It was now past sunset and Levy mechanically set about building a fire to warm his aching limbs and keep off any prowling beasts while he slept. Scooping a hollow in the sand beyond the reach of the tide, he gathered dry drift wood which he finally lighted by the aid of a spark struck from two stones. He was hungry now and even more anxious for a smoke than for food; at that moment he hated the crew less for making off with the vessel in which he had had a third interest than for casting him on this deserted shore without even the solace of his evening pipe. Muttering angrily, he leaned over the fire to stir the blaze; as he did so the damp string about his neck swung free and he noticed the little lucky stone still fastened to the end.

Strangely enough, the sight of the pebble he had worn as a charm for so many years gave him courage. His bold spirit which for a little while had lain bruised and discouraged grew strong again; he felt that he was not the man to submit tamely to treachery and misfortune. He must win back all that he had lost that day, not only the stolen vessel but his self-respect. He must not allow himself beaten. Crouching by the fire, his chin resting on his clenched fists, his eyes on the flames, the boy vowed not to rest until he had defeated his enemies and secured what was his own. "I'm strong and young," he told himself, confidently, "and so far my luck has never failed me." And he fingered the little stone on the string about his neck. At last the fire died down, but there was no one to stir the dying embers, for Uriah Levy had fallen asleep upon the sands, the luck stone still clutched between his strong, brown fingers, a confident smile upon his lips.

In the days that followed, it was not an easy thing for young Levy to smile confidently in the faces of those who predicted certain failure in his undertaking. "Other merchants and commanders have suffered from pirates and mutinous crews before your day," he was informed at every turn. "Better ship again and look for better luck."

Kindly and well-meant advice, but Levy would have none of it. He still smiled, though now somewhat grimly, as he went from friend to friend, insisting that he would not fail to bring his piratical crew to justice. And so confident was he that he would eventually find a backer, that he even spent several days roaming about the wharves in order to pick out a trustworthy crew, should he find anyone willing to send him to sea on his own vessel again.

"Why, Uriah Levy," exclaimed a deep voice as a stout sailor came toward him. "You surely haven't forgotten me?"

"You're Ned Allison," said Levy after a long look had convinced him that the slender fisher boy had grown into the burly man before him. "And do you follow the sea now as you planned?"

"Yes. My poor father died two years ago. So I sent mother to live with her sister and here I am. I just hit port last week and now I'm ready to leave again as soon as I find a good berth. Just can't feel at home on dry land anymore."

Levy nodded understandingly. "Take me to a good tavern around here," he suggested. "I want to talk to you."

Allison willingly led the way to a tavern in the neighborhood much frequented by sailors, chatting lightly as they walked. Levy hardly knew him for the shy, taciturn playfellow of his boyhood. He sipped his ale slowly as he studied Ned's bright, eager face. Somehow he felt encouraged at the thought that he might induce Allison to accompany him, should he set out on what seemed to be a hopeless voyage.

"And what have you been doing?" asked Allison, pausing for breath. "The last I heard of you, you were master of the 'George Washington' and part owner. Not that you look very lively and prosperous," he added with a keen glance.

Levy briefly related the story of the mutiny and his hope to pursue and punish his mutinous crew. "And I'll do it, too," he added, passionately. "Though I suppose you, like the rest, think it's a mad venture," he ended, doubtfully.

Allison put down his mug before replying. "I can't say that I do," he answered slowly. "Though it's risking a good deal if you catch up to the dogs and they sink your ship in the scuffle. You couldn't afford that, could you?"

"I'm not thinking of the money alone," insisted Levy. "Nor of revenge; although I've been treated pretty shabbily and they'll pay for it, if I live long enough to track them down. But it's a matter of conscience with me, too, Allison. I'm going to do my share in making the sea clean of piracy. Maybe there won't be a war in our time, though they say there's trouble threatening with England, but I'll serve my country in this way at least. Want to help me?" and he leaned across the table, looking straight into Ned's eyes.

"I'd rather ship with you as master than any man I know, Sir," answered Allison, gravely.

