusiasm for the man who had just been elected
president.

"I'm glad we Jews did our part in electing him," said Mr. Kohn. "He
will make a strong president in these uncertain times; perhaps, the
only man who can keep this country out of civil war if the southern
states attempt to secede."

"They'll not fight, especially as Mr. Lincoln has promised not to
interfere with slavery in the states where it now exists," Mr.
Rosenfelt answered easily. He was a stout, cheerful man who refused to
borrow trouble, very unlike Morris's mother who always saw sorrow and
accident for her family hovering in the near future. "With a strong
man like Mr. Lincoln in Washington, we can stop worrying for a while."

"I hope so." Mr. Kohn's voice was a little doubtful. "I hate to
predict trouble, but I do believe that our candidate is going to have
a harder row to plough than any president we ever had since
Washington. I was thinking of that when I had the verses printed on
the flag I am going to send him."

"Oh, are you going to send Mr. Lincoln a flag?" cried Morris,
forgetting he was not supposed to be listening.

His father shook his head and ordered the boy to attend to his
lessons. "His reports are worse every month," he told Mr. Kohn. "Rabbi
Adler tells me he is a good boy, but that doesn't raise his marks in
Hebrew and arithmetic and history, and his mother----"

"But I don't like history about dead people," objected the boy. "Now
Mr. Lincoln's alive--and he's history, too, isn't he?"

"The boy's right," laughed Mr. Kohn. "Come in here, Morris, if your
father'll let you, and I'll tell you all about the flag I'm sending
Mr. Lincoln next week before he leaves his home in Springfield for
Washington." Morris, needing no second invitation, gladly deserted his
books and slipped into the parlor, curling up in one corner of the
horsehair sofa as he attempted to be as little in the way as possible.
For he didn't want his mother, should she happen to come into the
room, to send him back to his lessons again.

"It is a large American flag," explained Mr. Kohn, "woven of the
finest silk. And across it I've had inscribed in Hebrew the command
given to Joshua when he took command of the Israelites after the death
of Moses." He turned to Morris, a teasing twinkle in his eyes. "I
suppose you can tell your father what that was," he said, very
seriously. "What?" as Morris, really embarrassed, shook his head. "I
thought you really learned more in Rabbi Adler's school. Suppose you
get your Bible and show us how well you can translate the passage."

Doubtful of his skill as translator, but sure that kindly Mr. Kohn who
had been one of the early cantors of the congregation and "knew
everything about Hebrew" would lend him a hand at the hard places,
Morris turned to the first chapter of Joshua, and, with a little
prompting translated the command given to the Jewish leader:

"Have I not commanded thee?" he read. "Be strong and of good courage;
be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed; for the Lord thy God is with
thee whithersoever thou goest." He looked up, his boyish spirit
thrilled with the words. "I like that," he exclaimed naively, "it's
so--so--alive--not a bit like the Bible."

"So that's what's written on your flag?" commented Mr. Rosenfelt.
"Well, no matter what happens, I guess we won't have to worry over our
Mr. Lincoln. He'll be 'strong and of good courage,' alright, and make
us glad we sent him on to Washington. Morris, go into the dining room
now and study your lessons. Are you going to take the flag to Mr.
Lincoln yourself before he leaves Springfield?" he asked, turning back
to Mr. Kohn, as Morris unwillingly went back to his lessons for the
next morning.

"No. I can't leave my work just now," answered Mr. Kohn, who was city
clerk. "But I'm sending it with a friend who will be in Springfield
before Mr. Lincoln leaves. I want him to have a real going-away
present to tell him what the Jews of Illinois think of their new
president."

