That summer he come to kind of belong to the town, the way a hill or a tree does, only lots more so. At first, folks used to call him "that Jew peddler," and circus day I heard Mis' Sykes saying we better lock up our doors during the parade, because we didn't know what "that foreigner" might take it in his head to do.
"Mis' Sykes," says I, "where were your mother and father born?"
"New York state," says she, like the right answer.
"And their folks?" I went on.
"Massachusetts," says she, like she was going to the head now sure.
"And their folks?" I continued, smooth. "Where'd they come from?"
Mis' Sykes began to wobble. "Well," says she, "there was three brothers come over together—"
"Yes," I says, "I know. There always is. Well, where'd they come from? And where'd their folks come from? Were they immigrants to America, too? Or did they just stay foreigners in England or Germany or Scandinavia or Russia, maybe?" says I. "Which was it?"
Mis' Sykes put on her most ancestral look. "You can ask the most personal questions, Calliope," she began.
"Personal," says I. "Why, I dunno. I thought that question was real universal. For all we know, it takes in a dozen nations with their blood flowing, sociable, in with yours. It's awful hard for any of us," I says, "to find a real race to be foreign to. I wouldn't bet I was foreign to no one," says I, "nor that no one was foreign, for certain, to me."