Less than a week later, Uriah Levy succeeded in convincing several wealthy friends of the sanity of his plan. They advanced the necessary funds and with a carefully picked crew he started out on a vessel of his own with Allison as first mate in pursuit of the sailors who had cast him afloat near the Carolina shores.

Of all the tales Ned Allison loved to tell his grandchildren when he had grown to be an old man, they clamored most for the story of the sea fight in which Uriah Levy conquered the pirate crew of the "George Washington." It was a short battle, but a terrible one, which he fought a year after the mutiny; and before the mutineers finally lowered their black flag in token of surrender, a third of the crew lay dead or wounded upon the slippery decks. Old Martin, his pipe still between his teeth, lay among the dead, but Sam Jones, his right arm hanging limp and useless at his side, was among the survivors who were put into irons when their vessel was taken in tow and Levy turned his face homeward. Like the other mutineers Jones never doubted what his fate would be, for those days were hard days and the men who lived by the sword knew only too well that at any moment death by the sword might be their portion. Hourly they waited for Levy to pass judgment upon them, to hang them from the yard arm of the ship which they had sailed under the flag of piracy. While Levy's own crew grew impatient until the first mate, Allison, ventured to speak to him of the matter as they sat in Levy's cabin the night after the battle.

"I can't help wondering, sir," Allison began, doubtfully, "why you have said nothing so far concerning the fate of our prisoners, since it is practically in your hands."

Levy shook his head as he puffed thoughtfully at his pipe. Perhaps he was thinking of the night when Jones had threatened him with death and laughed at his helplessness. "According to the 'unwritten law' which is made to cover so many lawless acts, I have the power to deal with them as I think fit," he answered. "And I must confess I was sorely tempted to take the law into my own hands when I knew the mutineers were in my power. But," smiling a little, "it is much better to leave it to the law courts when we reach port."

"And if they should be acquitted?" Allison's eyes snapped with excitement. "Sir, if I were in your place——"

"If you were in my place, you might not be censured for yielding to your desire for revenge," returned Levy, very quietly. "But I—" his voice took on a tinge of bitterness, "I am a Jew and these wretches, no matter how criminal, would be pitied as the victim of a Jew's vengeance. Even in America, my dear Allison, and in spite of the liberal influence of men like Thomas Jefferson, it is not always easy to be a Jew."

The civil authorities, however, were entirely on Levy's side at the trial and the mutineers were duly tried and condemned to death. The young sailor was about to put out to sea again, for he longed for further adventure, when the outbreak of the war of 1812 set him a-dreaming once more of serving his country upon the sea. In spite of his youth, he was commissioned sailing master in the United States Navy, serving on the ship, "Alert," and later on the brig, "Argus," which ran the blockade to France, Mr. Crawford, the American minister to that country, being aboard. The "Argus" captured several English vessels, one of which was placed at Levy's command; but his triumph was short-lived; recaptured by the English, Levy and his crew were kept prisoners of war in England for over a year.

Regaining his freedom, Levy returned to America to be promoted to the rank of lieutenant. It was then that he realized how just had been his complaint to Allison, for on every hand those who were envious of his good fortune proved even more malicious because of his loyalty to his faith. Levy suffered, too, from the hatred of those naval officers who looked upon him as an intruder into their ranks. For, with the exception of a year's attendance at the Naval School in Philadelphia, he had had no naval training and had worked his way up from the ranks. Perhaps his long fight against the practise of flogging unruly sailors helped to add to the number of his enemies, for those in authority were outraged that this Jewish upstart should criticise a custom so deeply rooted in the traditions of the navy. Another man of quieter temper might have tried to combat the prejudice and hatred which met him at every turn; but Levy's nature was not a patient one. When raised to the rank of captain, he felt that he could not allow the slanders of one of his enemies to go unanswered; he challenged the Jew-hater to a duel and caused his opponent to pay for his insults with his life.