Then the talk drifted to other matters, but Morris went to bed his
heart filled with envy for the man who should take the flag to Mr.
Lincoln. He knew that there wasn't the slightest chance for him to go
to Springfield; his mother would remember all the dreadful stories she
had ever heard of little boys being kidnapped while taking railway
journeys alone; his father would tell him he couldn't spare the money
for such a trip and that Morris couldn't afford to lose a day of
school. Then, if he couldn't go to Springfield, it would be almost as
good to send a present to Mr. Lincoln such as Mr. Kohn planned to
do--but what could a little boy with a limited amount of pocket money
send a man just elected to be president of the United States. He even
crept out of bed very stealthily, not caring to arouse his
ever-wakeful mother in the next room--to look over the treasures in
the top drawer of his little dresser; the finest stamp collection ever
possessed by any boy who attended his school, he thought proudly; a
box of shells and lucky stones gathered on the lake shore last
vacation; a prize book given him at school for perfect attendance,
which Morris never cared to read, as it seemed to be the tale of a
very good little boy who always stood at the head of his class and
never disobeyed his parents; a set of fishing tackle discarded by his
older brother, Harry. Treasures, though they were, Morris would have
sent any or all of them with Mr. Kohn's flag as a going-away gift to
the new president, already enshrined in so many hearts; but, boy
though he was, he knew that a grown up man would not care for his poor
presents. He even lifted his little blue bank and rattled it softly;
but he did not take the trouble to pry it open, for he knew that for
all its jingling, the pennies inside would not amount up to more than
a dollar. Disappointed, yet determined not to let Mr. Kohn outdo him
in the matter, Morris crept back to bed.

The next morning he found his plans for Mr. Lincoln's present far more
fascinating than his lessons as he sat in the basement schoolroom
provided for the children of the congregation. One of the school's
non-Jewish teachers had heard his history and geography. In a little
while Rabbi Adler would take the classes in Hebrew and German. Morris
knew he ought to prepare the lessons so shamefully neglected the night
before, but he found it difficult to put his mind on his task.

Fortunately for him, he wasn't called upon during the Hebrew session
and managed to escape a scolding for his lack of preparation. So he
sat sedately with his eyes glued upon the thick black characters,
while his mind pictured the flag with the Hebrew lettering which was
to be sent to Springfield. He had seen a good many pictures of Mr.
Lincoln and now he tried to imagine how the kindly, homely face would
break into a smile at Mr. Kohn's thoughtfulness. Then he roused
himself to listen, for now the rabbi was saying something about the
lesson that really interested him.

"Of course," said Rabbi Adler, "the Sanctuary Bezalel built in the
desert wasn't half so beautiful as the Temple we afterwards raised at
Jerusalem. But we were willing to wait. It was always that way with
our people--with every nation, too; we must wait for what is worth
while and if we wait long enough and work while we are waiting, we
will finally achieve what we have been striving for." He paused for a
moment, closing his book, as he looked over the class. "Has anyone a
question to ask about the lesson?" he ended, in his usual way.

Hardly thinking what he did, Morris shot his hand up in the air, then
wished with all his heart that he had not raised it, when the rabbi
said: "Well, Morris, what's your question?"

"It's not exactly about the lesson," confessed the boy, awkwardly.
"But when you talked about waiting for something for a long time, I
wondered--I--how long is a person president of the United States?" he
ended desperately, realizing how foolish his question must sound not
only to the teacher but to his fellow students as well.

If Rabbi Adler failed to see any connection between the building of
the Sanctuary and American politics, he was too kind to say so. "The
president is elected for four years," he answered, "although sometimes
he is reelected for a second term, which makes eight years in all."

"Then Mr. Lincoln'll be in Washington eight years, 'cause everybody
will want him for two terms," decided Morris, loyally, though a little
disappointed that the plan which had just occurred to him must take so
long to mature.

"So you're a Lincoln man, too?" smiled his teacher. He hesitated a
moment, then, feeling that high civic ideals were as necessary to his
class as Hebrew, he went on: "We who have worked hard to elect Mr.
Lincoln feel that our country is in good hands. He is not one of our
people, yet I believe he is more like our Hebrew prophets than any
man, Jew or non-Jew, living today. None of you boys may ever be
president, but if you strive as earnestly as Mr. Lincoln has always
done to serve the right, I shall be well satisfied.... We will take
the next chapter for tomorrow," and the lesson was over.

