. . . . .
My father's silver spectacles shine from the distance. The silver strands of his hair and beard are spread out on the breeze. My mother is waving her shawl at us. We two, Busie and I, remain sitting. We are like paralysed. What are my parents doing here?
They had come to see what we were doing. They were afraid some accident had befallen us—God forbid! Who could tell? A little bridge, a water, a stream, a stream, a stream! Curious father and mother.
"And where are your green boughs?"
"What green boughs?"
"The green boughs that you went to gather for the 'Shevuous' decorations."
Busie and I exchanged glances. I understood her looks. I imagined I heard her saying to me, in the words of the "Song of Songs":
"'O that thou wert as my brother!'.... Why are you not my brother?"
. . . . .
"Well, I expect we shall get some greenery for 'Shevuous' somehow," says my father with a smile. And the silver strands of his silver-white beard glisten like rays of light in the golden red of the sun. "Thank God the children are well, and that no ill has befallen them."