"I would that my Aunt Miriam used our oven," Naomi often thought, "for she bakes every day, and, oh, such good things as she makes."
Naomi's aunt kept the village inn or khan that stood just outside the city gates on one of the little hills upon which Bethlehem was built. Many travelers stopped the night at the khan and even longer, for the village lay only one mile to the right of the great road which led from Jerusalem, six miles away, to the old town of Hebron, and then down into the far-away, mysterious land of Egypt itself. Where the road from Bethlehem joined the Jerusalem highway stood the tomb of Rachel, and many a time had Naomi, loitering in the courtyard of the inn, heard pious pilgrims, fresh from the spot, tell the stories of Rachel and Jacob, and their sons Joseph and Benjamin.
Naomi's little head was packed full of the stories of the great people of her race. Ezra, eleven years old, went to school in the synagogue every day with the other boys of the village, and diligently studied the Law and the Prophets. At home, Naomi was taught by her mother, not only the care of the house, but the history of the Hebrew people, their songs, their prayers, and their hopes.
"I know ten hymns without a mistake," Naomi would boast, and by hymns she meant what we call psalms. "I can recite the Song of Deborah and the Song of Hannah. I can tell all the story about them, too, and, oh, ever so many more."
Her favorite story was that of the Naomi for whom she had been named. But this summer afternoon she was thinking of nothing save of the pretty blossoms that now swung before her after so many days of patient toil and care.
She caught sight of her mother in the doorway and eagerly called her to come and see the sight.
"Come, Mother, come," she called. "My poppies are all out, every one. Four of them in a row! See—even the smallest one that I feared would not bloom at all. There is one for each of thee: Father, Mother, Ezra, Jonas. The smallest one is for Jonas, and verily it is the prettiest one of all."
Naomi's mother came smiling down the path. She carried a water-pitcher or urn, and astride her left shoulder sat baby Jonas, steadying himself by clutching his mother's thick dark hair.
"The flowers are beautiful, Naomi," said she pleasantly. "They well repay thee for all thy patience and care. I go now to the fountain for water. It lacks but half an hour to sundown. Watch thy little brother Jonas well and keep him happy until I return."
And slipping Jonas from her shoulder to the grass, and pulling her white linen veil into place, she stepped quickly out into the village street, her urn securely balanced upon her head.