Alexander S. Kaun
I. Gratitude
On the play-grounds. The pretty girl and I withdrew from the noisy festival to the desolate fountain. It was too hot to think, so I merely talked.
An old, ragged, grey-bearded, gibbous Jew, with a basket over his arm, was slowly approaching us.
The meaningless eyes of the pretty girl clouded.
“Peddlers are not allowed on the grounds. He must have sneaked in.”
The Jew stood at our side. He said nothing, but his timid eyes appealed.
It was too hot to think, but for a moment I thought that a waft of eternity breathed upon me from out the sad, timid eyes, and from out the folds of the soiled old coat, and from out the clotty grey beard of the descendant of Isaiah and the Maccabees.
“I shall buy some peaches, yes?”
The pretty girl twitched her little nose.