Although the duel was still recognized as an honorable means of settling a controversy between gentlemen, Levy was made to pay bitterly for his vindication. His enemies were too strong for him. He fought them bravely and with his old proud spirit, but when the trial was over, Allison still serving in the navy, read in one of the newspapers that his old master had been court-martialed and dropped from the roll of the United States Navy as captain.

"I knew they'd get him," thought the honest seaman. "Ah, he was too good for them and now they put him to shame. I couldn't blame him if he turned against his country when he's treated so after all his services. And I wonder what'll happen to him if he doesn't follow the sea."

Allison was right in suspecting that his old playmate would turn in his trouble to the sea as a child when hurt or tired runs to its mother for comfort. Glad of an offer to take charge of an important business commission in Brazil, Levy left the United States, hoping that the long sea voyage might do a little toward easing the pain in his heart. But he found that he had been mistaken, although no one ever knew how deeply he suffered from the moment he left the land he had sought to serve from his boyhood. Disgraced by his country, tired and broken in spirit, he spent endless hours in brooding over his misfortune. No longer the commander of his men, not even a common seaman, he spent the long days on board leaning upon the rail, looking with somber eyes upon the waves. His proud heart was bitter against those who had goaded him on to his ruin; he felt that there was no justice for the Jew in the whole world, not even in America. Although he had already set the wheels in motion for a new trial, he was confident that his enemies would again prove too powerful for him. It was a hopeless and a heartsick man who landed at last and began his new duties at the Brazilian Capital.

Several days after his arrival, Uriah P. Levy stood by the window of his room reading a letter, his brows knitted in thought. The note was written on the royal stationery and requested him to appear the next morning for an audience with Emperor Dom Pedro. Levy could think of but one reason for such a strange command. Perhaps the slanders of his enemies had preceded him even to this far-off place; perhaps he was already under suspicion and the audience with the emperor might lead to imprisonment or ejection from the country. The thought of new difficulties to encounter wakened his fighting spirit; he was strangely elated and the dreadful langor which had seized him during his journey disappeared.

"I am ready for another good fight," he told himself grimly as he prepared for bed. That night for the first time since his court-martial he slept the long hours through, and he rested as peacefully as a little child.

Dressing himself with his usual care and holding his head as proudly as though he still wore his country's uniform, Levy appeared at the palace and was immediately ushered into the emperor's presence. His quick eyes, long trained to notice the smallest detail, quickly took in every feature of the richly appointed room, noting even the fantastic carving of the chair on which the emperor sat, and one of the rings he wore, a flat green emerald with a mystic letter carved upon it making the jewel, so he judged, a sort of talisman. He smiled in spite of himself as he remembered his own humble charm, the lucky stone. Perhaps the pebble's usefulness was over; he could hardly call his career especially fortunate just now.

Emperor Dom Pedro was a man of a few words. He murmured a few polite phrases of greeting, asked Levy of his voyage and whether he had completed the mission which had brought him to Brazil. "For if you have," he ended, "I may have matters of interest to discuss with you."

"I am not quite finished with the business which brought me here," answered Levy, "but naturally I am honored by your majesty's request to appear before you and not a little eager to learn what matters you may care to discuss with me."

The emperor twirled the ring with its strange green stone about his finger. "I have heard much of you," he returned, briefly, "and I need men of your daring and enterprise in my service. Will you take an important commission under the Brazilian government?"

For a moment Levy wavered. Already an exile in spirit, he felt he did not have the courage to return to his native country. Here was an opportunity for an honorable career which would bring him position, wealth, all the excitement his daring heart desired. Then, curiously enough, as he gazed at the emperor's ring, there flashed across his mind the picture of a brown-faced boy upon the sands, a boy turning a lucky stone in his fingers as he dreamed of a glorious career in the country of his birth. He turned to the emperor and spoke quietly, but with his characteristic decision.

"Your majesty," said Uriah Levy, "I thank you. But the humblest position in my country's service is more to be preferred than royal favor." And bowing before Dom Pedro, he left the court.

