Cibrarp of 'the ‘theological ^eminarp 
 
 PRINCETON • NEW JERSEY 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 John Stuart Conning, D.D. 
 
 PZ 7 .L48 P42 1920 
 Levinger, Elma Ehrlich, b 
 1887 . 
 
 — Playmates in Egypt _ 
 

 
 

 
 
 
 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2017 with funding from 
 Princeton Theological Seminary Library 
 
 https://archive.org/details/playmatesinegyptOOIevi 
 

 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 
PLAYMATES 
 IN EGYPT 
 
 And Other Stories 
 
v : 
 
 PLAYMATES 
 IN EGYPT 
 
 A?td Other Stories 
 
 BY 
 
 ELMA EHRLICH LEVINGER 
 
 Philadelphia 
 
 The Jewish Publication Society of America 
 1920 
 
Copyright, 1920, 
 
 BY 
 
 The Jewish Publication Society of America 
 
To Dr. S. Benderly 
 friend and teacher 
 I dedicate this little 
 volume of stories 
 with admiration and 
 gratitude 
 
 5 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Dear boys and girls: 
 
 Have you ever wondered how the Jew¬ 
 ish holidays started? I am going to tell 
 you about them in their historical order, 
 beginning with the first of our holidays, 
 Passover, which tells of the dawn of free¬ 
 dom for Israel, just as the Fourth of July 
 is the birthday of liberty for the Ameri¬ 
 can people. We will follow our Jewish 
 ancestors through the wilderness as they 
 journey to the Promised Land; we will 
 celebrate with them the high festivals in 
 the golden days when our own kings ruled 
 in Jerusalem, until at last we reach the time 
 when Rabbi Akiba, after the destruction 
 of the second Temple, taught the Torah 
 to his devoted pupils. But, perhaps, you 
 may not care to read the entire volume, 
 story after story, in an evening or two. 
 
 7 
 
PREFACE 
 
 And so, if you happen to be one of those 
 precise people, who like to do everything 
 at just the right moment, you may prefer 
 to read each story on the particular holi¬ 
 day to which it relates. This is a good 
 plan, too. And in case you are not sure 
 in just what order the Jewish holidays 
 come, I think I had better give you a list 
 of them, telling you what each holiday 
 means. 
 
 Rosh ha-Shanah is the beginning of 
 the Jewish year, the day of the blowing 
 of the shofar. 
 
 Yom Kippur is the day of atonement, 
 of prayer and fasting, and reconciliation 
 with God. 
 
 Sukkot is the festival of the fair har¬ 
 vest, a memorial of the journey in the 
 wilderness. 
 
 Hanukkah is the feast of lights, to 
 commemorate the victories of the Mac¬ 
 cabees over the Syrians and the re-dedica¬ 
 tion of the Temple. 
 
 8 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Purim is the feast of Esther, celebrat¬ 
 ing the deliverance of the Persian Jews 
 from the hatred of Haman. 
 
 Passover is the festival in memory of 
 the passing from Egyptian bondage to 
 freedom. 
 
 Lag be-'Omer is the scholars’ holiday, 
 associated with Rabbi Alciba and his 
 pupils, and the part he played in the Jewish 
 rebellion against Roman tyranny. 
 
 Shabu'ot is the festival of the first- 
 fruits which were brought to the Temple 
 in Jerusalem. 
 
 Tish'ah be-Ab is a day of mourning for 
 the destruction of the Temple. 
 
 Sabbath of Consolation is the sab¬ 
 bath following Tish'ah be-Ab, on which 
 the fortieth chapter of Isaiah, beginning 
 “ Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people,” is 
 read. 
 
 These stories first appeared in the Jezv- 
 ish Exponent, Union Bulletin, Jewish 
 Child, Jewish Criterion, Hebrew Standard. 
 
 9 
 
PREFACE 
 
 The author wishes to acknowledge her 
 thanks to the editors of these periodicals 
 for permission to reprint these stories in 
 book form. 
 
 10 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Preface........ 7 
 
 Playmates in Egypt. 13 
 
 (A Story for Passover.) 
 
 In the Tents of Israel . 22 
 
 (A Story for Sukkot.) 
 
 The Dawn of Freedom . 33 
 
 (A Story for Rosh ha-Shanah.) 
 
 The Borrowed Garment. 41 
 
 (A Story for Yom Kippur.) 
 
 The Lad Who Brought No Offering. 55 
 
 (A Story for Shabu'ot.) 
 
 The Silent Harp. 63 
 
 (A Story for Tish'ah be-Ab.) 
 
 The Sprig of Myrtle . 77 
 
 (A Story for Purim.) 
 
 Friends. 99 
 
 (A Story for Hanukkah.) 
 
 The Great Hope. 113 
 
 (A Story for the Sabbath of Consolation.) 
 
 The Golden Ring. 121 
 
 (A Story for Lag be-'Omer.) 
 
 11 
 
PLAYMATES IN EGYPT 
 
 (A Story for Passover.) 
 
 Every day, when the sun was high in 
 the heavens, little Rachel trudged through 
 the hot sands which scorched her bare 
 brown feet, a loaf of black bread in her 
 basket and a cruse of water upon her 
 shoulder. Thus she and many other young 
 children of the house of Israel brought 
 food and drink to their fathers and 
 mothers and older brothers, who toiled 
 from sunrise until far into the night in the 
 brick-yards of Pharaoh, ruler of Egypt. 
 One day it happened that Rachel was some¬ 
 what delayed in bringing the noonday meal 
 to her parents and brother, and she made 
 what haste she could, hurrying beneath the 
 burning sun. But her foot slipped, and 
 she fell, breaking her earthen cruse upon 
 the road and spilling the water, that was 
 
 13 
 
PLAYMATES IN EGYPT 
 
 in it, upon the ground. Then Rachel sat 
 down by the wayside and wept bitterly; for 
 she knew that ere she could fetch more 
 water and return with it to her parents, 
 they would be back at their task, and, fear¬ 
 ing the vrhip of the overseer, would not 
 dare to bid her approach them, no matter 
 how sorely they might suffer from thirst. 
 
 While she sat thus weeping, she heard 
 a kindly voice asking: “Why grievest 
 thou, maiden?” Looking up, she saw a 
 youth of her own years standing beside 
 her. He was slim and graceful, and 
 carried himself proudly, while the golden 
 girdle about his cool white garments and 
 the jewelled band in his hair proclaimed 
 him of some princely house. And Rachel 
 drew back in fear, for she had been taught 
 to dread every son of Egypt. 
 
 “ Be not frightened, girl,” said the 
 youth, speaking softly, “ for I will do thee 
 no harm. Tell me why thou weepest, and 
 I will seek to bring thee comfort, for no 
 
 14 
 
PLAYMATES IN EGYPT 
 
 one has ever asked succor in vain of 
 Pethis son of Randor.” 
 
 Rachel was now more frightened than 
 before, for Randor was chief of the task¬ 
 masters in the brick-yards of Pharaoh, and 
 the children of Israel had often suffered 
 through his hardness of heart. She would 
 have run away from his son, but the boy 
 detained her, and spoke comforting words 
 to her, until her fear and terror had gone. 
 Then she told him of the misfortune that 
 had befallen her, and wept anew as she 
 pointed to the broken cruse; for she grieved 
 that her poor mother must toil all day 
 without a drop of water to slake her burn¬ 
 ing thirst. 
 
 But Pethis laughed a little, and drew a 
 flask from his girdle and gave it to her; 
 and, fearing that she would come too late 
 to her parents, he himself sought out their 
 taskmaster, and bade him allow little 
 Rachel to go to them. The man obeyed, 
 though sullenly, for he knew that Randor, 
 
 2 
 
 15 
 
PLAYMATES IN EGYPT 
 
 the father of the youth, was a mighty man 
 in Egypt. 
 
 This was but the beginning of the friend¬ 
 ship between the princely boy of Egypt and 
 the little daughter of the Elebrew slaves. 
 Often, as Rachel passed down the road at 
 noon, after bringing food and drink to the 
 brick-yards, Pethis would start from the 
 bushes by the road-side and greet her and 
 bid her linger a while, that they might 
 play together. For the lad had no brothers 
 and sisters of his own, and was often very 
 lonely for a play-fellow. 
 
 First he would spread out a feast for 
 her upon the rocks—wheaten bread and 
 dates and sweet wine—and she would eat 
 and drink and be satisfied, often wishing 
 that she might save some of the dainty 
 food for her mother, but trembling lest 
 any-one might come to know of her friend¬ 
 ship with the Egyptian prince. Then, 
 screened by the shrubs—for the lad, too, 
 feared lest word should come to his father 
 
 16 
 
PLAYMATES IN EGYPT 
 
 that he spent many hours with a daughter 
 of the Hebrews—the two would toss his 
 golden ball, one to the other, or run races, 
 which Rachel would never fail to win, for 
 she was as fleet of foot as the wild gazelle 
 upon the mountains. Then, wearied with 
 play at last, they would cast themselves 
 down to rest by a tiny stream of water that 
 they had discovered bubbling among the 
 rocks. Here Rachel would weave garlands 
 from the flowers Pethis gathered and bind 
 them about her dark braids, as she told 
 him the stories she had heard from her 
 father—of Abraham’s leaving his home 
 for a strange country, of Jacob who 
 dreamed of a ladder down which great, 
 white-winged angels descended as he slept, 
 and of Joseph whom his brethren had sold 
 into Egypt as a slave. In his turn, Pethis 
 would tell her wondrous tales of the gods 
 of his people and the deeds of strength and 
 valor wrought by the noble warriors of 
 his father’s house. 
 
 17 
 
PLAYMATES IN EGYPT 
 
 “ I am my father’s only son,” he would 
 cry, raising himself upon his elbow, and 
 looking up into Rachel’s face, his eyes 
 aglow with dreams. “ Some day I will 
 take his place and stand at Pharaoh’s right 
 hand and ride in his chariot when he goes 
 to battle. And I will become a great 
 warrior and the most powerful man in all 
 Egypt. And then, Rachel, I will take thee 
 to wife, and thou wilt no longer go about 
 in mean rags; nay, thou wilt shine like a 
 princess in gold and in snowy garments 
 heavy with jewels.” 
 
 “ But, Pethis,” Rachel reminded him 
 one day, “ how couldst thou take a despised 
 daughter of the Hebrews to wife? ” 
 
 Pethis was ready with his answer. “ I 
 will gain Pharaoh’s ear and beseech him 
 to free thy people, that they may live in 
 ease and in comfort, even as they did in 
 the days of Joseph,” he promised. 
 
 “ Then I wish that thou wert already a 
 man, Pethis,” sighed Rachel, “ for my 
 
 18 
 
PLAYMATES IN EGYPT 
 
 people groan under many burdens, and my 
 father says that, unless our God speedily 
 sends us a deliverer, we must surely per¬ 
 ish.” She grieved as she spoke, never 
 dreaming how soon that deliverer was to 
 come. 
 
 For, ere many moons, strange rumors 
 passed among the Hebrews as they toiled 
 in the brick-yards, and Pethis told Rachel 
 of two strangers who had appeared before 
 Pharaoh and demanded that he set the 
 children of Israel free. Then an age of 
 many wonders began for Egypt—strange 
 plagues which made the land desolate and 
 the people afraid, from Pharaoh upon his 
 throne to the slave who ground the corn 
 in the court-yard. Yet Pharaoh would not 
 listen to the word of the God of the He¬ 
 brews, and did not permit his slave-people 
 to depart. The land groaned in those days 
 under new afflictions, for all growing things 
 sickened and died; the locusts swarmed 
 above the land of Egypt; and, at last, so 
 
 19 
 
PLAYMATES IN EGYPT 
 
 terrible a darkness covered the earth, that 
 no man from among the Egyptians dared to 
 leave his house, but remained in terror and 
 fear behind barred doors. 
 
 Safe within her father’s hut, for there 
 was light in the dwelling-places of the chil¬ 
 dren of Israel, little Rachel sobbed in 
 terror, for she was sore afraid; her mother 
 wept also, but her father was strong in 
 hope. “ Fear not,” he told them, “ for 
 the God of our fathers has wrought these 
 wonders through His servant, Moses. 
 And still greater wonders will He perform 
 ere Pharaoh will permit us to depart.” 
 
 Even as he spoke, Rachel’s brother 
 rushed into the house. “ Father,” he 
 cried, and his face was white with a strange 
 terror, “ it is as the man of God has said: 
 the Lord has passed through the midst 
 of Egypt, and the first-born of every house 
 of Egypt lies dead—from the first-born of 
 Pharaoh upon his throne unto the first¬ 
 born of the captive that is in the dungeon. 
 
 20 
 
PLAYMATES IN EGYPT 
 
 For the Lord has slain the first-born son 
 in every household of Egypt; only the eld¬ 
 est of the sons of Israel has He saved 
 alive.” 
 
 Then the father and mother and brother 
 of Rachel praised the God of their fathers 
 that He had not afflicted them, and that the 
 last of His signs and wonders had come to 
 pass; for now they were sure that the time 
 was at hand when He would lead them out 
 of Egypt. But little Rachel hid her face 
 in her mother’s lap, and wept bitterly; she 
 knew that her dear play-fellow, Pethis, 
 was the first-born of his father, and that 
 she would never look upon his face again. 
 
 21 
 
IN THE TENTS OF ISRAEL 
 
 (A Story for Sukkot ) 
 
 The desert journey had been a weary 
 one, and many a Hebrew who had left the 
 land of Egypt with high courage in his 
 heart had fallen by the wayside and per¬ 
 ished. Now Rachel, the little daughter 
 of Simon, lay tossing with fever, while 
 Deborah her mother knelt beside her as 
 she bathed her burning face and hands 
 from a cruse of water which stood on the 
 ground at the sick child’s head. From the 
 camp came sounds of excited voices, but 
 Deborah did not hear them. Nor did she 
 turn when her husband pulled aside the 
 curtain of black goat-skin, which divided 
 the rude tent into two compartments, and 
 stood beside her. 
 
