One of them, a little girl, starts singing: "Our Father, our King," etc., and "On the High Mountain," etc.
Mendele shivers from head to foot.
"One does not sing, either," he says in a choked voice.
The children are silent, and go off to sleep, tired out with singing and dancing. Only the eldest opens his eyes once more and inquires of his father:
"Tate, when shall I be Bar-Mitzwah?"[118]
"Not yet, not for a long time—in another four years. You must grow and get strong."
"Then you will buy me a pair of phylacteries?"
"Of course."
"And a little bag to hold them?"
"Why, certainly!"