Nor was Levy's trust in the justice of his country unfounded. Just as he had persisted in bringing his mutinous crew to punishment, now he showed the same determination in insisting that a court of inquiry be established to question the justice of his court-martial. He prepared his own defense—merely a statement of his record while in the service of his country—a record that won his complete and honorable acquittal. Not only was he restored to his old rank in the United States Navy, but shortly afterwards he rose to the advanced rank of commodore.

When the Civil War broke out he was holding the position of flag officer, the highest rank in our navy at that time. The years had been kind to the little cabin boy and his private inheritance had grown into a considerable fortune. He had already purchased Monticello, the home of his old idol, Thomas Jefferson, intending to preserve it as a national shrine, and had presented a statue of the author of our Declaration of Independence to the nation's Hall of Fame. Now he felt that there was but one cause to which he cared to devote his wealth; he sought an interview with President Lincoln and placed his entire private fortune at the nation's disposal.

A few days later, his boyhood friend, Ned Allison, now crippled with rheumatism but with a laugh as hearty and boyish as of old, visited his former master. He found Uriah Levy grown frail and listless, the fires of his youth beginning to burn low as he neared his seventieth year. To be sure the commodore tried to rouse himself, asking after Ned's children, and even laughing feebly at the latter's account of his youngest grandson, "named Uriah Levy Allison, after you, sir," who now toddled along the beach where the two boys had searched among the pebbles so long ago.

"We didn't know we'd live to see two wars, did we, sir," mused Allison, "when we were just lads playing before my father's shack. Well, even if we're past our prime now, they can't say we didn't do our part back in 1812," and he chuckled a little in his pride.

But Levy's eyes were sad. "We have lived a little too long, Allison," he said, gravely but without bitterness. "When this war broke out I tried to help once more. But my offer of my entire fortune—and it was little enough to offer my country—has been refused, although I am allowed to subscribe to the war loan. Yet money means so little in a time like this. Whenever I hear the call for volunteers, I am like the old war horse that is turned out to grass. I am an old man now, nearly seventy, and must sit at home by the fire. But it hurts a little, Allison; it hurts a little."

For a while there was silence between them. When Allison rose to go, Levy followed him to the door, stopping a moment at the drawer of his desk to wrap a small package which he thrust into his old friend's hand.

"'Tis for the boy, my name-sake," he explained. "The money will buy him some toy—maybe a small vessel to sail when the tide is low—and the other—," he laughed a little confusedly. "I found the trifle among some old keepsakes and papers the other day when I put my affairs in order. Give it to the boy and tell him of the day we found it. And come again soon, Allison, and talk over old times."

Out in the street, Ned Allison removed the wrappings from the little package. It contained a gold piece and a lucky stone with a bit of soiled string still fastened through one of the holes.



THE PRINCESS OF PHILADELPHIA

The Story of Rebecca Gratz and Washington Irving.

The spring rain fell on the roof with a gentle murmur, tinkling merrily as though it were pleased to hear the happy laughter of the children playing in the garret of Michael Gratz's house in Philadelphia. Six children romped there that Saturday afternoon in early springtime, away back in the year 1712, Rebecca Gratz, her younger brothers and sister and the one guest she had invited to her eleventh birthday party, Matilda Hoffman, a girl about her own age, whose fair long braids formed a striking contrast to Rebecca's dusky curls.

Just now the merriment was at its height for Rebecca, aided by Matilda, was setting the table, while nine-year-old Rachel tried to amuse baby Benjamin who was making violent efforts to nibble at the trimmings of the birthday cake. Joseph and Jacob, fine sturdy fellows of seven and six, had found a pair of fencing foils in one of the old trunks in the corner and were engaged in a lively duel, displaying such recklessness that had their mother seen them she would have confiscated the weapons without delay. Perhaps Rebecca would have stopped this dangerous play had she not been too busy with the banquet-table—really a board placed upon two barrels and covered with a gay red scarf Rachel had found with the fencing foils.