Next came the German class and Morris, after reading and translating
his portion of a German fairy tale quite creditably, sank back in his
place, again busy with his plans. Rabbi Adler was right, he decided.
If one just worked and waited, everything would turn out all right. So
Mr. Lincoln would be gone for four years, perhaps eight. Well, since a
Jewish gentleman had sent him a going-away present, wouldn't it be a
fine thing for a Jewish boy to send him some gift when he returned to
his home in Springfield? Morris wasn't sure just what the gift would
be, but he was no longer worried. Even four years were not long to
wait, especially if one had to save a good deal of money in the
interval. For Morris was sure that he would have to send a really
expensive present; perhaps a gold watch, which at that particular
moment was the one thing, next to a Shetland pony, he most desired for
himself.

The four years passed for Morris, now slowly when lessons were long
and hard, now all too swiftly during the holiday seasons. They were
years of struggle for the nation now torn asunder by a dreadful civil
war. Even from the first, Morris was not too young to understand the
history that was being made about him; the firing upon Fort Sumter;
the secession of the southern states; Mr. Lincoln's call for
volunteers. How he despised himself for being such a small boy when he
saw his brother Harry in his blue uniform with the brass buttons! He
couldn't understand why his mother had cried when Harry went away to
be a soldier, since he himself felt cruelly cheated in being deprived
of marching off to the battle field. Nor could he understand why
Rabbi Adler's voice always faltered now when he read the _Kaddish_
prayer for the mourners every Sabbath in the synagogue, although he
had heard that his teacher's young son, Dankmar, serving in the
artillery, was wounded at the battle of Chickamauga. For war to the
little boy meant nothing but lines of straight soldiers marching to
music with flying banners above them, and even when bits of crape
appeared, so it seemed, upon the doors of every other home in the
city, he thought only of the glory, not the horror of it all. Nor did
he ever imagine how President Lincoln's great heart almost broke in
those days over the suffering not only of his own Northern soldiers,
but the Southern boys too, whom he would never call "rebels" nor cease
to regard but as brother Americans. When the boy thought of the
president at all, it was always as the captain of a mighty host,
pressing fearlessly on to victory. "Like Joshua," he thought,
remembering the verses on the flag, resolving that when victory did
come at last he would celebrate in his own way, by sending Mr. Lincoln
his present.

"We can't do too much for Mr. Lincoln," his brother Harry had said
when he came home on a furlough, so tanned and sturdy that even Mrs.
Rosenfelt had to confess that his soldiering had not broken down his
health. And Morris's heart had reechoed the sentiment again and again,
especially when Harry was taken to one of the Washington hospitals and
wrote glowingly of the president's visits to the sick and wounded
soldiers. "He's not like a president--he's just like a father," he
wrote, and more than one bereaved household in those dark days
learned to agree with him.

For the sadly-tried man from Illinois was never too busy with affairs
of state to write a word of comfort to a mother who had lost her son
on the battlefield, never too harassed with his many duties to listen
to a plea for a furlough or a pardon. But, perhaps, of all the stories
that reached Morris at that time the account of Mr. Abraham Jonas of
Peoria meant the most.

Mr. Jonas was a Jewish citizen of Peoria, Illinois, and had been a
staunch friend and political associate of Lincoln before the latter
left Springfield for the White House. Strangely enough, Mr. Jonas's
four sons all enlisted in the Southern army. Towards the close of the
war, Abraham Jonas fell ill, and, learning from his doctors that his
disease would prove fatal, felt that he could never die in peace until
he had seen his son Charles, then a Confederate prisoner of war on
Johnson's Island, Lake Erie. The dying father appealed to his old
friend, and President Lincoln at once gave the order to parole Charles
Jonas for three weeks that he might visit his father's bedside.

"After that," admitted Mrs. Rosenfelt, wiping her eyes as she heard
the story from a Chicago friend of the Jonas family, "after that, I'll
forgive the president everything!" She never explained just why she
should feel called upon to forgive President Lincoln for anything, but
up to that time the good lady had entertained the notion that the
president had made the war and was entirely responsible for her son's
enlistment. "Things like that make you feel that there's good in
everybody's heart even in war time. Anyhow, the war can't last much
longer."