 “ Deborah,” he said, speaking softly, 
 for he dreaded waking the child who had 
 
 22 
 
IN THE TENTS OF ISRAEL 
 
 fallen into an uneasy sleep, “ how is the 
 little one ? ” 
 
 Deborah shook her head sadly, her 
 hands smoothing the worn-out cloak which 
 served the sick girl for both bed and cover¬ 
 ing when the night grew chill. “ She has 
 never been so ill since we came to Kadesh,” 
 she answered in the same hushed tones. 
 “ Nay, she grows weaker every day.” In 
 spite of her efforts to be brave for her hus¬ 
 band’s sake, she began to sob softly, her 
 tears falling upon the girl’s wasted hands. 
 “ Would we had remained in Egypt! We 
 were slaves in the brick-yards of Pharaoh 
 and worked from dawn until sunset 
 beneath the whips of the taskmasters. 
 But my little one was well and strong and 
 could run and play with the other children. 
 If she is taken from me now, I do not wish 
 to enter the Land of Promise, which 
 Moses our leader says lies just beyond the 
 Jordan. If she die now, may I, too, perish 
 and lie down to sleep in the desert beside 
 
 23 
 
IN THE TENTS OF ISRAEL 
 
 her.” Half unconsciously she turned to 
 pick up a small branch lying upon the 
 ground, and began to brush away the flies 
 that had settled upon the child’s face. 
 “ Were there no graves in Egypt,” she 
 murmured rebelliously, “ that he has taken 
 us to perish in this wilderness? ” 
 
 For a moment Simon was silent. He 
 stood looking down upon her, a very man 
 of the desert, tall and lithe and brown, his 
 eyes keen, his face hawk-like and thin, a 
 warrior for the Lord suddenly fashioned 
 from a trembling bond-slave of Egypt. 
 Yet when he spoke his voice was heavy 
 with despair. 
 
 “ Though forty days have passed, the 
 spies have not returned,” he told her hope¬ 
 lessly. “ From every corner of the camp 
 the people have gathered, and now they 
 cry unto Moses our leader to deliver them 
 from the wilderness. They, too, are weary 
 of the desert, because they fear for the 
 frail lives of the old men and the little 
 
 24 
 
IN THE TENTS OF ISRAEL 
 
 children. I dare not think of what will 
 happen should the spies bring back evil 
 tidings.” 
 
 The mother rose suddenly from the 
 ground, her brooding eyes fired with a new 
 resolve. “ My child is dying,” she said. 
 “ Unless help comes to her, she will surely 
 die ere sunset. I will go before Moses, for 
 he is a man of God, and his word will drive 
 the fever away. Stay with the child, Simon, 
 and I will return with him.” 
 
 But her husband stood between her 
 and the goat-skin curtain, barring her way. 
 “ Nay,” he told her, “ Moses is not like the 
 magicians and the star-gazers of the land 
 of Egypt. He will use no enchantment to 
 restore the health of our little one. 
 Charms and incantations are evil in his 
 eyes.” 
 
 Deborah shook her head unconvinced. 
 “ Did not his word bring the plagues down 
 upon Egypt, even the last and heaviest 
 which slew the first-born in every house— 
 
 25 
 
IN THE TENTS OF ISRAEL 
 
 from the first-born of Pharaoh to the first¬ 
 born of the slave that is behind the mill? 
 Did not his rod cleave the waves, that we 
 might walk between them with dry san¬ 
 dals? And afterwards did not his hand 
 draw water from the rock? ” 
 
 “ But he wrought these miracles only for 
 Israel-—-that we might be saved, that we 
 might know the God of Abraham would 
 redeem us from Egypt. Do not go before 
 him now with our little petitions, for his 
 heart is heavy with all the woes of Israel.” 
 
 “ Is the life of my child a little thing? ” 
 cried Deborah. And she pushed past him, 
 her lips firm, her eyes bright with determi¬ 
 nation. Pier husband looked after her 
 sadly. He felt that if the little one died, 
 the mother’s heart would surely break and 
 she would be left to lie with her child 
 beneath the desert sands. 
 
 In the midst of the camp the folk of 
 Israel had gathered about Moses, their 
 leader, some sullen with the despair of 
 
 26 
 
IN THE TENTS OF ISRAEL 
 
 waiting, some shrill with frightened anger. 
 For who knew, they asked among them¬ 
 selves, that Moses had not sent out his 
 twelve strong men, leaders in their tribes, 
 that they might perish in the strange 
 countries on the Jordan and no longer rival 
 him in the camp? So low had their fears 
 brought them, that they dared to slander 
 the man of God, even in his presence. 
 
 Deborah hastened through the rows of 
 low, black tents which clustered on the edge 
 of the boundless, tawny desert. She gazed 
 neither to the right nor to the left, but 
 pressed her way through the murmuring 
 multitude, and paused not until she had 
 stood before Moses, the man of God. For 
 a moment her awe choked her, and she 
 could not speak; then the thought of the 
 white face of her child gave her strength, 
 and new courage filled her heart. 
 
 “ My little one is sick unto death,” she 
 said, “ and thou canst save her.” 
 
 27 
 
IN THE TENTS OF ISRAEL 
 
 A man in the crowd laughed scornfully. 
 “Be silent!” he told her. “While all 
 Israel waits to hear whether we are 
 destined to enter the land of refuge, is it 
 meet to speak of thy child? ” 
 
 But Moses silenced him with a look. 
 “ Would I could save thy child, poor 
 mother,” he told her gently. His stern 
 eyes grew dreamy. “ For dear to me are 
 all weak things—little children and young 
 lambs that have never wandered from their 
 mothers’ side. Once when I was a shepherd 
 in Midian, I found a wee lamb that had 
 strayed from its mother, and I carried it 
 back to the fold in my arms, even as I have 
 sought to carry Israel across the wilder¬ 
 ness.” He raised his voice, his eyes flash¬ 
 ing sudden fire. “ And the little lamb 
 trusted me, and was not afraid; but Israel 
 is without faith, and will not trust his 
 shepherd.” 
 
 “And my child?” Deborah reminded 
 him, as the crowd murmured, shamefaced 
 
 28 
 
IN THE TENTS OF ISRAEL 
 
 beneath his rebuke. “ Canst thou save 
 her?” 
 
 Moses did not answer. He gazed past 
 her beyond the crowd where a group of 
 weary-footed men struggled toward him. 
 “ They have come back,” he said to him¬ 
 self rather than to those around him, “ they 
 have entered the Land of Promise, the land 
 which He has given us for our own.” 
 
 A cry arose from the assembly as they 
 turned to greet the travellers. The men 
 whom Moses had sent out from the camp, 
 that they might explore the land into which 
 he had prayed to lead his people, now came 
 to their leader, foot-sore, and with dusty, 
 tattered garments, sick for rest, yet as men 
 who have seen great things and are afraid. 
 Some of them carried glowing pome¬ 
 granates and figs, moist and brown, such 
 figs as the children of Israel had never 
 seen, not even in fertile Egypt. And two 
 of their number, Sethur the son of Michael 
 and Geuel the son of Machi, carried a staff 
 
 29 
 
IN THE TENTS OF ISRAEL 
 
 from which hung a great cluster of purple 
 grapes, bursting with wine. 
 
 The people cried aloud in their joy; here 
 a mother embraced her son, and there a 
 wife kissed her husband from among the 
 twelve; for those in the camp had feared 
 that they might never look upon their faces 
 again. And all were mad with joy at the 
 tempting fruits, for they knew now that the 
 land beyond the Jordan must be a pleasant 
 land and fertile, a land flowing with milk 
 and honey. So, unmindful of the dangers 
 and the struggles that still awaited them 
 ere they took the land for their own, they 
 raised their voices in thanksgiving, and 
 praised God in their joy. 
 
 Deborah swayed where she stood. 
 “ My child cannot die if we are to enter 
 the Promised Land so soon,” she said, and 
 wondered why Moses smiled at her words, 
 though with sad eyes that seemed strangely 
 troubled. Like one in a dream she reached 
 out her hand, and plucked several glossy 
 
 30 
 
IN THE TENTS OF ISRAEL 
 
 grapes from the cluster the two men 
 carried. Then, a strange hope in her eyes, 
 she again forced her way through the half- 
 mad multitude, never pausing, until she 
 reached her child, still lying asleep, while 
 her father fanned her with the little branch 
 in his hand. 
 
 Her eyes brimming with tears, Deborah 
 knelt beside the little one, and pressed the 
 juicy grapes between her fever-parched lips. 
 “ From beyond the Jordan,” she murmured 
 happily; “ so eat, my dearest one, eat, and 
 praise God who has brought thee back to 
 life. For, surely, the God of our fathers 
 has heard my prayer, and thou wilt live to 
 enter the land which He has promised unto 
 us forever.” 
 
 Little Rachel stirred, and slowly opened 
 her eyes. She looked up into her mother’s 
 face, and tried to smile. “ What pretty 
 grapes,” she whispered. “ I want thee to 
 take me where they grow, mother, that 
 I may be well and strong again.” 
 
 3 
 
 31 
 
IN THE TENTS OF ISRAEL 
 
 And her mother promised, weeping in 
 her joy. For neither she nor Simon 
 dreamed that without, in the camp, the 
 children of Israel, still distrustful, mur¬ 
 mured against God, who, because of their 
 lack of faith, would condemn them to wan¬ 
 der in the wilderness for many weary years 
 ere they should enter the Land of Promise. 
 
 32 
 
THE DAWN OF FREEDOM 
 
 (A Story for Rosh ha-Shanah.) 
 
 It was on the first day of the month of 
 Tishri, the day of the blowing of the 
 shofar. In his pleasant gardens in Jeru¬ 
 salem sat Micah ben Samuel, his thick hair 
 and flowing beard as white as the flowering 
 almond-trees which grew beside the well 
 near by. The years had dimmed the youth¬ 
 ful fire of his eyes and somewhat bowed 
 his shoulders; but his voice was the voice 
 of a young man, as he spoke to the youth 
 standing before him. 
 
 “ Hadad,” said Micah, speaking kindly, 
 his fingers playing with the long gold chain 
 which glittered in the sunshine upon his 
 purple robes, “ Hadad, I have sent for thee 
 to tell thee that I will redeem my promise. 
 Hast thou forgotten it? ” 
 
 Hadad, a handsome youth of seventeen, 
 slight and graceful in his simple white gar- 
 
 33 
 
THE DAWN OF FREEDOM 
 
 merits, shook his head. “ No, master,” he 
 answered. And his voice trembled a little 
 as he spoke. 
 
 “ Thou knowest that to-day is the day 
 of the blowing of the shofar,” went on 
 Micah, “ the trumpet that sounds through 
 the land to remind us that a new year has 
 come for the house of Israel. When it 
 blows again in ten days, on Yom Kippur, 
 Hadad, it will mean that all the slaves who 
 to-day receive their freedom will be per¬ 
 mitted to leave their masters’ homes 
 forever.” 
 
 “ Yes, master,” answered the slave, his 
 voice still trembling, his eyes seeking the 
 ground. 
 
 “ And thou wouldst go back to thy 
 desert home,” mused the old man, “ to the 
 tribe that sold thee into slavery! I wonder, 
 Hadad; for here thou art free in every¬ 
 thing but in name, less a bond-slave to me 
 than a blood-brother to my son, Joash. 
 Here thou livest in luxury and peace; but 
 
 34 
 
THE DAWN OF FREEDOM 
 
 thou hast told me that thy people are poor 
 and of low estate. Surely, thy lot will not 
 be easy when thou returnest to the tents 
 of thy fathers.” 
 
 But I am an exile in Jerusalem,” pro¬ 
 tested the boy. “ I long for the ways of 
 my brethren of the desert, for the black 
 tents of my fathers. Yea, I would rather 
 lie upon the sand beneath the stars and 
 gnaw a crust of black bread, and drink 
 miry water, than drink sweet wine from 
 golden goblets and sleep upon an ivory 
 couch beneath your roof;—though thou 
 and thy son Joash have been so kind to 
 me,” he added quickly “ that I have often 
 forgotten that I was thy slave.” 
 
 “ We only obeyed the law of Israel,” 
 Micah told him. “ Since we ourselves 
 were once bondmen in Egypt, we are com¬ 
 manded to deal mercifully with our own 
 servants and bondmen within our gates.” 
 He smiled a little, drawing the boy toward 
 him with a kindly gesture. “ It has not 
 
 35 
 
THE DAWN OF FREEDOM 
 
 been hard to obey that commandment and 
 treat thee tenderly, Hadad. For since that 
 day last spring-time when thou didst save 
 my son Joash at the risk of thine own life, 
 thou hast been little less than a son to me.” 
 
 They were silent for a moment, each 
 remembering that bright spring morning 
 on Micah’s estates in Galilee, young Joash 
 proudly riding a great black stallion, 
 which, taking fright, would have flung him 
 to the ground, had not the desert lad leaped 
 for its bridle and cowed it into submission. 
 Then the old man placed his hand upon 
 the boy’s bowed head as though in blessing. 
 “ A son to me,” he repeated. “ Then it 
 was I promised to set thee free on the day 
 of the blowing of the shofar. And I will 
 keep my pledge and send thee back to thy 
 people with a purse of gold and a golden 
 chain upon thy neck, though joash and 
 I will surely miss thee when thou art gone 
 from us and we no longer look upon thy 
 face.” 
 
 36 
 
THE DAWN OF FREEDOM 
 
 As they remained thus in silence, 
 Azariah, Micah’s steward, a man as aged 
 as himself and a servant in his household 
 from his youth, came slowly toward them 
 beneath the trees, his head bowed so low 
 that his snowy beard fell beneath his girdle, 
 his wrinkled hands beating his breast in 
 his grief. Unconsciously Micah clutched 
 the boy’s arm and held it tightly, his face 
 quivering and horrified from the blow he 
 felt was about to descend. And when he 
 spoke now, his voice was the voice of a 
 very old man. 
 
 “ Thou bringest evil tidings, Azariah ! ” 
 
 Azariah stood before them, his bony 
 hands working in his beard. At first he 
 could not speak. After a short while he 
 said in a low tone, never raising his 
 eyes from the ground. “ A messenger has 
 just come from thy estates in Galilee. A 
 swift fever seized our young master Joash, 
 and he suffered from sunrise to sunset, 
 when he died.” 
 
 37 
 
THE DAWN OF FREEDOM 
 
 A bitter cry broke from Micah’s lips, 
 for young Joash was the light of his declin¬ 
 ing years and his only child. “ My son,” 
 he cried out in his intense grief, “ my 
 son! ” 
 
 “ I am here,” whispered Hadad, his 
 young face grown white with pity. A sud¬ 
 den resolution burned in his eyes, and he 
 flung himself at his master’s feet, pressing 
 his lips to the old man’s trembling hands. 
 “ Master,” he pleaded, “ do not send me 
 away from thee. Thou no longer hast a 
 son, so let me serve thee till thy death, for 
 thou hast been as a father to me all the 
 days that I have dwelt in thy house.” 
 
 “ Nay, but I did promise to set thee 
 free,” Micah reminded him, through his 
 tears. 
 