"It does look nice," she admitted, viewing her efforts with her head on one side as Matilda poured out the last glass of gooseberry wine and set it in its place. "Only," with a little sigh, "I do wish my birthday hadn't come today so we could have had candles instead of those wax roses on the cake."

"Why couldn't you?" Matilda asked curiously.

"It isn't right for people to light birthday candles on Shabbas," explained Rachel. "Jewish people, I mean," she qualified as she tied a napkin around Benjamin's fat neck and deposited him in a seat at the table furtherest from the birthday cake. "But it's different for you 'cause you're not Jewish."

"It's queer people are all different and go to different churches," puzzled Matilda. "My mamma says——"

But no one ever heard her mother's opinion on the subject, for Joseph and Jacob on seeing Rebecca take her place at the head of the table raced to their seats with howls like hungry Indians at dinner time. For a few minutes the children's noisy tongues were hushed as the little hostess passed out sandwiches and jelly tarts. But when all the plates were empty to the last crumb and only the birthday cake remained in solitary splendor, just beyond the reach of Benjamin's greedy fingers, Joseph remarked with a satisfied sigh:

"This was just like one of those king's dinners in the fairy books. Like the banquet Esther gave the king at Purim."

"I wish it was Purim again," observed Jacob, who, seeing that the pitcher was empty, began to wish that he had drunk his second glass of gooseberry wine a little more slowly. "Don't you remember last Purim, Becky, how you wore mother's old black silk and played you were Queen Esther? But Joe and Hyman took all the good parts and wouldn't let me be a king or anything."

"We don't have to wait till Purim to dress up and play king and queen," Rebecca told him, her brows knit in her effort to divide the pink and white cake into six slices of equal thickness. "As soon as we've finished our cake, we'll look through those old trunks over there. There're ever so many dresses and things from Austria and an Indian blanket and beads and such things and I know mother wouldn't care if we played with them as long as we put 'em all back again."

Joseph sprang up, his piece of frosted cake in his hand. "I want the Indian stuff," he cried.

"And I'll shoot you with my gun," challenged Jacob, pushing Rachel away from the trunk. "You're so slow, Rachel, we'll never get anything out."

The other children followed, all but little Benjamin. Benjamin was still too young to be interested in the game of "dressing up." So he toddled about the deserted table, picking stray crumbs from the plates and turning over the empty glasses in the hope of finding a few drops of gooseberry wine.

Strange, isn't it, that no matter how long it takes to get ready for breakfast, the slowest boy or girl can button himself into a make-believe outfit in the twinkling of an eye. In an incredibly short time, the five youngsters were dressed, each to satisfy his own peculiar taste: Joseph as an Indian in blanket and beads, with a crimson band about his head; Jacob, carrying a sword, wore a moth-eaten smoking jacket, a bright sash and crimson Turkish turban; Rachel and Matilda were two dainty ladies in full skirts of blue and pink, with deep bonnets; while Rebecca was rather splendid in a yellow silk wrapper, a long veil fastened about her head with a string of pearl beads she had found in the treasure trunk. Laughing merrily, they all raced to the long mirror which stood at the other end of the garret; though cracked and discolored they were able to distinguish the gaily clad figures within its mottled depths, more like the quaint images of an old tapestry than happy, romping children at play. Then they scattered to their own games, the boys to stage an exciting battle between a red skin and a gallant soldier, the little girls to comfort Benjamin, who, having cleared the table, began to howl dismally that he wanted to get "dwessed, too!"

Laughing at his earnestness, the girls dressed him in a bright dressing gown striped in red and yellow, even providing him with a cane "for a gun like brother's." Then, the boys having grown tired of their Indian warfare, the entire company began a gay game of blind man's buff which ended somewhat abruptly as it was easy to tell at a touch just who was "caught" by the peculiar costume he wore.

"Ball—play ball," suggested little Benjamin, wandering from the open trunk, a small crystal ball in his hand.

"What is it?" asked Joseph, taking it curiously, "a paper weight or——"

"I know," cried Matilda, as she examined the crystal globe. "My aunt has one just like it—she got it from London. You do crystal gazing in it."