The great war did end that very year and in the spring of 1865 Morris
realized that at last he might send Mr. Lincoln his present. "Just for
a sort of extra celebration," he told himself, as he counted the money
he had so painfully hoarded in an old wallet during the four years of
waiting.

It was not a large sum after all, for Mr. Rosenfelt was not a rich man
and his business interests had suffered during the war. And, it must
be confessed, several times Morris had yielded to temptation and had
broken into his little treasury to buy some toy or pleasure that he
felt he just must have, intending to pay himself back as soon as he
could earn the money. But chores were few and brought little, and even
his uncle's _barmitzvah_ present of five dollars failed to raise the
sum above fifteen. Still that was a good deal, thought Morris,
although he couldn't buy a gold watch with it. But he had grown up a
little during the past four years and realized that probably Mr.
Lincoln had a gold watch, anyhow. And so, much as he hated to do it,
for he wanted the secret to be all his own, he decided to ask his
father's advice and waited impatiently for him to come in from the
porch, where he stood talking with a neighbor, and have breakfast the
Saturday morning after peace was declared.

Although he was only a boy of thirteen at the time, Morris never
forgot how the parlor looked that day with the flag draped over
Harry's picture taken in uniform, the pale sunshine of early spring
streaming upon the bright red geranium plant on the marble-topped
table. There was a large tidy on the table, a doily his mother had
crotched, his mother who started up with a cry of alarm as Mr.
Rosenfelt entered, his face white with terror.

"Harry----" was all she could say for a moment. Then, when she could
control her voice a little: "Has anything happened to our Harry?"

Her husband shook his head. "No," he answered in a matter-of-fact tone
that contrasted strangely with his dreadful pallor. "Harry, thank God,
is safe and will soon be on his way home. But President Lincoln----"

"Yes?" cried Mrs. Rosenfelt, "the president?"

"He was shot last evening by an assassin. He has just died," answered
her husband, and he spoke as one speaks of a dear friend.

"It can't be true," cried Morris, hotly. "No one would hurt him--he
was so good--we all loved him so." The tears ran down his face as he
spoke and for once he was not ashamed to have his father see him cry.
Without another word he turned and ran upstairs to his own room. The
little blue bank still standing upon the dresser hurt him with a
sudden memory. He was comparatively rich now, but he hated the fifteen
dollars he had saved with so much eagerness through the years of
patient waiting.

The money, still unspent, lay in Morris's wallet the day Mr. Lincoln
came home to Springfield. The humble rail splitter had returned to his
home town in kingly triumph. As his funeral train crossed the
continent, every great city, every tiny village, crape-hung and
grief-stricken, had sent its citizens to do him homage. Even the
farmers from the scattered farms along the way lit funeral pyres as
the dark procession thundered past through the night. Now the citizens
of Chicago stood bowed in grief as the body of the martyred president
was borne through the silent streets. Strong men wept openly and
unashamed; but Morris, standing at his father's side on the curbing,
did not cry. Somehow, it all seemed too terrible for tears. And,
because he was just a small boy, after all not the least of his grief
was the thought that now it was too late to send Mr. Lincoln his
present.




THE LAND COLUMBUS FOUND

_The Story of the Tablet Placed Upon the Statue of Liberty in New
York Harbor._


This isn't a story at all, just a sort of "good-bye" word to the boys
and girls who have read these tales of Jewish men and women who tried
to do their part in the making of America. Do you remember away back
to the first one, the story of the Jews who from Columbus's flag ship
dreamed of the promised land, but never knew that the continent their
admiral discovered would some day be a place of refuge for their race?
Now, every year, thousands of men and women and children, a great many
of our own people among them, seek a refuge here. If you go to Ellis
Island, you may see them entering this New World where they hope to
find home and happiness. I have seen them with their baskets and their
bundles of household goods, their little children in their arms, (do
you remember how Reuben wandered through the storm carrying his little
son?), crossing the gang plank of the steamer which brings them to the
island, raising their tired eyes in mute gratitude to the American
flag which floats above them as they pass. And from where I stood I
could also see the great Statue of Liberty Enlightening the World, the
woman with the light in her hand to guide the weary wanderers across
the sea.