 Then Hadad suddenly remembered a 
 strange sight he had seen in the house of 
 a neighbor but a few months past. A slave, 
 desiring that he might remain in his mas¬ 
 ter’s household forever, had received the 
 
 38 
 
THE DAWN OF FREEDOM 
 
 “ awl mark ” which signified that he would 
 never be set free. His master had led him 
 to the door-post of the house, and with an 
 awl had pierced a hole in the man’s ear. 
 And remembering what he had seen, 
 Hadad made his decision. 
 
 “ Thou didst not need me when thou 
 didst promise me my freedom,” he an¬ 
 swered, “ and I desired not to stay. But 
 now only death can drive me across thy 
 door-sill. When the trumpet blows again 
 on the tenth day, many slaves will leave 
 their masters’ homes, rejoicing in their 
 freedom; but I will not be among them. 
 For thou wilt bore a hole in mine ear, and 
 I will serve in thy house forever.” 
 
 “ But thy home, thy people? ” 
 
 “ This will be my homeland henceforth, 
 and thou wilt continue to be a father to me. 
 It has always grieved my heart that I could 
 never dream of repaying thy goodness to 
 me while I was a slave in Israel. But now 
 39 
 
THE DAWN OF FREEDOM 
 
 my loving service will soften thy grief a 
 little and be a ray of light in thy darkness.” 
 
 “ But the sign of the awl mark,” warned 
 the steward, as Micah, having embraced 
 the boy, sank back weeping, covering his 
 face with his robe. “ The sign of the awl 
 mark will mean that thou wilt be a slave 
 forever.” 
 
 Hadad shook his head. “ No,” he 
 reminded Azariah, proudly, “ since I serve 
 through love I am no longer a slave, and 
 this day leads me into freedom.” 
 
 40 
 
THE BORROWED GARMENT 
 
 (A Story for Yom Kippur.) 
 
 It was in the golden days of Israel. 
 The Temple in all its glorious beauty still 
 stood upon mount Zion, and men came 
 from the east and from the west, from the 
 north and from the south, to marvel at its 
 magnificence. And from the northern 
 part of the country, from the tribe of 
 Naphtali, came Zebulun, a mighty prince 
 among his own people, who in his twen¬ 
 tieth year came down to Jerusalem for the 
 Feast of Booths which is Sukkot. But he 
 made his journey to the city of David 
 earlier this year than had been his custom, 
 and reached the shining gates a few days 
 before Yom Kippur, the day on which the 
 Jewish maidens changed garments, one 
 with another, and danced in the purple 
 vineyards. 
 
 41 
 
THE BORROWED GARMENT 
 
 For after the solemn rites in the Temple 
 were over, after the high priest had offered 
 up sacrifices and had entered the holy of 
 holies, the people of Israel, glad in the 
 thought that their sins had been forgiven, 
 rejoiced and made merry late into the 
 night. It was then that the young girls 
 donned fair garments and danced in the 
 vineyards, singing as they moved. 
 
 All the year Shulammith had gone in 
 mean robes with coarse sandals upon her 
 slender feet. Fler father, a wealthy mer¬ 
 chant, had been beset by robbers v/hile on 
 the road to Jerusalem, despoiled of his 
 goods, beaten, and left dying in the dust of 
 the highway. In a few months, for often 
 there seems to be but a step from riches to 
 poverty, Shulammith found herself the sole 
 support of her old mother, and toiled un¬ 
 ceasingly at her loom from early morning 
 until sunset, glad when evening brought her 
 a few coins in order not to go supperless to 
 bed. She never complained, though her 
 
 42 
 
THE BORROWED GARMENT 
 
 back often ached and her eyes grew dim; 
 she even tried to sing cheerily as she coiled 
 her hair in the grey dawn, when, fresh from 
 sleep, she felt strong enough to begin her 
 daily tasks once more. Perhaps she sang 
 because she wished her old mother to think 
 her happy even in her dire poverty. For 
 Shulammith was too proud to complain 
 even to herself. 
 
 But one bitter sorrow burned in the girl’s 
 heart, and gave her no rest. For one day, 
 while drawing water from the well, she 
 had seen her reflection in the blue mirror; 
 and from that moment the thought of her 
 reflected picture filled her with shame. 
 She could not forget how beautiful she had 
 been in the happy days before her father’s 
 death; how, in her rich robes and sparkling 
 jewels, she had moved like a princess 
 worthy of the praises of all who looked 
 upon her. Now her garments were coarse 
 and drab, since she dared not take the time 
 from her work to weave delicate robes for 
 
 43 
 
THE BORROWED GARMENT 
 
 her mother and herself; her ornaments had 
 long ago been sold to buy bread. She 
 thought of herself as unattractive and 
 ugly, and when she met the companions of 
 earlier days, she longed to run away and 
 hide, lest they mock her for her unloveli¬ 
 ness. 
 
 She was thinking of these things one 
 morning as she stood by the well, her 
 pitcher poised upon her shoulder. Al¬ 
 though she had not dared to look down 
 upon her reflection in the watery mirror, 
 she knew only too well how wretched she 
 must appear in her mean dress, her face 
 being pinched and weary. And for a 
 moment her high courage deserted her, and 
 she began to weep. Then she heard the 
 sound of a step on the stone pavement 
 beside her, and sought to dry her tears; 
 but she was too late, for Peninnah already 
 had her arms about her, and was trying 
 to comfort her. 
 
 44 
 
THE BORROWED GARMENT 
 
 Peninnah was a few months older than 
 Shulammith, a slight, fair girl with a faint 
 smile and quiet voice. In the old days they 
 had been warm friends; but as Peninnah’s 
 father was among the wealthiest men of 
 Jerusalem, Shulammith felt that her 
 poverty made friendship between them 
 impossible. She now sought to slip away 
 after a mumbled greeting, but Peninnah 
 held her hand tightly, and forced Shulam¬ 
 mith to sit down beside her upon the stone 
 coping of the well. 
 
 “ It is not good of thee to try to run 
 away,” she chided, “ when I have not seen 
 thee for so long. When I came to thy 
 home thou wast so busy with thy loom, that 
 I dared not stay for fear my chatter would 
 disturb the weaving. Thou didst promise 
 then to come to visit me, but thou hast 
 never redeemed thy promise.” 
 
 Shulammith, after a swift glance at her 
 friend’s silken robes and silver headband, 
 
 45 
 
THE BORROWED GARMENT 
 
 hung her head. “ I was ashamed,” she 
 murmured at last. 
 
 “ Ashamed? ” 
 
 “Yes-—ashamed.” Her work-worn 
 hand slipped over her dingy robes, stained 
 from her daily household tasks. “ I have 
 no better garments. And if I should come 
 in these, thy father’s servants would think 
 I was a beggar and would not admit me 
 into thy presence.” Again she turned to 
 go, and again Peninnah drew her back. 
 
 “ But I am the beggar,” she corrected. 
 “ For I am begging a favor of thee for the 
 sake of our old friendship. I have never 
 dared to speak like this before, for thou 
 hast been so cold and haughty in thy mis¬ 
 fortunes—even to thy best friends. But 
 when I saw thee weeping, I took courage. 
 Let me help thee.” 
 
 Shulammith’s dark eyes flashed angrily. 
 “ In truth, thou art treating me like a beg¬ 
 gar,” she cried. 
 
 46 
 
THE BORROWED GARMENT 
 
 “ No, no,” pleaded her friend, “ I told 
 thee I was the one to beg for favors. I 
 know thou art too proud to come as thou 
 art; just to make me happy, let me give 
 thee a few simple garments. I implore 
 thee, Shulammith.” 
 
 But Shulammith turned upon her fiercely. 
 “ Then I would indeed feel myself a beg¬ 
 gar,” she said, her lips quivering, her eyes 
 filling with tears. She lifted her pitcher 
 upon her shoulder. “ Farewell,” she cried, 
 and left her old playmate without another 
 word. 
 
 Peninnah followed her with her gaze, 
 her gentle eyes soft with pity. Suddenly 
 a faint smile played on her lips, and she 
 clapped her hands. “ She still walks like 
 a princess,” she thought fondly, as she 
 watched the girl pass out of sight. “ And 
 she will go robed as a princess, too, for she 
 will not dare to deny me the thing I mean 
 to ask of her.” 
 
 i 
 
 47 
 
THE BORROWED GARMENT 
 
 Rosh ha-Shanah, the day of the blowing 
 of the shofar was over, and now came Yom 
 Kippur. All Jerusalem, men, women, and 
 little children, went to the Temple upon 
 mount Zion for the holy rites. Seated 
 beside her mother in the Women’s Court, 
 Shulammith gazed with awe upon the high 
 priest, grave and stately, dressed in the 
 sacred garments of that day, a coat and 
 breeches of linen, a girdle and cap of the 
 same material. Placing his hands upon 
 the head of a young bull, he offered up 
 the animal in the name of his own family. 
 He prayed also for his fellow-priests in 
 Israel; then sprinkled the purifying blood 
 of the slain animal about the holy of holies, 
 that compartment in the Temple into 
 which no man might pass save the high 
 priest, and he only on the Day of Atone¬ 
 ment. Two goats had been brought before 
 him, one chosen by lot as a sin-offering 
 for the Lord, the other to be sent away into 
 the wilderness. Now the high priest slew 
 
 48 
 
THE BORROWED GARMENT 
 
 the goat set apart for the Lord, and with 
 its blood also purified the holy of holies, 
 in case it became defiled during the year. 
 Then the live goat was brought forward. 
 Following the ancient custom, the high 
 priest confessed the sins of all Israel, 
 prayed that the animal be the “ sin-offer¬ 
 ing ” for the transgressions of the nation, 
 and sent it forth to be driven out into the 
 hills and the waste places that lay beyond 
 Jerusalem. More sacrifices followed. At 
 last the high priest brought forth the censer 
 he had carried into the holy of holies; the 
 lamps were lighted, and fresh incense 
 burned. Slowly the heavy clouds of smoke 
 rose from the golden altar: the Day of 
 Atonement was over. 
 
 Shulammith, her mother leaning on her 
 arm, walked slowly to their humble house, 
 her eyes seeking the ground as they passed 
 old friends and neighbors. Among the 
 other women in their festal garments, she 
 felt degraded, being clad in the coarse 
 
 49 
 
THE BORROWED GARMENT 
 
 robes she had washed and pressed for the 
 holy day. So bitter had she grown, that 
 when any one spoke kindly to her, she 
 imagined that they thought only of her 
 mean apparel and mocked her in their 
 hearts, or at least pitied her; and this hurt 
 most of all. But she said not a word of 
 this to her old mother. 
 
 And when they came into their house, 
 the two women cried out in astonishment, 
 for upon the bed lay a rare robe of shim¬ 
 mering white, shot with silver threads, a 
 robe fit for a mighty queen to wear on her 
 bridal day. Upon the table stood a carved 
 casket. It was open, and a necklace 
 of milky pearls flowed forth from it. 
 Shulammith’s mother walked up slowly to 
 the table, and lifted the pearls with tremb¬ 
 ling fingers; but the girl did not stir. She 
 gazed upon the robe and the casket and the 
 pearls, that lay beside it, with widening 
 eyes like one in a dream. Then she 
 started, as a low laugh was heard from 
 
 50 
 
THE BORROWED GARMENT 
 
 a corner of the room, and Peninnah came 
 forward, her eyes smiling with merriment. 
 “Did I frighten thee, dear one?” she 
 asked. “ Come, hasten, and put on these 
 robes, and let me bind the pearls about thy 
 hair, for it grows late.” 
 
 “ I cannot take thy gift,” began Shulam- 
 mith, speaking harshly in her pride. 
 
 But Peninnah only laughed more merrily 
 than before. “ Didst thou think that I 
 would let thee escape our dance in the 
 vineyard? ” she smiled, her eager fingers 
 busy among Shulammith’s thick curls. 
 “ Last year we were close friends; thou 
 wast my partner. And this year I will not 
 go without thee.” 
 
 Then Shulammith remembered how on 
 Yom Kippur but a year ago she had 
 exchanged her fairest garments with a poor 
 maiden and had danced happily in the 
 girl’s simple robes. And her cheeks flushed 
 with shame as she thought of her rude 
 refusal of Peninnah’s kindness. 
 
 51 
 
THE BORROWED GARMENT 
 
 “ I will joyfully exchange garments with 
 thee,” she faltered, “ but these I wear are 
 my best, and they are too mean for thee.” 
 
 “ But I will be glad to wear them,” 
 answered Peninnah, “ and thou wilt plait 
 my hair as thou wast wont to do; and we 
 will dance together. Perhaps,” and she 
 pinched her friend’s cheek mischievously, 
 “ perhaps, thy dress will become me so 
 well that some great prince who sees us 
 dance will seek my hand in marriage; while 
 thou in these rich garments may fail to win 
 his favor.” 
 
 “ That is often true,” commented Shu- 
 lammith’s mother, nodding wisely. “ And 
 it was for that reason that the dance in the 
 vineyards was planned. For we are to 
 remember not to praise a maiden for her 
 beauty or her fair raiment, but for her 
 modesty and for virtue; and on this day 
 the rich maiden cannot rely upon her orna¬ 
 ments or her silken robes.” 
 
 52 
 
THE BORROWED GARMENT 
 
 So the two maidens went to the vine¬ 
 yards together, and danced with the others 
 to the music of the flute and harp. And 
 as they danced they sang the old song of 
 Yom Kippur to the young men who danced 
 beside them. 
 
 O young man, lift up thine eyes, 
 
 And look before thou choosest; 
 
 Look not for beauty, 
 
 But seek for good breeding: 
 
 False is grace and beauty is vain: 
 
 A God-fearing woman is alone worthy of praise. 
 
 And Zebulun of the tribe of Naphtali, a 
 mighty prince among his own people, was 
 one of those who saw the maidens dance 
 and heard them sing. Whether it was 
 because of her proud beauty, enhanced by 
 her borrowed garments, or whether he had 
 heard of her tender care of her mother, I 
 know not; but seeing Shulammith, he loved 
 her and desired her for his bride. There¬ 
 fore, when the Festival of the Booths, 
 which is Sukkot, was over, and he returned 
 to his home, he took her with him as his 
 
 53 
 
THE BORROWED GARMENT 
 
 wife, back to his own people; and her 
 mother he took also, and was a son to her 
 in her old age. Thus they journeyed up 
 from Jerusalem together, and Shulammith 
 wore a robe of white, shot with silver 
 threads, and her dark curls were bound 
 with a fillet of pearls white as milk. For 
 Peninnah, whose heart was overjoyed at her 
 friend’s good fortune, had bidden her keep 
 the festal robe for her bridal day, holding 
 in exchange the coarse garments she her¬ 
 self had worn when the maidens of Israel 
 had danced in the purple vineyards, singing 
 as they moved. 
 
