Yiddish Tales Part 40

He spoke for a long, long time.

They interrupted him two or three times, and reminded him that it was bad for him to talk so much. But he only signified with a gesture that they were to let him alone.

"I am getting better," he said, and went on.

At length the workmen rose from their seats.

"Let us go, Reb Shloimeh. It's getting late for us," they begged.

"True, true," he replied, "but to-morrow, do you hear? Look here, children, to-morrow!" he said, giving them his hand.

The workmen promised to come. They moved away a few steps, and then Reb Shloimeh called them back.

"And the others?" he inquired feebly, as though he were ashamed of asking.

"They were lazy, they wouldn't come," was the reply.

"Well, well," he said, in a tone that meant "Well, well, I know, you needn't say any more, but look here, to-morrow!"

"Now I am well again," he whispered as the workmen went out. He could scarcely move a limb, but he was very cheerful, looked at every one with a happy smile, and his eyes shone.

"Now I am well," he whispered when they had been obliged to put him into bed and cover him up. "Now I am well," he repeated, feeling the while that his head was strangely heavy, his heart faint, and that he was very poorly. Before many minutes he had fallen into a state of unconsciousness.

A dreadful, heartbreaking cry recalled him to himself. He opened his eyes. The room was full of people. In many eyes were tears.

"Soon, then," he thought, and began to remember something.

"What o'clock is it?" he asked of the person who stood beside him.

"Five."

"They stop work at nine," he whispered to himself, and called one of the teachers to him.

"When the workmen come, they are to let them in, do you hear!" he said.

The teacher promised.

"They will come at nine," added Reb Shloimeh.

In a little while he asked to write his will. After writing the will, he undressed and closed his eyes.

They thought he had fallen asleep, but Reb Shloimeh was not asleep. He lay and thought, not about his past life, but about the future, the future in which men would live. He thought of what man would come to be.

He pictured to himself a bright, glad world, in which all men would be equal in happiness, knowledge, and education, and his dying heart beat a little quicker, while his face expressed joy and contentment. He opened his eyes, and saw beside him a couple of teachers.

"And will it really be?" he asked and smiled.

"Yes, Reb Shloimeh," they answered, without knowing to what his question referred, for his face told them it was something good. The smile accentuated itself on his lips.

Once again he lost himself in thought.

He wanted to imagine that happy world, and see with his mind's eye nothing but happy people, educated people, and he succeeded.

The picture was not very distinct. He was imagining a great heap of happiness--happiness with a body and soul, and he felt _himself_ so happy.

A sound of lamentation disturbed him.

"Why do they weep?" he wondered. "Every one will have a good time--everyone!"

He opened his eyes; there were already lights burning. The room was packed with people. Beside him stood all his children, come together to take leave of their father.

He fixed his gaze on the little grandchildren, a gaze of love and gladness.

"_They_ will see the happy time," he thought.

He was just going to ask the people to stop lamenting, but at that moment his eye caught the workmen of the evening before.

"Come here, come here, children!" and he raised his voice a little, and made a sign with his head. People did not know what he meant. He begged them to send the workmen to him, and it was done.

He tried to sit up; those around helped him.

"Thank you--children--for coming--thank you!" he said. "Stop--weeping!"

he implored of the bystanders. "I want to die quietly--I want every one to--to--be as happy--as I am! Live, all of you, in the--hope of a--good time--as I die--in--that hope. Dear chil--dren--" and he turned to the workmen, "I told you--last night--how man has lived so far. How he lives now, you know for yourselves--but the coming time will be a very happy one: all will be happy--all! Only work honestly, and learn! Learn, children! Everything will be all right! All will be hap----"

A sweet smile appeared on his lips, and Reb Shloimeh died.

In the town they--but what else _could_ they say in the town of a man who had died without repeating the Confession, without a tremor at his heart, without any sign of repentance? What else _could_ they say of a man who spent his last minutes in telling people to learn, to educate themselves? What else _could_ they say of a man who left his whole capital to be devoted to educational purposes and schools?

What was to be expected of them, when his own family declared in court that their father was not responsible when he made his last will?

Forgive them, Reb Shloimeh, for they mean well--they know not what they say and do.

S. LIBIN

Pen name of Israel Hurewitz; born, 1872, in Gori-Gorki, Government of Mohileff (Lithuania), White Russia; a.s.sistant to a druggist at thirteen; went to London at twenty, and, after seven months there, to New York (1893); worked as capmaker; first sketch, "A Sifz vun a Arbeiterbrust"; contributor to Die Arbeiterzeitung, Das Abendblatt, Die Zukunft, Vorwarts, etc.; prolific Yiddish playwright and writer of sketches on New York Jewish life; dramas to the number of twenty-six produced on the stage; collected works, Geklibene Skizzen, 1 vol., New York, 1902, and 2 vols., New York, 1907.

A PICNIC

Ask Shmuel, the capmaker, just for a joke, if he would like to come for a picnic! He'll fly out at you as if you had invited him to a swing on the gallows. The fact is, he and his Sarah once _went_ for a picnic, and the poor man will remember it all his days.