"He is here, too," said my mother. "Only let him go near it, and he will at once bite the top off the citron."
"The Lord forbid!" cried my father.
"The Lord preserve us!" echoed "Reb" Henzel. And the tassels shook again. He gave father some cotton-wool into which he might nest the citron. The beautiful perfume spread into every corner of the house. The citron was wrapped up as carefully as if it had been a diamond, or a precious gem. And it was placed in a beautiful round, carved, painted and decorated wooden sugar box. The sugar was taken out, and the citron was put in instead, like a beloved guest.
"Welcome art thou, 'Reb' citron! Into the box—into the box!"
The box was carefully closed, and placed in the glass cupboard. The door was closed over on it, and good-bye!
"I am afraid the heathen"—that was meant for me—"will open the door, take out the citron, and bite its top off," said my mother. She took me by the hand, and drew me away from the cupboard.
Like a cat that has smelt butter, and jumps down from a height for it, straightens her back, goes round and round, rubbing herself against everything, looks into everybody's eyes, and licks herself—in like manner did Leibel, poor thing, go round and round the cupboard. He gazed in through the glass door, smiled at the box containing the citron, until his mother saw him, and said to his father that the young scamp wanted to get hold of the citron to bite off its top.
"To 'Cheder,' you blackguard! May you never be thought of, you scamp!"
Leibel bent his head, lowered his eyes, and went off to "Cheder."
. . . . .