 54 
 
THE LAD WHO BROUGHT 
 NO OFFERING 
 
 (A Story for Shabu'ot.) 
 
 And Ephraim was to go up to Jerusalem 
 alone! 
 
 As he journeyed along the road leading 
 to the city upon the hills, he felt not a 
 little proud. For he was only a young lad, 
 scarcely fourteen, and this was the first 
 time he was journeying to the Temple with¬ 
 out his father. Ephraim’s father had had 
 great riches; but little by little his vast 
 estate had grown smaller, until there had 
 been left only a few miserable acres. He 
 had been forced to dismiss his many 
 men-servants and handmaidens one after 
 another. Year by year the retinue that fol¬ 
 lowed him to the Temple on the three 
 great festivals had grown smaller and 
 smaller, until on Passover there had been 
 only one man-servant, and he a bond-slave 
 
 55 
 
THE LAD WHO BROUGHT NO OFFERING 
 
 with the awl mark in his ear, to follow 
 Ephraim’s parents as they went up to Jeru¬ 
 salem with their humble offerings in their 
 hands. 
 
 And after the feast of Passover a cruel 
 plague had swept the land, and Ephraim’s 
 mother was dead, and the bond-servant was 
 free from his master. Nor had Ephraim’s 
 father, who was also sorely stricken, even 
 yet recovered his strength. As the feast 
 of the first-fruits drew nigh, he realized 
 that he would not be able to make the pil¬ 
 grimage to Jerusalem. 
 
 “ My son,” he said, calling the lad to his 
 bed, “ thou must go up to Jerusalem alone 
 and take the offerings of the first-fruits, for 
 of all our house none but thee remains to 
 go up to the Temple of the Lord. Thou 
 wast but a little child then, and cannot 
 remember how my men-servants and maid¬ 
 servants followed me and thy mother, sing¬ 
 ing and rejoicing, and bearing bounteous 
 offerings to lay upon the altar. To-day I 
 
 56 
 
THE LAD WHO BROUGHT NO OFFERING 
 
 am a broken man, and my fields are well- 
 nigh barren. But the God of Israel will 
 not reject the offerings of a humble and a 
 grateful heart. Much has He taken away 
 that He gave in the days of my gladness; 
 yet must I rejoice, for He has let me know 
 that through thee, my son, my name shall 
 not perish in Israel.” 
 
 Then he bade Ephraim gather the best 
 of the fruits that their fields had yielded 
 them, and with his trembling hands he 
 arranged the fruits in a basket and covered 
 them with long, damp leaves, lest the sun’s 
 rays should do them harm. And Ephraim 
 kissed his father who blessed him; and the 
 lad departed and went his way toward 
 Jerusalem. 
 
 At last he saw the towers of the city of 
 David, and his heart sang for joy. He 
 stopped to rest for a moment, and smiled 
 as his eyes wandered over the country-side 
 radiant with the many-hued lilies of the 
 field, the dew still sparkling upon their 
 
 57 
 
THE LAD WHO BROUGHT NO OFFERING 
 
 petals. Birds sang on every tree, and, hid¬ 
 den by the long grass, a little brook gurgled 
 and laughed and rejoiced, as though it, too, 
 were glad and wished to praise God for 
 His goodness. Suddenly joy died out of 
 the heart of Ephraim, and a sickening 
 dread took its place, for he saw a strange, 
 ragged figure approaching from among 
 the trees, and even before he heard the 
 man’s cry: “ Unclean 1 Unclean 1 ” he knew 
 him to be a leper, a man terribly smitten 
 and doomed to pass the rest of his days 
 apart from his fellow-men. The leper was 
 frightful to look upon, and Ephraim would 
 have hurried by, had he not cried appeal¬ 
 ingly: “ Nay, pause but a moment, for I 
 will do thee no harm, neither will I draw 
 nearer lest I defile thy garments.” 
 
 So Ephraim paused by the road-side to 
 listen. 
 
 “ My son,” said the leper, “ all day have 
 I hidden among the trees and watched the 
 happy pilgrims journey to Jerusalem. And 
 
 58 
 
THE LAD WHO BROUGHT NO OFFERING 
 
 my heart was heavy, for by reason of my 
 affliction I am shut off not only from the 
 sons of men, but even from the House of 
 God. For the last three years I have 
 watched the people of Israel journey to 
 Jerusalem, bringing the first-fruits of their 
 fields with them. And my heart well-nigh 
 broke because I could not lay my offerings 
 before Him. But now when I saw thee 
 pass, I said: ‘ It is but a young lad, and 
 he may take compassion upon me and grant 
 me the thing my soul desires.’ ” 
 
 “ But I can do nought for thee,” 
 answered Ephraim, and his eyes filled with 
 tears of pity. “ I may not even touch thy 
 hand, for such, as thou knowest, is the law 
 in Israel.” 
 
 “ My son,” the leper made answer, “ It 
 is but a little thing that I ask. My heart 
 has grieved these many months that I can 
 lay no offerings upon the altar of my God. 
 But last night I had a strange dream. I 
 thought I wandered in the wilderness, and 
 
 59 
 
THE LAD WHO BROUGHT NO OFFERING 
 
 God spoke to me, saying: ‘ My child, why 
 hast thou brought Me no offerings these 
 many days? Is thy heart so bitter by 
 reason of thy affliction, that thou grudgest 
 Me the first-fruits I have bidden thee to 
 lay upon My altar?’ and I answered: 
 ‘ Nay, my Lord, but since I am forbidden 
 to enter the Temple, I cannot bring my 
 offerings with the others.’ He answered: 
 ‘ My child, if thy heart craves to serve Me, 
 I will sanctify the spot where thou seest 
 My face. To-morrow bring the first-fruits 
 as an offering, and they will be acceptable 
 unto Me.’ Then I awoke, and knew that 
 I had heard the voice of the Lord.” 
 
 “ Yea,” answered Ephraim, and he 
 trembled a little. 
 
 “ Wilt thou not give me thy basket of 
 the first-fruits, that I may go into the wil¬ 
 derness and lay them upon an altar I have 
 reared of stone and of the branches of the 
 trees? For the Lord will be pleased with 
 
 60 
 
THE LAD WHO BROUGHT NO OFFERING 
 
 my offering, even though I must not appear 
 before Him in His holy temple.” 
 
 “ But I cannot go before the altar with 
 empty hands,” said Ephraim. “ See, this 
 small basket is all I have, and even that 
 thou wouldst take from me.” 
 
 “ For three years,” repeated the leper, 
 “ I have not brought Him offerings, and 
 now thou wouldst have me leave my altar 
 barren and empty.” 
 
 Hardly knowing why he acted thus, 
 Ephraim placed his basket beside the road, 
 for he knew that he must not allow the 
 leper to approach him. “Take the offer¬ 
 ing of my first-fruits,” he said, “ and may 
 they be acceptable unto Him.” 
 
 “ The Lord bless thee all the days of 
 thy life,” answered the leper, as he seized 
 the basket and ran quickly away. 
 
 Then Ephraim continued on his way to 
 Jerusalem, and as he went, his heart was 
 heavy because he must put his father’s 
 house to shame by appearing before the 
 
 61 
 
THE LAD WHO BROUGHT NO OFFERING 
 
 altar with empty hands. His cheeks 
 burned, and with downcast eyes he stood 
 before the priest and stammeringly began 
 to explain why he had failed to bring his 
 offerings. 
 
 But the gentle old man laid his hand 
 upon the boy’s shoulder, and would not let 
 him continue. “ I do not understand thy 
 story, my son,” he said gravely, “ but I 
 know that the Lord has been with thee.” 
 
 Then Ephraim realized that he was 
 holding a basket of luscious fruits in his 
 hands, and around the basket were twined 
 splendid lilies of the field with the dew still 
 clinging to their petals. And as Ephraim 
 placed his offering upon the altar, he knew 
 that the Lord was indeed with him; and 
 his heart sang for joy. 
 
 62 
 
THE SILENT HARP 
 
 (A Story for Tish'ah be-Ab.) 
 
 I 
 
 It was nearly dawn when little Reuben 
 awoke, and shivered as he lay beside his 
 mother. Rising softly, for he feared to 
 disturb her, he picked up his harp, and 
 walked away to the little brook that 
 trickled by the wayside where he bathed 
 his dusty face and lapped the refreshing 
 water from his cupped hand. 
 
 For a moment he stood gazing down 
 upon his sleeping fellow-captives, driven 
 from the land of Israel to Babylon as exiles; 
 then he turned his face toward the ruins 
 which had been Jerusalem. Against the 
 pink-streaked sky he could see the last wall 
 of the Temple, black and terrible—the 
 Temple in which he had once hoped to 
 play some day; for even at the age of nine 
 he was a skilled harpist. His father and 
 
 5 
 
 63 
 
THE SILENT HARP 
 
 his brothers had been slaughtered upon 
 the very floor of that Temple—that much 
 he had learned from the frantic wailing 
 of his mother. But no one would tell him 
 the secret horror of their deaths. His 
 mother, with little Miriam at her breast, 
 and Reuben clinging to her hand, had been 
 driven forth from the black ruins which 
 they had once called their home. In their 
 flight Reuben had snatched his precious 
 harp, the harp he had often played on sum¬ 
 mer evenings beneath the fig-trees which 
 grew before their house. As the child 
 remembered the white doves that had built 
 their nests in the long leaves and have never 
 failed to flutter down to his shoulders at 
 his call, he threw himself upon the ground, 
 weeping bitterly, his wet cheeks pressed 
 against the harp strings. 
 
 His sobs awoke several women and chil¬ 
 dren about him, and they joined in his 
 lamentations. As they wept, an old white- 
 haired man, leaning upon a staff, made his 
 G4 
 
THE SILENT HARP 
 
 way toward them. He drew little Reuben 
 to his side, and rested his trembling hand 
 upon the lad’s curly head. 
 
 “ Is there no hope for Zion? ” cried the 
 exiles. “Tell us, Jeremiah! Shall we 
 never return to the land of our birth? ” 
 
 The old man did not answer. He only 
 stared with tearless eyes toward the 
 blackened western wall of the Temple 
 standing out against the crimson clouds. 
 
 Little Reuben felt a strange desire to 
 comfort him. He tugged at the prophet’s 
 robe, and showed him his harp. 
 
 “ Some day,” said little Reuben proudly, 
 “ we will come back to Jerusalem, and we 
 will build a new Temple, and I will bring 
 my harp into the Temple and play upon 
 it forever.” 
 
 II 
 
 The rays of the noonday sun beat upon 
 the bowed heads of the wretched captives 
 as they staggered along the dusty roads 
 
 65 
 
THE SILENT HARP 
 
 towards Babylon. Little Reuben, his harp 
 still pressed to his breast, limped wearily 
 beside his mother. Sometimes he glanced 
 timidly into her face; then he became 
 afraid. .... Could this white-faced 
 woman, who looked straight into the dis¬ 
 tance and never answered him when he 
 spoke to her, be his own mother? Every 
 evening, when the Babylonian guard gave 
 them bread, she would wait until Reuben 
 had devoured his scanty meal; then she 
 would push her portion into his hands. 
 Sometimes he broke off a morsel and 
 pressed it between her lips, but she would 
 only shake her head in silence. 
 
 One morning, when they were ready to 
 start on their day’s journey, Reuben noticed 
 that his mother’s arms were empty. She 
 no longer carried the tiny baby sister, who 
 for the last few days had been strangely 
 quiet and had neither fretted nor cried. 
 
 “Where is Miriam?” Reuben asked 
 his mother. “ Have the soldiers taken her 
 66 
 
THE SILENT HARP 
 
 in the night?” But his mother did not 
 answer. She only rocked to and fro in 
 her grief, and held her empty arms as 
 though the baby still slept upon her breast. 
 And when Reuben lay down to sleep 
 beneath the stars that night, he cried bit¬ 
 terly, and laid his face against his harp as 
 he wondered whether the soldiers would 
 take that away from him, too. 
 
 When the sun’s rays fell upon his face, 
 he awoke. He tried to arouse his mother, 
 but she did not stir. Marah, a kindly 
 woman, who had once been their neighbor, 
 drew him gently away, and, even before 
 she spoke, Reuben realized that he was 
 alone in the world. 
 
 ♦ * ♦ ♦ ♦ 
 
 Several days later Nebuzaradan, the 
 general of the hosts of Nebuchadnezzar 
 king of Babylon, rode down the ranks of 
 the broken, straggling captives. He sat 
 upon his great black horse like a very king, 
 
 67 
 
THE SILENT HARP 
 
 and carried his head proudly; yet his face 
 beneath the gold-wrought helmet was worn 
 and white and strangely terrified, like the 
 face of a man who awakes from an evil 
 dream. 
 
 “ Why does he look so sad? ” Reuben 
 asked Marah in wonder. “ When he 
 returns to Nebuchadnezzar as a conqueror, 
 the king will load him with wealth and 
 honors.” 
 
 “ Surely, thou hast heard the cause 
 of his heaviness of spirit,” interrupted 
 Marah’s son, Daniel, a stripling of sixteen. 
 “ Thy father and . . . .” 
 
 “ Hush, Daniel! ” cried Marah, draw¬ 
 ing Reuben to her. “ Why frighten the 
 lad? Say no more ! ” 
 
 Daniel was silent; but that night Reuben, 
 who lay beside him, crept closer, whisper¬ 
 ing: “ Daniel, tell me, I pray thee, how 
 my father and thy father died. My 
 mother would not tell me, and thy mother 
 thought I would be frightened; but I am 
 G8 
 
THE SILENT HARP 
 
 almost a man now, so tell me how they 
 met their death.” 
 
