Yiddish Tales

y rain is driving down, a light, sharp, fitful wind blows, whistles, sighs, and whines, and wanders round on every side, like

uch a way that there is no seeing where the mud begins and the dwelling ends. No gleam of light, even in the windows. Either the inhabitants of the street are all asleep, resting their tired bones and aching l

or sick, but he keeps on in a straight line, at an even pace, like one born and bred and doomed to die in the familiar mud, till he drags his way to a low, crouching house at the very end of the street, almost under the hills

So late? Has there been another acciden

ll right! A h

rough, hoarse

the passage, and o

he gives a strange, wild cry, takes one leap, like a hare, onto the "eating-couch"