He looked down, his features hardening into a frown. "Anyhow, I cannot afford the time. While I loiter here I am liable to miss a customer. I must give myself entirely to my business, entirely, entirely—every bit of myself. I must forget I ever did any scribbling." "You are taking it too hard, Mr. Tevkin. One can attend to business and yet find time for writing."
All at once he brightened up bashfully and took to reciting a
Hebrew poem.
Here is the essence of it: "Since the destruction of the Temple instrumental music has been forbidden in the synagogues. The Children of Israel are in mourning. They are in exile and in mourning. Silent is their harp. So is mine. I am in exile. I am in a strange land. My harp is silent." "Is it your poem?" I asked.
He nodded bashfully
"When did you compose it?"
"A few weeks ago."
"Has it been printed?" He shook his head
"Why?"
"I could have it printed in a Hebrew weekly we publish here, but—well, I did not care to."
"You mean The Pen?"