 “ When Nebuzaradan, the general, 
 entered the courts of the Temple,” began 
 Daniel, speaking softly, lest he awaken 
 the sleepers about him, “ he saw a pool of 
 blood boiling and seething upon the floor. 
 He had our priests brought before him to 
 tell him the meaning of this thing; but they 
 feared to tell him the truth of the matter, 
 and answered: ‘ It is only the blood of the 
 sacrifices, lambs and oxen we have slaugh¬ 
 tered upon the altar of the Lord.’ But the 
 pool of blood continued to seethe, and 
 Nebuzaradan then cried: ‘Ye are lying, 
 priests! Speak truly, or I will tear the 
 flesh from your bodies! ’ And the priests 
 confessed that it was the blood of the 
 prophet Zechariah whom the people of 
 Jerusalem had slain in that very place for 
 declaring that the Temple would be 
 destroyed. ‘ Then I will cause this blood 
 which cries for vengeance to be satisfied,’ 
 
 69 
 
THE SILENT HARP 
 
 declared Nebuzaradan, and he ordered the 
 scholars, among them thy father and mine, 
 
 to be slain in that place.But the 
 
 blood upon the floor would not rest. Many 
 maidens and youths were also slain— 
 among them thy brothers—even the young 
 priests were not spared; but still the blood 
 of Zechariah continued to boil and seethe 
 upon the Temple floor. But at last 
 Nebuzaradan cried out: ‘Zechariah! 
 Zechariah! See how I have slaughtered 
 the most precious souls in all Israel. Dost 
 thou demand still more destruction? 
 Must I slay a whole people?’ Then the 
 blood became quiet; but Nebuzaradan 
 trembled where he stood and said: ‘If 
 the death of this one man was counted 
 such a sin in the eyes of the God of Israel, 
 how can I, the slayer of hundreds, ever 
 hope for peace? ’ And since that day no 
 man has seen him smile, and I have heard 
 it whispered that, when he returns to Baby¬ 
 lon, he will lay his sword at the feet of 
 
 70 
 
THE SILENT HARP 
 
 Nebuchadnezzar, his king, and seek to 
 learn the faith of our people, that he may 
 become one of us and be at peace.” 
 
 “ I am glad he is tormented for his 
 cruelty,” muttered Reuben. “ To-day he 
 seemed like another king Saul, tortured by 
 an evil spirit.” 
 
 “ Wouldst thou, like another David, 
 drive away his moodiness with thy harp? ” 
 asked Daniel, half in mockery. 
 
 “ Nay,” returned the younger lad 
 fiercely. “ How could I bring myself to 
 restore peace to the destroyer of our 
 nation ? ” 
 
 III 
 
 In the banquet hall of Nebuchadnezzar 
 king of Babylon there rose shouts of bois¬ 
 terous laughter, mingling with the softer 
 voices of slave girls, who sang as they 
 poured out the wine. At the king’s right 
 hand sat Nebuzaradan, his face pale and 
 gloomy beneath the jewelled circlet which 
 his royal master had placed about his 
 71 
 
THE SILENT HARP 
 
 brows. But the eyes of Nebuchadnezzar 
 the king glowed with pride, as he looked 
 upon the captives from Jerusalem, pass¬ 
 ing before him with gifts of tribute in their 
 hands, even the gold and silver vessels from 
 their ravaged Temple. Past the royal seat 
 they came, the elders and the young men, 
 women with babes at their breast, priests 
 and little children. And one little lad, 
 weary and foot-sore, staggered and fell 
 exhausted before the king’s feet. One of 
 the huge black slaves, who stood behind 
 the king, raised little Reuben roughly, and 
 he would have passed on, had not the king 
 detained him with a gesture. 
 
 “ What doth the lad carry? ” he asked 
 curiously, his eyes falling upon the harp 
 w r hose strings the child had covered with 
 long green leaves to keep them from break¬ 
 ing with the heat. 
 
 “ A harp, my lord the king,” answered 
 Nebuzaradan. “ There are skilled harp 
 players among the Hebrews.” 
 
 72 
 
THE SILENT HARP 
 
 “ And thou hast brought this petty thing 
 for tribute?” asked Nebuchadnezzar the 
 king, his small eyes twinkling with amuse¬ 
 ment. He laughed as the little exile hugged 
 the harp closer to his breast. “ It must be 
 a rare instrument, since thou hast treasured 
 it, and sought to bring it safely from Jeru¬ 
 salem even unto Babylon! ” 
 
 “ It was my father’s harp,” answered 
 Reuben, so low that the king could hardly 
 catch his words. 
 
 “ And he taught thee to play? ” asked 
 the king. Reuben nodded. “It is well!” 
 said Nebuchadnezzar, and signed to his 
 guards to stay the line of captives. “ Thou 
 art a comely boy—if thou dost play 
 sweetly, thou shalt have a place among our 
 own musicians. Play for us now, and sing 
 one of the songs of Zion.” 
 
 Reuben’s fingers tightened about his 
 beloved harp, while his frightened eyes 
 glanced from the line of weary captives to 
 the cold, unhappy face of the butcher of 
 
 73 
 
THE SILENT HARP 
 
 Babylon, who sat at the king’s right hand. 
 He grew very white, and trembled in every 
 limb as he slowly shook his head. 
 
 “ Will they kill me? ” he wondered as 
 he saw the king’s countenance darken with 
 wrath. He spoke, and his voice sounded 
 in his ears like the voice of another speaker: 
 “ I cannot play my harp in a foreign land, 
 nor will I sing the songs of Zion before 
 the enemies of my people.” 
 
 A cry, half of joy, half of pity, burst 
 from the captives. But no one heeded 
 them, for those of the court, dumb with 
 surprise, stared at the mighty king of Baby¬ 
 lon, defied by a little child. There was a 
 long silence; then Nebuchadnezzar laughed 
 softly, as he gazed upon Reuben standing 
 before him with fumbling hands and bowed 
 head. He turned to one of his slaves, and 
 gave a low, sharp command, 
 
 “ Surely, they will kill me,” thought Reu¬ 
 ben, and he closed his eyes and waited in 
 the dreadful silence. 
 
 74 
 
THE SILENT HARP 
 
 “ Now take thy harp and sing one of 
 the songs of Zion,” commanded Nebuchad¬ 
 nezzar once more, and looking up, Reuben 
 saw that the black slave had returned. In 
 spite of himself, the boy cringed, as his 
 frightened eyes fell upon the heavy whip 
 the slave carried. He would never be 
 strong enough to withstand their torments, 
 for he was only a little lad .... and 
 weak .... and very, very tired. 
 
 He cowered back against the banquet 
 table, and, as he clung to it for support, 
 his hand touched a long knife. As he felt 
 the cold steel beneath his fingers, a thought 
 flashed through his tired brain. If—if he 
 dared to escape in this dreadful way, even 
 a hundred lashes could never force him to 
 string his harp again. 
 
 He caught up the knife in one hand, and 
 stretched the other beneath it. A moment 
 later the shining blade descended, and the 
 child lurched forward, crying out in agony, 
 his fingers hacked and bleeding. 
 
THE SILENT HARP 
 
 After his long terror, the frightful pain 
 was too much to be borne, and he fell faint¬ 
 ing to the ground. Even as the darkness 
 closed over him, he heard his harp strike 
 the marble pavement; and, as the cords 
 snapped, Reuben’s heart broke within him, 
 and he longed for death. 
 
 “ A strange and stubborn people—even 
 their little children defy me! ” mused 
 Nebuchadnezzar. He turned to Nebu- 
 zaradan: “ But thou didst break them, my 
 general! More praise to thee that thou 
 didst break them ! ” 
 
 In answer to the king’s words, the con¬ 
 queror of Jerusalem raised his jewelled 
 arm in salute—but his body trembled, and 
 his smiling lips were white. 
 
 76 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 (A Story for Purim.) 
 
 A group of girls danced and played 
 merrily before the house of Mordecai the 
 Jew. Their happy laughter came to him 
 as he sat before his door watching their 
 sport, his grave eyes growing strangely 
 wistful as they followed the slight figure 
 of his ward, Hadassah, whose gay, teasing 
 laughter rang out above the rest. Just 
 seventeen was Hadassah, flower-faced and 
 light of foot, her long dark hair bound with 
 a wreath of the fragrant myrtle whose 
 name she bore. And Mordecai, in whose 
 house she had grown from infancy, looked 
 upon her as his own child, and grew 
 unhappy at the thought of losing her 
 forever. 
 
 Even as the maidens danced and 
 frolicked, a youth, dressed in the blue and 
 white liveries of the king’s household, 
 
 77 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 entered the court-yard before Mordecai’s 
 house. He carried a scroll bound with the 
 royal colors from which dangled the seal 
 of the king’s authority. Mordecai’s heart 
 sank as the youth approached. He knew 
 only too well that Vashti, the beautiful wife 
 of King Ahasuerus, had been divorced and 
 that now the king sought among the 
 maidens of Persia for her successor. 
 
 “ I come from the king,” began the 
 stranger, touching the seal of his proclama¬ 
 tion as Mordecai saluted him respectfully. 
 
 “ I understand,” answered the Jew. 
 “ Thou wilt take my ward, Hadassah 
 away? ” 
 
 “ Within two hours let her be ready to 
 depart for the king’s palace. And those 
 with her? ” 
 
 “ The daughters of our neighbors.” 
 
 “ I shall go to their households that they 
 may be summoned likewise. Take care 
 that the maid Hadassah is ready to journey 
 with them. And remember, from this day 
 
 78 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 forth, thou hast no child, for she is of the 
 king’s household.” 
 
 “ I understand,” repeated Mordecai, his 
 eyes dark with pain. “ Hadassah,” he 
 called, and smiled sadly to see how the girl 
 hurried to him, ever obedient to his sum¬ 
 mons. “ Come into the house, beloved, for 
 I would speak with thee.” And she fol¬ 
 lowed him across the door-sill. 
 
 Calling the old tire-woman who had been 
 Hadassah’s nurse, Mordecai bade her 
 bring fresh robes for the girl and prepare 
 her for her journey. “ The king’s com¬ 
 mand,” he murmured sorrowfully as he 
 sat apart, his chin resting upon his hand. 
 “ My Hadassah, my myrtle flower, torn 
 from her native soil to wither in the court¬ 
 yards of his golden house.” 
 
 Presently Hadassah came to him, even 
 fairer than before in her festive robes of 
 pale green, a fresh wreath of her name 
 flower about her hair. The old nurse 
 gazed upon her with fond pride. “ She 
 
 6 
 
 79 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 will be the loveliest maiden among all those 
 who stand before the king,” she murmured, 
 as she smoothed the maiden’s glossy curls. 
 “ But she is dressed far too simply for a 
 daughter of the house of Benjamin. I pray 
 thee, master, give me the casket of jewels 
 her mother wore upon her bridal day, the 
 topaz for her arms and neck, and the 
 golden anklets and girdle.” 
 
 Hadassah’s eyes sparkled with delight; 
 but Mordecai shook his head. “ Nay, she 
 is fairer thus; she has never worn jewels, 
 nor must she wear them to-day.” Then, 
 as the old servant withdrew frowning, 
 carrying the discarded robes with her, he 
 drew the young girl to his side and kissed 
 her. “ Do not fret, little one,” he com¬ 
 forted. “ And do not blame me if I do 
 not care to deck thee, a true Jewish daugh¬ 
 ter, in the gauds of a Persian princess. For 
 I would have thee appear among the 
 beauties of the king’s court like a modest 
 flower that by thy very simplicity and 
 
 80 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 sweetness thou mayest win his royal 
 favor.” 
 
 Hadassah stared at her cousin with 
 unbelieving eyes. “ But, surely, thou dost 
 not wish me to remain in the king’s palace,” 
 she protested. “ Thou wouldst not have 
 him select me for his bride ? ” 
 
 Mordecai answered her slowly: “ Ha¬ 
 dassah—little one, how can I tell thee? It 
 almost breaks my heart to give thee up, to 
 send thee among strangers. Yet I am glad, 
 very glad, to see thee go. For who knows, 
 perhaps, thou mayest find favor in the 
 king’s eyes and a day may come when thine 
 innocence and beauty will win great com¬ 
 fort for our exiled people. We are stran¬ 
 gers here in Persia, little daughter, and a 
 sword is ever above our heads. But who 
 knows but that thou mayest become a star 
 of hope to our brethren in time of need— 
 yea, Esther, which in their tongue signi¬ 
 fies a star of good fortune, shall be thy 
 name,” he murmured more to himself than 
 
 81 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 to the girl who stared at him with 
 frightened, puzzled eyes. Then, catching 
 the look of terror on her face, he drew 
 her to him, and kissed her tenderly. “ Did 
 I frighten thee? Be not afraid, sweet one, 
 for the God of our fathers will watch over 
 thee wherever thou goest. And my 
 prayers must follow thee past the pillars 
 of the king’s golden house.” He held her 
 at arm’s length, and spoke even more 
 earnestly: “ I lay only one command upon 
 thee—heed it well. Until I bid thee 
 speak, tell no one of thy kindred and thy 
 race. Promise me, Hadassah, that thou 
 wilt obey me in this! ” 
 
 She raised troubled eyes to his face. 
 “ Thou hast always taught me to be proud 
 that I am the daughter of our people,” she 
 began doubtfully. 
 
 “ True ! But now none must know that 
 thou art of Jewish blood. Trust me in this, 
 my little one, and obey me, even as I hope 
 to see thee obey me in greater things, 
 
 82 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 shouldst thou ever be called upon to serve 
 our people.” 
 
 “ I will always obey thee,” promised the 
 girl; “ no matter how far away I dwell, no 
 matter how rich and honored I may 
 become—even if I am crowned queen of 
 Persia.” 
 
 Before the palace of the king at Shushan 
 several boys of the royal household played 
 at ball. A youth taller than the rest, and 
 carrying himself with a certain grave dig¬ 
 nity, came from the palace, and stood upon 
 the shining marble steps to watch them. 
 His eyes brightened, and, throwing aside 
 his mantle heavily embroidered with gold, 
 he joined the game, laughing as merrily as 
 the rest when his golden ball sped across 
 the rose-bushes into the depths of a lily- 
 bordered pool. A roguish, blue-eyed lad 
 had already started to strip off his light 
 garment, that he might dive after it, when 
 he who had flung the ball shook his head. 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 “ Nay, Myrion,” he cried. “ On such 
 a glorious day why seek for gold baubles? 
 Within,” his hand indicated the palace, 
 “ there is too much gold and heavy incense 
 and bowing of black slaves. Let us spend 
 the day in the forest with our bows and 
 arrows.” Impatiently he waved aside the 
 slave who held his discarded mantle. “ I 
 will go like the others,” he declared will¬ 
 fully, “ and run and leap unhampered by 
 my foolish robes. Bring me my bow and 
 arrows—I am eager to be off.” 
 
