It is three months since Yainkele and Berele--two brothers, the first
fourteen years old, the second sixteen--have been at the college that
stands in the town of X--, five German miles from their birthplace
Dalissovke, after which they are called the "Dalissovkers."
Yainkele is a slight, pale boy, with black eyes that peep slyly from
beneath the two black eyebrows. Berele is taller and stouter than
Yainkele, his eyes are lighter, and his glance is more defiant, as
though he would say, "Let me alone, I shall laugh at you all yet!"
The two brothers lodged with a poor relation, a widow, a dealer in
second-hand goods, who never came home till late at night. The two
brothers had no bed, but a chest, which was broad enough, served
instead, and the brothers slept sweetly on it, covered with their own
torn clothes; and in their dreams they saw their native place, the
little street, their home, their father with his long beard and dim eyes
and bent back, and their mother with her long, pale, melancholy face,
and they heard the little brothers and sisters quarrelling, as they
fought over a bit of herring, and they dreamt other dreams of home, and
early in the morning they were homesick, and then they used to run to
the Dalissovke Inn, and ask the carrier if there were a letter for them
from home.
The Dalissovke carriers were good Jews with soft hearts, and they were
sorry for the two poor boys, who were so anxious for news from home,
whose eyes burned, and whose hearts beat so fast, so loud, but the
carriers were very busy; they came charged with a thousand messages from
the Dalissovke shopkeepers and traders, and they carried more letters
than the post, but with infinitely less method. Letters were lost, and
parcels were heard of no more, and the distracted carriers scratched the
nape of their neck, and replied to every question:
"Directly, directly, I shall find it directly--no, I don't seem to have
anything for you--"
That is how they answered the grown people who came to them; but our two
little brothers stood and looked at Lezer the carrier--a man in a wadded
caftan, summer and winter--with thirsty eyes and aching hearts; stood
and waited, hoping he would notice them and say something, if only one
word. But Lezer was always busy: now he had gone into the yard to feed
the horse, now he had run into the inn, and entered into a conversation
with the clerk of a great store, who had brought a list of goods wanted
from a shop in Dalissovke.
And the brothers used to stand and stand, till the elder one, Berele,
lost patience. Biting his lips, and all but crying with vexation, he
would just articulate: "Reb Lezer, is there a letter from father?"
But Reb Lezer would either suddenly cease to exist, run out into the
street with somebody or other, or be absorbed in a conversation, and
Berele hardly expected the answer which Reb Lezer would give over his
shoulder:
"There isn't one--there isn't one."
"There isn't one!" Berele would say with a deep sigh, and sadly call to
Yainkele to come away. Mournfully, and with a broken spirit, they went
to where the day's meal awaited them.
"I am sure he loses the letters!" Yainkele would say a few minutes
later, as they walked along.
"He is a bad man!" Berele would mutter with vexation.
But one day Lezer handed them a letter and a small parcel.
The letter ran thus:
"Dear Children,
Be good, boys, and learn with diligence. We send you herewith half
a cheese and a quarter of a pound of sugar, and a little
berry-juice in a bottle.
Eat it in health, and do not quarrel over it.
From me, your father,