us, over our heads, a swarm of young swallows. And again I am reminded of the "Song of Songs" I learnt at school:

"The flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land."

I feel curiously light. I imagine I have wings, and can rise up and fly away.

. . . . .

A curious noise comes from the town, a roaring, a rushing, a tumult. In a moment the face of the world is changed for me. Our farm is a courtyard, our house is a palace. I am a prince, Busie a princess. The logs of wood that lie at our door are the cedars and firs of the "Song of Songs." The cat that is warming herself in the sun near the door is a roe, or a young hart; and the hill on the other side of the synagogue is the mountain of Lebanon. The women and the girls who are washing and scrubbing and making everything clean for the Passover are the daughters of Jerusalem.

Everything, everything is from the "Song of Songs."

I walk about with my hands in my pockets. The nuts shake and rattle. Busie walks beside me, step by step. I cannot go slowly. I am carried along. I want to fly, to soar through the air like an eagle. I let myself go. Busie follows me. I jump from one log of wood to the other. Busie jumps after me. I am up; she is up. I am down; she is down. Who will tire first? "How long is this to last?" asks Busie. And I answer her in the words of the "Song of Songs": "'Until the day break, and the shadows flee away.' Ba! Ba! Ba! You are tired, and I am not."

. . . . .

I am glad that Busie does not know what I know. And I am sorry for her. My heart aches for her. I imagine she is sorrowful. That is her nature. She is glad and joyous, and suddenly she sits down in a corner and weeps silently. My mother comforts her, and my father showers kisses on her. But, it is useless. Busie weeps until she is exhausted. For whom? For her father who died so young? Or for her mother who married again and went off without a good-bye? Ah, her mother! When one speaks of her mother to her, she turns all colours. She does not believe in her mother. She does not say an unkind word of her, but she does not believe in her. Of that I am sure. I cannot bear to see Busie weeping. I sit down beside her, and try to distract her thoughts from herself.

. . . . .

I keep my hands in my pockets, rattle my nuts, and say to her:

"Guess what I can do if I like."

"What can you do?"

"If I like, all your nuts will belong to me."

"Will you win them off me?"

"We shall not even begin to play."

"Then you will take them from me?"

"No, they will come to me of themselves."

She lifts her beautiful blue eyes to me—her beautiful, blue, "Song of Songs" eyes. I say to her:

"You think I am jesting. Little fool, I know certain magic words."

She opens her eyes still wider. I feel big. I explain myself to her, like a great man, a hero:

"We boys know everything. There is a boy at school. Sheika the blind one, we call him. He is blind of one eye. He knows everything in the world, even 'Kaballa.' Do you know what 'Kaballa' is?"

"No. How am I to know?"

I am in the seventh heaven because I can give her a lecture on "Kaballa."

"'Kaballa,' little fool, is a thing that is useful. By means of 'Kaballa' I can make myself invisible to you, whilst I can see you. By means of 'Kaballa' I can draw wine from a stone, and gold from a wall. By means of 'Kaballa' I can manage that we two shall rise up into the clouds, and even higher than the clouds."

. . . . .

To rise up in the air with Busie, by means of "Kaballa," into the clouds, and higher than the clouds, and fly with her far, far over the ocean—that was one of my best dreams. There, on the other side of the ocean, live the dwarfs who are descended from the giants of King David's time. The dwarfs who are, in reality, good-natured folks. They live on sweets and the milk of almonds, and play all day on little flutes, and dance all together in a ring, romping about. They are afraid of nothing, and are fond of strangers. When a man comes to them from our world, they give him plenty to eat and drink, dress him in the finest garments, and load him with gold and silver ornaments. Before he leaves, they fill his pockets with diamonds and rubies which are to be found in their streets like mud in ours.

"Like mud in the streets? Well!" said Busie to me when I had told her all about the dwarfs.

"Do you not believe it?"

"Do you believe it?"

"Why not?"

"Where did you hear it?"

"Where? At school."

"Ah! At school."

The sun sank lower and lower, tinting the sky with red gold. The gold was reflected in Busie's eyes. They were bathed in gold.

. . . . .

I want very much to surprise Busie with Sheika's tricks which I can imitate by means of "Kaballa." But they do not surprise her. On the contrary, I think they amuse her. Why else does she show me her pearl-white teeth? I am a little annoyed, and I say to her:

"Maybe you do not believe me?"

Busie laughs.

"Maybe you think I am boasting? Or that I am inventing lies out of my own head?"

Busie laughs louder. Oh, in that case, I must show her. I know how. I say to her:

"The thing is that you do not know what 'Kaballa' means. If you knew what 'Kaballa' was you would not laugh. By means of 'Kaballa,' if I like, I can bring your mother here. Yes, yes! And if you beg hard of me, I will bring her this very night, riding on a stick."

All at once she stops laughing. A cloud settles on her beautiful face. And I imagine that the sun has disappeared. No more sun, no more day! I am afraid I went a little too far. I had no right to pain her—to speak of her mother. I am sorry for the whole thing. I must wipe it out. I must ask her forgiveness. I creep close to her. She turns away from me. I try to take her hand. I wish to say to her in the words of the "Song of Songs": "'Return, return, O Shulamite!' Busie!" Suddenly a voice called from the house:

"Shemak! Shemak!"

I am Shemak. My mother is calling me to go to the synagogue with father.

. . . . .

To go to the synagogue with one's father on the Passover eve—is there in the world a greater pleasure than that? What is it worth to be dressed in new clothes from head to foot, and to show off before one's friends? Then the prayers themselves—the first Festival evening prayer and blessing. Ah, how many luxuries has the good God prepared for his Jewish children.

"Shemak! Shemak!"

My mother has no time.

"I am coming. I am coming in a minute. I only want to say a word to Busie—no more than a word."

I confess to Busie that I told her lies. One cannot make people fly by means of "Kaballa." One may fly one's self. And I will show her, after the Festival, how I can fly. I will rise from this same spot on the logs, before her eyes, and in a moment reach the other side of the clouds. From there, I will turn a little to the right. You see, there all things end, and one comes upon the shore of the frozen ocean.

. . . . .

Busie listens attentively. The sun is sending down its last rays, and kissing the earth.

"What is the frozen sea?" asks Busie.

"You don't know what the frozen sea is? It is a sea whose waters are thick as liver and salt as brine. No ships can ride on it. When people fall into it, they can never get out again."

Busie looks at me with big eyes.

"Why should you go there?"

"Am I going, little fool? I fly over it like an eagle. In a few minutes I shall be over the dry land and at the twelve mountains that spit fire. At the twelfth hill, at the very top, I shall come down and walk seven miles, until I come to a thick forest. I shall go in and out of the trees, until I come to a little