 His companions followed him gladly 
 through the green, cool ways of the forest. 
 It was spring-time; they were young and 
 free from care, and the songs of the birds 
 on every bough seemed to echo the joy in 
 their youthful hearts. The tall youth 
 laughed and jested with the others, but soon 
 his brow darkened petulantly, for no game 
 had appeared to be brought down and 
 stowed in the bags the dark-skinned atten¬ 
 dants carried upon their shoulders. But at 
 
 84 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 last, as they came to a clearing in the 
 woods, Ittar, a keen-faced, slight lad, cried 
 excitedly: “A bird—see, it is rising— 
 toward the east! ” 
 
 The others waited as the tall youth fitted 
 his arrow to his bow, took a steady aim, 
 and let it speed upward toward the flutter¬ 
 ing wings already fading against the shin¬ 
 ing blue of the morning sky. The boys 
 burst into a shout of triumph as the tiny 
 mass of feathers poised a moment above 
 them, then dropped down, the arrow which 
 had struck its wing falling before it. One 
 of the attendants darted forward eagerly 
 to secure the prize; but the bird seemed to 
 have fallen out of sight into a clump of 
 bushes, and he returned empty-handed. 
 
 The lad whose arrow had brought the 
 victim to earth flushed with disappointment 
 and anger. He half raised his hand as 
 though to strike the slave who cringed 
 before him. “ Must I return with empty 
 
 85 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 bags because of thy blindness?” he cried 
 furiously. 
 
 Even as he spoke, there appeared from 
 the thicket the royal messenger, followed 
 by a group of maidens in festal robes, with 
 jewels in their flowing hair. One walked 
 apart from her companions, a girl in simple 
 garments, crowned with myrtle, her face 
 bent tenderly over a mass of feathers she 
 held gathered to her breast. The messen¬ 
 ger started forward, was about to sink to 
 the ground as though a great personage 
 had stood before him, but the tall youth 
 restrained him with a swift gesture. He 
 walked quickly to the flower-crowned girl, 
 and held out his hand. 
 
 “ The dove thou carriest is mine,” he 
 told her. “ My arrow just brought it to 
 earth. Give it to me.” 
 
 She raised her eyes, serious but unabashed 
 as a little child. “ I have just picked it 
 up from the ground where it lay wounded 
 and suffering. See, thou hast broken its 
 
 86 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 poor wing. But, perhaps, with tender care 
 it will heal again. May I not take it to 
 keep me company in my loneliness in the 
 king’s palace? ” 
 
 The other smiled. “ Surely, maiden, 
 thou wilt not be lonely in the king’s golden 
 house, with its couches of ivory and silver 
 and its crystal goblets set with jewels like 
 altar-fires.” 
 
 “ I will miss the roses and the myrtles 
 of my garden,” she answered, “ and my 
 doves which came to eat from my hand in 
 the morning and at night. Let me, I pray 
 thee, keep this dove to remind me of my 
 home.” 
 
 “ But since my arrow brought it low, I 
 would have some small trophy of my 
 triumph. Give me, maiden, a spray of the 
 sweet-smelling myrtle that binds thy hair.” 
 
 Smiling shyly, the girl broke a spray of 
 her name flower from the wreath about 
 her head, and placed it in his outstretched 
 hand. She was about to pass him and join 
 
 87 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 the others, when he caught her robe. 
 “Thy name, maiden?” he demanded. 
 
 “ In the tongue of the Hebrews (she was 
 about to say: “ my people,” but restrained 
 herself in time) my name is Hadassah, or 
 myrtle. But the Persians will call me 
 Esther, or a star of good fortune.” 
 
 “ Flower and star,” murmured the youth 
 as she left him, “ modest sweetness and 
 good fortune! Have I found them at last 
 to bring me trust and comfort?” With 
 an imperious gesture, he called the messen¬ 
 ger to his side. “ Thou hast not seen me 
 to-day,” he commanded sharply. “ And 
 when thou reachest the palace, speak at 
 once to Hegai, telling him that the maiden 
 Esther with whom I have just spoken is 
 to be treated as royally as a daughter of 
 the king’s household.” The messenger 
 bowed and returned to the girls who now 
 stood about Hadassah, twittering with 
 excitement as they sought to learn of her 
 conversation with the stranger. 
 
 88 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 She only shook her head, with her faint, 
 grave smile. “ He spoke graciously to me 
 and permitted me to keep the dove,” was 
 all she said as she stroked the soft feathers 
 huddled against her breast. But on the 
 way to the king’s house she smiled mysteri¬ 
 ously more than once as though a beautiful 
 secret had been whispered to her in the 
 forest under the shining morning sky. 
 
 And now it seemed to Hadassah, whom 
 her Persian companions in the women’s 
 apartments of the king’s palace called 
 Esther, as though cool forests and shining- 
 skies were things far off, like half-forgotten 
 dreams. In the king’s house it was hard 
 to breathe freely; she seemed to droop 
 beneath a stifling heat, though cool foun¬ 
 tains played in the marble court-yards and 
 dusky-skinned slaves waved great fans of 
 peacock feathers above her as she slept. 
 Sometimes, as she looked at her dove in 
 the gilded wicker cage which Hegai, the 
 keeper of the women’s apartments, had 
 
 89 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 brought her, she thought how they were 
 indeed sisters in misfortune, lonely in a 
 beautiful prison-house, far away from 
 home and kindred. 
 
 “ But do not grieve, dear dove,” she 
 would murmur, “ for it is only for a little 
 while. We are prisoners now; but some 
 day, when the new queen is chosen, I will 
 go back to dear Mordecai—and on that 
 day I will set thee free. It will be good 
 to go back to my garden with its roses and 
 its myrtles,” she said with a far-away look 
 in her eyes; yet she sighed a little, too, for 
 she felt certain that the youth she had met 
 in the forest was of the court, and she knew 
 that if she left the king’s house she might 
 never look upon the stranger’s face again. 
 
 There came a day when from early 
 morning until the time of torches the 
 women’s apartments of the king’s golden 
 house resounded with excited murmurs, as 
 the fairest maidens, gathered from every 
 corner of the kingdom, made themselves 
 SO 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 ready to appear before the king that he 
 might choose his royal bride. “ Who will 
 be chosen? ” they asked themselves, as they 
 splashed luxuriously in the marble baths or 
 anointed themselves with fragrant oils 
 before donning their festive robes and 
 anklets and diadems. A few of the 
 favorites of Hegai, Esther among them, 
 were offered richer ornaments than their 
 mates. But the ward of Mordecai would 
 have none of the milky pearls and strings 
 of rubies that the keeper of the women’s 
 apartments tried to press upon her. 
 
 “ I will wear no jewels,” she declared 
 firmly, “ and no other robe than that in 
 which I left my guardian’s house.” So 
 Hegai, wondering and protesting, yielded 
 to her whim, never dreaming that the girl 
 hoped to escape unnoticed in her modest 
 attire that she might be permitted to leave 
 the bleak magnificence of the king’s golden 
 house. 
 
 91 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 At last the maidens passed in slow pro¬ 
 cession down the lane of negro slaves bear¬ 
 ing flaming torches, down through the 
 gardens about the women’s pavilions and 
 into the great hall, where King Ahasuerus 
 of Persia and his glittering court awaited 
 them. One by one they moved slowly 
 before him, every girl as beautiful as a 
 flower; stately, dark maidens, like queen 
 roses in their pride, lily-white virgins with 
 hair gleaming like pale gold in the torch¬ 
 light. The great hall was silent with 
 expectancy; no one stirred or even seemed 
 to breathe. 
 
 Ahasuerus, in his robes of royal blue and 
 white, sat motionless as an ivory statue, his 
 keen eyes eagerly scanning the faces of the 
 girls who passed before him, pausing only 
 long enough to prostrate themselves at his 
 feet until he waved his command to follow 
 the others. Suddenly he leaped forward, 
 his face aglow, his hand extended to the 
 girl who bent before him, a slender, dark 
 
 92 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 girl in simple robes, her long hair bound 
 with a wreath of myrtle flowers. 
 
 Ahasuerus descended from the dais on 
 which he sat, and raised the girl to her feet; 
 their eyes met, and those who stood near 
 saw her grow pale, then flush rosily beneath 
 the king’s gaze. 
 
 “ Thou,” was all she could stammer, 
 “ thou art the king? ” 
 
 From his girdle Ahasuerus drew a sprig 
 of withered myrtle, and placed it in her 
 hand. 
 
 “ I am glad thou didst wear the myrtle 
 wreath to-night, beloved,” he told her, “for 
 to-morrow thou must lay it aside when I 
 place the crown of Persia upon thy head 
 
 and proclaim thee my wife and queen.” 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 Amid the shrubs and flowering bushes, 
 which surrounded the queen’s pavilion, 
 Mordecai the Jew crouched and waited 
 through the long night. The decree had 
 gone forth dooming every Jew in Persia 
 
 93 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 to destruction. Mordecai with his breth¬ 
 ren had prayed and fasted; now he waited 
 with clasped hands and trembling lips, his 
 eyes fixed upon the lamp burning in the 
 queen’s tower window. 
 
 For the lamp was to be the signal to 
 Mordecai that he might tell his brethren, 
 the queen’s own people, whether they were 
 to be spared, or doomed to fall beneath 
 Haman’s hatred. Haman, favorite of the 
 king, had won his permission to slay the 
 people of Mordecai whom he hated with 
 the bitterness of death. It was then that 
 Mordecai sought Esther for the first time 
 since her crowning, bidding her plead with 
 her husband, the king, that her people be 
 spared from destruction. Esther had hesi¬ 
 tated; to appear before the king unsum¬ 
 moned meant certain death, unless the 
 monarch’s heart should be moved by pity 
 and his extended sceptre proclaim pardon 
 for the intruder. And for many days 
 Ahasuerus had not summoned his queen to 
 
 94 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 appear before him. But Mordecai’s words 
 moved Esther to dare all for her people. 
 
 “ If I perish, I perish,” she told him, 
 seeking to obey her guardian unfalteringly 
 as in the old days when she had played 
 with her companions before his humble 
 home, far away from the golden glories of 
 the king’s palace. 
 
 And so, splendid in her royal robes and 
 jewels, wearing not the crown of Persia 
 upon her head but only a wreath of myrtle 
 flowers, Esther appeared before her lord. 
 Ele pardoned her presumption, and ex¬ 
 tended his sceptre of mercy to the tremb¬ 
 ling girl. Eler petition was upon her lips; 
 she longed to plead with him to spare her 
 people, the people of Mordecai she had 
 not dared before to claim as her kindred. 
 But, fearful and confused, struggling like 
 a dove in the fowler’s net, she had played 
 for time, pleading that her husband and 
 Haman should grace a banquet she would 
 prepare for them in her private apartments. 
 
 7 
 
 95 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 “ And there will I plead our cause before 
 the king,” she had assured Mordecai. “ I 
 will declare myself a Jewess, and he must 
 spare our people for my sake.” Her eyes 
 turned to the white dove in its gilded cage 
 upon her window ledge. “ Poor prisoner,” 
 she murmured, “ I have not given it its 
 freedom, though I am free now, since the 
 king’s love has changed the palace from a 
 prison to a house of gladness.” She turned 
 back to Mordecai. “ Wait below in the 
 gardens tc-night. Hegai is still my friend, 
 and will admit thee. I will send thee a 
 sign that thou mayest know whether we of 
 Israel are to live or die. If I quench the 
 light in the golden lamp swinging in my 
 casement, thou wilt know that the light of 
 life is quenched for us and for our brethren. 
 Then return to our people, and prepare 
 them for death, and count me also among 
 the dead. But if the king is gracious to 
 me and vows to spare our nation, I will free 
 my dove as a token of deliverance.” She 
 
 96 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 clasped her hands upon her breast, and 
 stood before Mordecai very quiet and of 
 good courage. “ I will plead for our people 
 to-night,” she promised. “ The God of 
 our fathers grant that I prove a star of 
 deliverance to them in their dire need.” 
 
 And even now she must be with the king, 
 for Mordecai had seen the royal party 
 enter the queen’s pavilion shortly after sun¬ 
 set. Now the moon had risen, silvering 
 the shrubs and fountains. A peaceful and 
 a lovely night, yet Mordecai’s soul was 
 sick with horror. If she should fail—he 
 saw the Jews of Persia delivered to the 
 sword: men, women, even little children, 
 crushed beneath the cruelty of Hainan’s 
 .vengeance. And Hadassah—his Hadas- 
 sah—if she declared herself a Jewess, she, 
 too, would be among the slain. Even now 
 the king’s guards might be leading 
 her from his presence to die an ignoble 
 death. 
 
 97 
 
THE SPRIG OF MYRTLE 
 
 Suddenly the light in Esther’s tower win¬ 
 dow darkened. Mordecai swayed where 
 he stood, his hands clutching at his throat. 
 Then he understood. A woman was lean¬ 
 ing from the window, her slight figure 
 blotting out the light. In the moon’s rays 
 he saw her press a white object to her lips, 
 kissing her dove before she set it free. 
 Stretching its wings, the happy creature 
 flew above the flowers back to the forest, 
 far away from the king’s golden house. 
 In the queen’s pavilion stern-faced guards 
 led Haman forth to die, and Ahasuerus 
 granted life to Esther and her kindred. 
 Beneath the window among the silvered 
 shrubs and fountains, Mordecai bent before 
 the God of his fathers in grateful prayer. 
 And as he prayed he wept. 
 
 98 
 
FRIENDS 
 
 (A Story for Hanukkah.) 
 
 When young Beriah set out upon his 
 journey to Antioch to join his father, lately 
 appointed an officer in the household of 
 Antiochus of Syria, Judas walked with him 
 to the turn in the road, loath to have 
 Beriah depart, for they were dear friends 
 and this was to be their first parting. 
 
 “ Would that thou wert coming with me 
 to Antioch,” mourned Beriah. “ Thou 
 wilt be as one buried alive in little Modin, 
 while in the splendid court of Antiochus—” 
 
 “ He who would teach pious Jews to 
 enjoy the shameful feasts and games of 
 the heathen ! ” interrupted Judas. “ Better 
 that thou shouldst stay in Modin than fol¬ 
 low the example of our brethren of Anti¬ 
 och, who ape the manners and dress of the 
 Greek and the language of the Gentile.” 
 
FRIENDS 
 
 Beriah shrugged impatiently. “ Why 
 should we not wear the Greek dress and 
 enjoy the Greek games? ” he asked lightly. 
 
 “If we follow the Greeks in lesser 
 things,” Judas answered, “ our people will 
 soon forget to worship the God of our 
 fathers. Hast thou not heard that this 
 Antiochus seeks to introduce the worship 
 of his heathen gods among us? ” 
 
 “And if he should succeed!” There 
 was a hint of mockery in Beriah’s voice. 
 “ What does it matter whether we pay our 
 vows to the 1 God of our fathers’, or bow 
 before the ivy-crowned Bacchus these 
 Syrians worship ? ” 
 
 “ This is blasphemy! ” cried Judas, and 
 his face grew hard and white. 
 
