Page:Meir Ezofovitch a novel, from the Polish of Eliza Orzeszko.djvu/121

Rh "Your forefathera were moreine, 60 are your grandfather and uncles, and you, Meir, will be moreine very soon.”

Meir shook his head with a queer smile and said :

"Ismul! I shall never be moreine, they will not bestow that title upon me, and I—I do not wish for it."

Iemul thought a while, and then said hesitatingly:

"I have heard you are not on good terms with the rabhi and the Oshala."

Meir looked around as if he wanted to take in the whole picture of the sordid surroundings.

"How very poor you are," was his only answer to Ismul's remark.

His words had touched a sore spot. Ismul’s whole frame trembled and his eyes were burning.

"Ah! and how poor we are, and the poorest of all that live in this street, is the chayet (tailor) Ismul. He has a blind mother, a wife and eight children, and only two hands to support them with," and he stretched out his hands, the hands of a miserable outcast, so lean and dirty, and scarred with marks of needies and scissors. "Moreine!" he said in a low voice, bending towards the young man, "it is difficult to live, everything is so dear. We pay government taxes for the meat we eat, for the tallow-candles we burn, we pay to the funeral cluh, to the Cahala, and for these miscrable honses; where can we get the moneys from? Ii is our blood and sweat paysforit. You asked me once why it was we were #0 dirty in our house, why the wife waa looking so thin and old, though still young in years; and why the children were always ill. Moreine, we have no money to pay for 'koscher' meat, and