If you visit this statue, boys and girls, you will see at the base a
bronze tablet with a short poem engraved upon it. The poem was written
by a Jewish woman, Emma Lazarus, our first and greatest Jewish
American poet. As a girl she had cared little for the history and
traditions of her people; her verses were about the gods of Greece and
Rome and the legends of the Middle Ages. Then, when the dreadful
persecution of our people in Russia in 1881 drove many of them to our
shores, she was called upon to assist in caring for some of the
homeless wanderers and, like a loving mother, she gathered them to her
heart.

Something new and beautiful awoke in her soul and she gave her
strength and energy in caring for these exiles of her own blood. When
she wrote now it was of her people. She read our long and wonderful
history and immortalized the heroism of our martyrs in such poems as
her tragedy, "The Dance to Death." She wrote shorter verses, too, and
there are few Jewish boys and girls who have not recited or at least
heard her stirring Chanukkah recitations, "The Feast of Lights," and
"The Banner of the Jew." Her poems had always been very beautiful,
winning the praises of such a high critic as Ralph Waldo Emerson, but
now they glowed with a new beauty, her love and new found kinship with
her race.

It was her passionate love for America and her knowledge of all that
our country means to the Jew, both the native-born and the persecuted
wanderer from other lands, that made her see in the Statue of Liberty
more than a mere mass of sculptured stone. Instead she saw a gracious,
loving woman guarding the gates of the New World, not like the ancient
giant figure striding the harbor at Rhodes, a haughty menace to the
nations, but a symbol of welcome and freedom and justice to all
mankind. So she wrote her verses, to be inscribed later at the
statue's base, telling as only a great poet could what America means
to her children.

    Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
    With conquering limbs astride from land to land,
    Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
    A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
    Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
    Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
    Glows world-wide welcome: her mild eyes command
    The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
    "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
    With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
    Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
    The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
    Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
    I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"




       *       *       *       *       *




    +-----------------------------------------------------------+
    | Typographical errors corrected in text:                   |
    |                                                           |
    | Page  29: her's replaced with hers                        |
    | Page  31: her's replaced with hers                        |
    | Page  58: earings replaced with earrings                  |
    | Page  63: Pharoah replaced with Pharaoh                   |
    | Page  71: 'For if your are discovered' replaced with      |
    |           'For if you are discovered'                     |
    | Page  76: 'Your are to grow weaker' replaced with         |
    |           'You are to grow weaker'                        |
    | Page  77: 'wrists and angles' replaced with               |
    |           'wrists and ankles'                             |
    | Page  78: abuot replaced with about                       |
    | Page  89: Hussiel replaced with Hushiel (twice)           |
    | Page  91: Hussiel replaced with Hushiel                   |
    | Page  92: hosts's replaced with hosts'                    |
    | Page  93: persade replaced with persuade                  |
    | Page 102: Hushel replaced with Hushiel                    |
    | Page 119: earings replaced with earrings                  |
    | Page 123: pears replaced with pearls                      |
    | Page 144: wainted replaced with waited                    |
    | Page 151: 'love like your's' replaced with                |
    |           'love like yours'                               |
    | Page 152: 'Irving's eyes met her's' replaced with         |
    |           'Irving's eyes met hers'                        |
    | Page 154: befor replaced with before                      |
    | Page 159: her's replaced with hers                        |
    |                                                           |
    |                                                           |
    | Note that the printers' error on page 32, which starts    |
    | with "Samuel's eyes sought the governor's face, half- he  |
    | told her, gently." has been left as is. Every copy of     |
    | the story consulted has the same error.                   |
    |                                                           |
    +-----------------------------------------------------------+