 But Beriah laughed gayly, and threw a 
 caressing arm about his friend’s shoulder. 
 “ I did but wish to torment thee,” he 
 insisted. “ Yet thou knowest how I have 
 always shared the Greek’s joy in the sun¬ 
 shine and color of life, joy in the swiftness 
 
 100 
 
FRIENDS 
 
 of the runner in his gymnasium, joy in the 
 marble images of his beautiful gods. All 
 this I shall have at Antioch.” Suddenly his 
 merry face grew grave. “ But I shall miss 
 thee, my Judas,” he murmured. 
 
 “ Yea,” answered Judas, and he could 
 say no more. 
 
 They had reached the turn in the road, 
 where for a long time they stood in silence. 
 An evening wind stirred the leaves of the 
 trees; there was no sound but the faint, 
 sleepy chirping of birds. In the years to 
 come Judas could never remember that 
 peaceful sunset without a throb of pain. 
 Beriah was the first to speak, and his voice 
 trembled a little. 
 
 “ Some day, O Judas my brother, I will 
 return from Antioch, and we will be as 
 brothers again. Farewell.” 
 
 Judas tried to speak, but could not. 
 He clasped Beriah’s hand, and, turning 
 abruptly, walked slowly back to Modin. 
 Beriah, watching him, with all the mockery 
 
 101 
 
FRIENDS 
 
 gone from his merry dark eyes, understood. 
 It was their first parting. 
 
 Two years later when Beriah returned 
 to Modin, he found that his master’s envoy 
 had preceded him. For the king’s soldiers 
 had come to compel the people to sacrifice 
 to the idols of the heathen, and the public 
 square of Modin was filled with an eager, 
 tense multitude, whispering tales of the 
 Syrian king, the cities of Israel he had 
 ravaged in his anger, the terrible punish¬ 
 ments he had dealt out to those Jews who 
 would not bow down to his gods. Now 
 his soldiers stood quiet and watchful before 
 the altar they had erected in the market¬ 
 place, like so many statues before a shrine, 
 while the men of Modin gazed from the 
 straight, shining figures to their priest Mat- 
 tathias, who stood near by surrounded by 
 his five sturdy sons. Sturdiest and tallest 
 among them was Judas; he towered above 
 them, quiet and watchful; his face was like 
 a sword as he waited. 
 
 102 
 
FRIENDS 
 
 “ Judas!—Judas, my brother! ” cried a 
 voice trembling with eagerness, and, turn- 
 ing, Judas gazed into Beriah’s eyes. The 
 boy was flushed and breathless as he flung 
 his arms about his old friend. “ Hast thou 
 forgotten me, my Judas? ” he reproached 
 him. “ Or am I so changed that thou dost 
 not recognize me? ” 
 
 Judas, who had uttered a low cry of joy 
 as he drew the lad to him, now stepped 
 back, his mouth growing hard, his eyes 
 stern, as they wandered over Beriah’s 
 Grecian robes, the jewelled chains and 
 bracelets about his neck and arms. “ In 
 truth, it is not easy to recognize thee,” he 
 said bitterly. 
 
 “ In Antioch a rich man’s son cannot 
 dress like a bond-servant,” Beriah pro¬ 
 tested. “ I will lay aside the king’s livery 
 to-morrow, but now—hast thou no word 
 of welcome for me? I have made many 
 friends in Antioch, but none like thee, my 
 beloved brother! Only a month ago 
 
 103 
 
FRIENDS 
 
 I was offered a post in the household of 
 Antiochus; yet I could not bear the thought 
 of remaining longer from Modin where I 
 could not see thy face.” With his char¬ 
 acteristic swiftness he removed one of the 
 golden chains he wore, and, before Judas 
 could prevent him, flung it about his 
 friend’s neck. “ Say that thou hast missed 
 me a little,” he pleaded. 
 
 “ I have missed thee,” answered Judas 
 with a look in his eyes that made the simple 
 words very eloquent. “ Yea, I have missed 
 thee sorely.” 
 
 “ Ah, Beriah! ” exclaimed a newcomer. 
 “ And fresh from Antioch! ” 
 
 “ Tell us of Antiochus! ” cried another. 
 “ What of the king?” 
 
 “ Ay, what of the king—dare we resist 
 him? ” murmured many voices. 
 
 They pushed Beriah upon the steps of 
 the newly-reared altar. He stood there, 
 his slight figure poised above the upturned 
 faces of the multitude, the sunshine stream- 
 
 104 
 
FRIENDS 
 
 ing upon his fluttering yellow garments and 
 dark, proudly erect, head. Beriah held up 
 his hand for silence. 
 
 “ I have seen the glittering lines of the 
 armies of Antiochus,” cried Beriah. “ I 
 know his strength. He can crush all Judea 
 as easily as a child crushes a swallow’s egg 
 in his fingers.” The people swayed and 
 murmured, for they knew that he spoke the 
 truth. And they were afraid. Beriah 
 leaned toward them, his face glowing, his 
 eyes burning with excitement. “ But this 
 Antiochus is as merciful as he is strong. 
 If ye will but yield to his will and bow 
 before the gods he has set up in your midst, 
 he will bestow gold and honors upon you 
 and your children.” His light hands flut¬ 
 tered over the shining ornaments he wore. 
 “ Should ye be mad enough to resist 
 him—” he shrugged as he brushed the hair 
 back from his forehead, “ friends, I fear 
 the God of our fathers will not save those 
 who disregard the lav/ of the king.” 
 
 105 
 
FRIENDS 
 
 A long silence followed, broken only by 
 the murmurs of the multitude. Beriah 
 stepped down from the altar, and forced 
 his way back to judas. The mockery had 
 vanished from his eyes, and, as he raised 
 them to his friend’s face, they were filled 
 with a great fear. Judas spoke not a word; 
 he stared straight before him, his eyes 
 fastened upon the altar where the Syrian 
 envoy now stood. With his strong hands 
 he slowly broke to pieces the gold chain 
 Beriah had flung about his neck. 
 
 “ Thou art an honored man in this city,” 
 began the king’s envoy, as he turned to 
 Mattathias, the old priest. “ Therefore 
 come thou first, and fulfil the king’s com¬ 
 mand: so shalt thou and thy house be in 
 the number of the king’s friends, and thou 
 and thy children shall be honored with 
 silver and gold and many rewards.” 
 
 The five tall sons of Mattathias gathered 
 closer about their father. From beneath 
 the robe of Judas there glimmered the flash 
 
 106 
 
FRIENDS 
 
 of steel; or was it only the sunlight spark¬ 
 ling upon the chain he held in his hands? 
 The crowd waited breathlessly for the old 
 man’s answer. 
 
 At last he spoke, and his voice was very 
 quiet. “ Though all the nations that are 
 under the king’s control obey him and fall 
 away from the religion of their fathers, yet 
 will I and my sons and my brethren walk 
 in the covenant of our fathers and not for¬ 
 get His lav/. We will not hearken to the 
 king’s words to go from our religion, either 
 to the right hand or to the left. But we 
 will forever walk in the ways our fathers 
 kept before us.” 
 
 The envoy paled with rage. “ Thou 
 and thy sons and thy brethren shall die,” 
 he thundered, “ but all who sacrifice upon 
 the altar and do reverence unto the Syrian 
 gods, such will the king reward with honors 
 and great riches.” 
 
 Even as he finished speaking, a Jew who 
 had long loved the ways of the heathen in 
 
 107 
 
FRIENDS 
 
 his heart, stepped' from the crowd, and 
 advanced toward the altar. As he was 
 about to scatter incense upon the flame, a 
 triumphant leer curling his mouth, Mat- 
 tathias wrenched the sword from the 
 envoy’s hand and plunged it into the 
 traitor’s breast. The man reeled, stag¬ 
 gered, and fell, his fumbling hands clutch¬ 
 ing at the wreaths about the altar and pull¬ 
 ing them down upon his lifeless face. 
 
 The envoy started forward, but he was 
 too late. The sons of Mattathias surged 
 forward, a living wall about their father, 
 who stood erect in their midst, the blood¬ 
 stained sword in his hand. From beneath 
 their robes flashed swords; they were like 
 young lions ready to spring upon their prey. 
 Man after man from the crowd joined 
 them, snatching swords and spears from 
 the unprepared Syrians, as they pressed 
 about their priest. Before they had seemed 
 like dry wood, incapable of action; now 
 the spark had touched them, and they were 
 
 108 
 
FRIENDS 
 
 like a devouring fire. Above them, on the 
 altar steps, where the Syrian envoy lay 
 dying beside the Jewish traitor, stood Mat- 
 tathias like an avenging spirit, his crim¬ 
 soned sword a banner above his head. His 
 old voice rang like a trumpet blast above 
 the shouting of the mob. 
 
 “ Whosoever is zealous for the Law,” 
 cried Mattathias, “ follow me ! ” 
 
 “ Lead, and we will follow ! ” thundered 
 the men of Modin. 
 
 Beriah from the outskirts of the crowd 
 gazed wistfully at Judas, cold and quiet, 
 a drawn sword in his hand. Then he 
 turned his face to Antioch, and left the 
 home of his fathers forever. 
 
 But on the eve of the battle of Beth 
 Horon, the friends met once more. A 
 man, foot-sore and weary, crept into the 
 camp of Israel, and begged to be led before 
 Judas, the commander of the Jewish host. 
 Once within the tent of Judas the Macca- 
 bee, he stood swaying from very weakness, 
 
 109 
 
FRIENDS 
 
 for he had made a long journey and was 
 well-nigh exhausted. In spite of the dust 
 of the road and the tattered Syrian gar¬ 
 ments he wore, Judas knew him to be 
 Beriah. They stood gazing at each other 
 speechlessly. 
 
 At last Beriah spoke, faltering in his 
 words, for he was very tired. “ I am a 
 fugitive from the Syrian camp. I no longer 
 serve in the armies of Antiochus.” 
 
 But Judas did not speak. His great 
 hands played about his sword hilt. 
 
 Beriah drew nearer. “ Do not turn 
 away from me,” he pleaded. “ I have 
 never known an hour’s peace since the day 
 I deserted the faith of my fathers. Some¬ 
 thing within me always cried out against 
 my treason. I felt myself branded a 
 coward when I saw men and women, yea, 
 even young children, suffer torture and 
 death rather than obey the king. Three 
 days ago my men brought a widow and her 
 seven sons before Antiochus. He bade 
 
 110 
 
FRIENDS 
 
 them bow to his gods and live, but they 
 would not listen to his words. He besought 
 their mother to plead with them, lest they 
 all die in torment; but she implored them to 
 die rather than forsake the Law of their 
 fathers.” He pushed back the dusty hair 
 from his forehead, the old familiar gesture 
 lashing Judas like a whip across the face. 
 “ That night I cast aside my Syrian armor; 
 I broke the sword I had taken from the 
 hand of Antiochus, and came to thee.” 
 
 Judas’s fingers had crept to the collar of 
 his tunic; he seemed to breathe with diffi¬ 
 culty. Beriah threw himself before him, 
 and tried to catch his robe. 
 
 “ Do not send me away,” he urged in 
 broken entreaty. “ I lie in shame at thy 
 feet. I am unworthy to do battle for the 
 God I have deserted and despised; I am 
 unworthy of thy brotherly trust, thy love. 
 Yet give me a place among thy men, that 
 I, too, may strike a blow for Israel and die 
 a clean man fighting for my God.” 
 
 Ill 
 
FRIENDS 
 
 Judas turned to the soldier who kept 
 watch at the door of his tent. His face had 
 grown old and weary; but he stood straight 
 and tall, nor did he glance at the crumpled 
 figure, sobbing upon the ground. “ Give 
 this man food, and allow him to rest before 
 he leaves our camp,” he said clearly, and 
 passed out into the darkness. Beriah con¬ 
 tinued to sob, for his spirit was broken. 
 
 After the battle of Beth Horon, the vic¬ 
 torious Jews found Beriah’s body among 
 their slain. The wounds were in the 
 breast; the traitor had fallen while fighting 
 for the God he had for a time denied. His 
 face wore again the smile of his boyhood, 
 and Judas the Maccabee covered his own 
 face with his hands when he saw that look. 
 “ Brother! ” he said softly, and a smile of 
 peace trembled for a moment about his 
 tired mouth. 
 
 112 
 
THE GREAT HOPE 
 
 (A Story for the Sabbath of Consolation.) 
 
 When the Roman soldiers drove the 
 wailing women and children through the 
 streets of Jerusalem, only two souls came 
 forth from the ruined home of Simon ben 
 David. The father and his three tall sons 
 had perished during the siege of the city, 
 and on the day the Temple fell the wife 
 of Simon lay dying, her new-born son at 
 her breast. So when the soldiers drove the 
 survivors forth into exile and slavery, only 
 twelve-year-old Leah left her father’s 
 house, her tiny baby brother clasped in 
 her arms. 
 
 All distinctions of rank and wealth were 
 forgotten. Leah, whose father had been 
 of a princely house, now limped wearily 
 beside Nathaniel, the young son of one of 
 his bondmen. Once Leah had been the only 
 
 113 
 
THE GREAT HOPE 
 
 daughter of a wealthy and noble family, 
 and Nathaniel had been too humble to 
 raise his eyes to her as she walked in the 
 gardens of her father’s estate; now, her 
 dainty garments soiled with the dust of 
 the road, her hair disheveled, her white 
 face pinched and drawn with hunger, she 
 W’as grateful to the young servant for his 
 care of her, and looked upon him as upon 
 a brother. 
 
 That night when the scanty food allowed 
 the captives was distributed, Nathaniel 
 managed to secure a cruse of goat’s milk, 
 and, kindling a fire, warmed the milk before 
 he brought it to Leah for her baby brother. 
 The child lay moaning faintly in his sis¬ 
 ter’s arms. She tried to warm it on her 
 breast and murmured loving words to it, 
 as she had heard the mothers of other tiny 
 children murmur when their babies were 
 restless or ill. Nathaniel sat by her side, 
 and his face was very tender as he watched 
 her. 
 
 114 
 
THE GREAT HOPE 
 
 Leah coaxed the child into drinking a 
 little of the warm milk, smiling faintly 
 when she saw him go off to sleep. 
 Nathaniel put out his arms for the little 
 one, and begged to be allowed to hold him; 
 but she shook her head. 
 
 “ Thou art so tired,” he said. “ See, 
 I have spread my cloak for thee, and since 
 we shall not leave this place until daybreak, 
 I want thee to lie down and try to sleep a 
 little. I will guard the little one and see 
 that he comes to no harm.” 
 
 But Leah would not let him touch the 
 child. “ He is all I have in the world,” 
 she answered, “ for they—the others—are 
 gone, and I shall never see them again. 
 Yea, I am more miserable than other 
 orphans, for I have no home nor country, 
 and the city of my fathers has been laid 
 waste.” Her sobs choked her as she turned 
 her eyes toward the ruins of Jerusalem, 
 grim and forsaken in the moonlight. “ Our 
 Temple lies desolate,” sobbed the girl, 
 
 115 
 
THE GREAT HOPE 
 
 “ and its golden ornaments have been pol¬ 
 luted. Would that I had died with my 
 mother, rather than live the daughter of a 
 captive and homeless race.” 
 
 She lay upon the ground now, her face 
 hidden in the cloak she had wrapped about 
 her brother. Nathaniel timidly smoothed 
 her tangled hair, and sought to comfort 
 her. 
 
 “ Weep, if thou wilt, for those whose 
 death has left you an orphan even as I 
 am,” he said, “ but do not grieve that the 
 Lord has afflicted Zion. For it is for our 
 sins, and He will not keep His anger for¬ 
 ever. Again and again have I heard my 
 father’s father say that the Lord of Israel 
 would punish His people for forgetting 
 Him and for their hardness of heart to the 
 poor and the oppressed. But my grand¬ 
 father also said that the Lord would only 
 purify us through suffering, as fine gold is 
 purified through fire—that He would 
 destroy Jerusalem, even the Temple in the 
 
 116 
 
THE GREAT HOPE 
 
 midst of her, but that some day He would 
 bring back the desolate children of Israel 
 unto their own land.” 
 
 Leah’s sobs ceased as she listened. 
 When Nathaniel had finished speaking, she 
 raised her head and answered him, her 
 voice trembling with a new hope. “ I 
 remember thy grandfather, Nathaniel. 
 My father once told me that he was a man 
 who walked with God. What thy grand¬ 
 father spoke must come to pass. Did he 
 indeed say that our Temple would be 
 rebuilt? ” 
 
 Here a woman among the captives broke 
 into loud weeping. Leah’s heart swelled 
 with pity as she listened, and suddenly she 
 clung to Nathaniel, sobbing: “ But we 
 shall not return ! How can a people broken 
 as we are ever be healed? ” 
 
 “ Nay,” answered Nathaniel, and his 
 eyes grew large with his dream. “ Nay, 
 He who destroys will also build up, said my 
 grandfather. For once he told me that on 
 
 117 
 
THE GREAT HOPE 
 
 the very day the Temple was destroyed, a 
 Messiah would be born who would some 
 day lead our people back to Zion in triumph 
 and with songs of gladness.” 
 
 “ Nathaniel,” breathed Leah, half fear¬ 
 fully, yet with a strange joy in her white 
 face, “ Nathaniel, my father was of the 
 line of David from which the kings of 
 Israel have sprung. And he, my brother, 
 was born yesterday, the very day on which 
 the Temple fell.” 
 
 They said no more, but looked at 
 each other with shining eyes. The fire 
 Nathaniel had kindled had long since died 
 out, but in the clear moonlight he saw 
 Leah’s pale face, radiant with holy joy. 
 Hardly knowing that he did so, he kissed 
 the hem of the sleeping child’s garment. 
 
 “ From this day forth thou must let me 
 serve thee and him,” whispered Nathaniel 
 in a voice that was deeply humble, yet aglow 
 with pride. “ Now lie down and sleep, 
 and I will keep watch over thee and the 
 
 118 
 
THE GREAT HOPE 
 
 little one until morning. My grandfather 
 would have died happy, had he known that 
 I would be allowed to serve the child 
 destined to become the redeemer of Israel.” 
 
 When Leah awoke, the eastern sky was 
 rosy with dawn. She turned to Nathaniel 
 who knelt upon the ground, bending over 
 her sleeping brother. A look at her com¬ 
 panion’s face told her the truth, and she 
 clung to him for comfort. 
 
 It was a long time before either of the 
 two could speak. Then Nathaniel said in 
 a broken voice: “He was so little and 
 weak—he could not live without his 
 mother. He was not chosen to lead us 
 back after all. Perhaps another child born 
 yesterday will be our Messiah—or perhaps 
 my grandfather did not know—and the 
 great king of Israel is yet to be born.” 
 
 Leah slipped from his arms, and, kiss¬ 
 ing her brother’s forehead, covered the 
 child’s face with the cloak. She turned her 
 eyes to the ruins of the Temple which the 
 
 9 
 
 119 
 
THE GREAT EIOPE 
 
 rising sun clothed in a glory of crimson and 
 gold. It was like the coronation robe of 
 a mighty king—the king who would gather 
 the outcasts of Israel and bring them back 
 to their own land. She threw back her 
 weary shoulders, and raised her head like 
 a queen; for she remembered that she was 
 of a royal line, that she came of a house 
 of priests and prophets and kings. 
 
 “ Nathaniel,” said Leah simply, “ in a 
 few years I will grow into womanhood, 
 and since I am of the house of David, per¬ 
 haps my own son will be the Messiah.” 
 
 120 
 
THE GOLDEN RING 
 
 (A Story for Lag be-'Omer.) 
 
 The spring sunshine streamed through 
 the narrow window, bathing Rachel in its 
 pleasant warmth, as she sat upon her bed, 
 her work-worn hands idly plucking at the 
 small leather bag in her lap. It was empty. 
 Until she could earn a few coins by her 
 spinning, she would have to go hungry, 
 unless she appealed for charity; and this 
 the daughter of the wealthy landowner, 
 Kalba Sabua, could not bring herself to do. 
 
 Her tired eyes fell upon the ring she 
 wore, a richly-set ornament, contrasting 
 strangely with her ragged garments. If 
 she should sell the ring to Eben the gold¬ 
 smith, she would be able to purchase food 
 for many days, even a new robe and san¬ 
 dals for herself. But she shook her head, 
 smiling a little wistfully as she recalled the 
 spring day long ago when Akiba had placed 
 
 121 
 
THE GOLDEN RING 
 
 the ring upon her finger, and she had 
 dreamed of twining the bridal wreath of 
 myrtle amid the locks of her dark hair. 
 
 She was the only child of Kalba Sabua, 
 in those days an heiress to his vast wealth, 
 and very beautiful. In those pleasant far- 
 off times many suitors sought her hand in 
 marriage, but she would not listen to their 
 wooing, for she loved Akiba who tended 
 her father’s flock upon the hills. 
 
 Yet not only was he poor, and ignorant 
 of the Law, but he was said to have uttered 
 bitter words against the teachers and sages 
 of Israel. This had grieved Rachel, and, 
 unobserved by her handmaidens, she had 
 often sought out the shepherd as he watched 
 his flock upon the hill-side, and tried to 
 awaken in his heart a love for the Law 
 which he pretended to despise. Slowly 
 there grew in Akiba’s heart a love for this 
 gentle, pious maiden, and with it a great 
 yearning to become a learned man for her 
 sake, and to wear the scholar’s crown. 
 
THE GOLDEN RING 
 
 “ But I can never become a scholar in 
 Israel,” he said sadly to Rachel, “ for I am 
 too poor to journey to the academies where 
 the Rabbis teach the Law. And why should 
 I labor for many years to win a name for 
 myself, when I am the last of my race and 
 have no kith or kin to share my glory? ” 
 
 “ But thy glory will be my glory,” Rachel 
 answered him quickly. “ Tell me, Akiba, 
 if I should become thy wife, wouldst thou, 
 out of love for me, become first a pupil, 
 and then a teacher, of the sages? ” 
 
 So they were betrothed in secret, for they 
 feared the anger of Rachel’s father, who, 
 they knew, would never accept an ignorant 
 shepherd as his son-in-law. 
 
 “ And in truth I have naught but my 
 poverty to offer thee,” sighed Akiba. “ I 
 cannot even purchase thee the ring of 
 betrothal.” 
 
 Then, laughing softly, Rachel drew from 
 her bosom a gold ring richly set with gems 
 and of a fantastic pattern. “ It was my 
 
 123 
 
THE GOLDEN RING 
 
 mother’s betrothal ring,” she said; “ my 
 dear mother, who died when I was born. 
 My father tells me that I am very much 
 like her, but that I cannot believe, for her 
 old nurse often speaks of her grace and 
 loveliness. I know that she rejoices that I 
 have found a husband, and is glad that her 
 ring will seal our betrothal.” 
 
 That very day Akiba placed the ring 
 upon her hand, and it had never left her 
 finger, not even during the trials of their 
 greatest poverty, after Rachel’s father, in 
 his anger at their marriage, had driven 
 them out into the world. They had eaten 
 bitter bread, and slept upon straw, but 
 Akiba would never permit his wife to part 
 with the betrothal ring. Even when he 
 desired to travel to the academy at Lydda, 
 Akiba had forbidden her to sell her golden 
 ornament, though he knew that he could not 
 set out on the journey with an empty purse. 
 
 Sitting upon her bed with the warm 
 spring sunshine falling about her, Rachel 
 
 124 
 
THE GOLDEN RING 
 
 recalled the day when she sold her beautiful 
 long hair for a few pieces of gold. She 
 could still remember her husband’s look of 
 glad surprise when she counted the money 
 into his hand; she could still smile to recall 
 his grief when she removed her veil and 
 he caressed her shorn head with trembling 
 hands as he whispered: “Some day, best 
 of wives, I will buy thee a golden Jerusalem 
 for thy head.* Be patient, and wait till I 
 return.” 
 
 And Rachel had waited! Her neigh¬ 
 bors had flung rude jests at her; others sym¬ 
 pathized with her loneliness and poverty, 
 and considered her a deserted wife, and 
 this was still harder to bear. No one 
 believed that Akiba would return to her, 
 and to-day even Rachel felt hope dying in 
 her heart as she sat twisting the ring upon 
 her thin, brown finger. 
 
 * A golden head-band stamped with the image of 
 Jerusalem was worn by the wealthy Jewish women 
 of that day. 
 
 125 
 
THE GOLDEN RING 
 
 She was roused from her musings by a 
 knock at the door. Upon the threshold 
 stood an old man leaning upon a staff and 
 dressed in rags. 
 
 “ Bread, my daughter,” he murmured 
 faintly, “ give me bread! ” 
 
 He tottered across the floor and fell upon 
 the bed, half-swooning from very weakness. 
 
 Rachel sprang up to help him, and then 
 stood perplexed. What had she to give 
 him ? And yet to turn away the aged man 
 was impossible for the wife of Akiba, who 
 had once given a beggar the very straw 
 from the bed on which she slept. Should 
 she go to a neighbor and beg food for the 
 starving old man? Her cheeks flamed at 
 the thought of confessing that there was 
 not a morsel of bread in the house. Yet 
 she must have food for this feeble man, 
 not only for one day but until he felt strong 
 enough to go on his way; for, since he had 
 come to her hut, Rachel felt that she, and 
 no one else, must supply all his wants. 
 
 126 
 
THE GOLDEN RING 
 
 Almost unconsciously she twirled the 
 glittering ring upon her finger. Her hus¬ 
 band had never permitted her to sell it 
 for their own needs, but she knew that he 
 would wish her to sacrifice the ornament 
 for the sake of the old man’s comfort. 
 She wavered only for a moment; then, 
 promising to return at once, Rachel left 
 her house, and hurried toward the shop of 
 Eben the goldsmith. 
 
 Out on the street, she was struck by 
 the unusual tumult in the market-place. 
 “ Why are so many gathered in front of 
 the synagogue? ” she asked a neighbor who 
 pushed past her. 
 
 “ Hast thou not heard? A famous 
 Rabbi, a new teacher in Israel, has come 
 to our town, followed by all his disciples,” 
 answered the woman. 
 
 They reached the crowd that blocked 
 the street before the synagogue. The 
 townspeople swayed and jostled each other 
 in their eagerness to catch a glimpse of the 
 
 127 
 
THE GOLDEN RING 
 
 great Rabbi who had just arrived in their 
 midst. Then there was silence as all 
 pressed forward, eager to listen to the 
 stranger’s words. 
 
 Rachel’s worn hands clasped themselves 
 upon her breast, and her parted lips 
 trembled. Surely, surely, she was dream¬ 
 ing, for she had ceased to hope ever to 
 hear Akiba’s voice again. And yet—-per¬ 
 haps—God was good to her, and, after all 
 these years of waiting, Akiba had come 
 back as a disciple of the Rabbi whom the 
 people had gathered to honor. Half fear¬ 
 fully, moving as one who dreads to break 
 her dream, Rachel slipped through the 
 crowd, her face pale and eager with the 
 prayer she dared not utter. And as she 
 looked upon the new teacher in Israel, she 
 stood swaying for a moment, for she saw 
 that he was indeed Akiba her husband, com¬ 
 ing back to her at last. Then the long 
 years of loneliness fell from her, and it 
 seemed as though he had never left her side. 
 
 128 
 
THE GOLDEN RING 
 
 Unmindful of the multitude, forgetting her 
 rags and her unloveliness, she ran to him 
 as eagerly as in the old days when he had 
 tended her father’s flock upon the hill-side. 
 
 Those standing about him were pushing 
 her aside. “Stand back, woman!” said 
 one of the disciples. But Akiba had 
 already seen her. He held out his arms to 
 her, and drew her tired head to rest upon 
 his breast. “ What I am,” he told .his dis¬ 
 ciples, “ I could never have become, if it 
 had not been for her.” 
 
 Hand in hand, silent in their great joy, 
 they walked slowly to the hut where he had 
 bidden her good-bye so many years ago. 
 It was not until they stood upon the thresh¬ 
 old that she was able to speak. “ Our ring,” 
 she murmured, withdrawing her fingers 
 from his, “ I did not sell it after all. And 
 now we can help the old man who came to 
 me for bread.” 
 
 And Akiba said: “Thanks to God, 
 beloved, we shall begin our new life 
 
 129 
 
THE GOLDEN RING 
 
 together in aiding the unhappy.” And he 
 kissed his wife. She pushed the door open. 
 
 “ Where is he? ” she asked in wonder, 
 a note of awe creeping into her voice. 
 
 For the room was empty; but on the bed 
 where the old man had rested lay a wreath 
 of fair myrtle, such as brides wear upon 
 their wedding day, and the air was sweet 
 with its fragrance. 
 
 130