"Crystal gazing?" Rebecca was frankly puzzled.

"Yes. She showed me how to do it. You just sit with the ball in front of you and look into it for a long time and don't think of anything else and all of a sudden you see pictures; that's what aunt said."

"What kind of pictures?" Joseph demanded.

"Pictures of what's going to happen. You see just what you're going to do when you grow up."

"I don't believe that nonsense," declared Rebecca, with an emphatic shake of her dark curls. "Father says it's all foolishness—like believing what a gypsy fortune-teller promises you."

"Well, let's try it, anyhow," suggested Rachel. "It won't do any harm and it'll give us something to do till the rain's over and we can go out and play again."

The crystal ball placed upon the table, the five dark and the one flaxen head bent over it eagerly. "But we'll never see anything this way," corrected Matilda. "It's Rebecca's party, so let her have the ball first. No one else must look or say a single word till she's seen her picture."

Cheeks flushed with excitement, shining dark eyes fastened upon the crystal, Rebecca sat motionless, scarcely daring to breathe as she waited for the picture of her future to appear in the glass. The others clustered about her, expectant and silent. At last she shook her head and pushed the ball aside. "I can't see a single thing," she complained.

"But I want to try it," declared Jacob, reaching for the crystal. "Now all keep quiet and maybe I'll see something, even if Becky couldn't."

Again patient waiting until Jacob got up in disgust. "It's a silly game," he jeered. "Maybe your aunt could see things in an old glass ball, but nobody else can."

"It's more fun just playing 'pretend'," declared his sister Rachel. "Let's do it." She flung herself upon an old fur rug near the window, pulling Benjamin down beside her. "We'll just sit in a circle and pretend we've looked in the glass ball and it told us just what we were going to do when we grow up. I want to tell my fortune first," she ended importantly.

"That's a silly girl game," objected Jacob; but, tired of romping, he, too, threw himself upon the rug and waited with the rest of the circle for Rachel to disclose her future.

"When I'm grown up," began Rachel very slowly, her eyes fixed on the trees beyond the window, dripping with rain, "I'm going to be very beautiful like Miss Franks in New York used to be, and go to parties and balls every single night and have all the officers in the army writing poetry about me and making toasts for me, just as she did. And I'll always wear pink silk," she concluded, with a glance at her rosy ruffles.

"I should think you'd get awfully tired of balls every night," observed Matilda. "I'd much rather be like my governess. She isn't pretty at all but she knows just everything and she writes verses, too. When I grow up, I'm going to write a whole book and everybody will say how smart I am." She spoke very seriously and the others looked at their ambitious little friend respectfully. Happy children as they were, they could not read the future and see that Matilda Hoffman, although one of the most accomplished young women of her time, would never write the wonderful book of which she dreamed. Nor could they guess that instead her lovely life would be an inspiration to a writer whose books every American would come to know and cherish.

"And I'm going 'way west to the lands father's just bought," declared Jacob, "and live with the Indians and wear a blanket and go hunting all the time."

"And I'm going with you," piped Benjamin, not understanding what the game was about, but determined not to lose any of the fun. Though something of that afternoon's pretending came to pass for him, for when a man he actually sought what was then the far western territory of Kentucky and became one of the leading citizens of Lexington.

"Well, I'm going to be a merchant like father," Joseph spoke with his usual grave determination, never dreaming of the day when he would become a senator. "And what are you going to do, Becky?"

Rebecca considered for a moment. Although older than the others, this child's play was very fascinating to her. "The other day," she said slowly, "I had the legend of St. Elizabeth for my French lesson. I think I'd like to be just like her when I grow up."

"Was she beautiful and everything like that?" asked Rachel.

"I suppose so." Rebecca's voice had grown rather dreamy. "The ladies in stories always are beautiful, aren't they? But I liked her because she went about doing good among the poor peasants, even if her mean husband wanted her to stay at home."

"Did he ever find out?" asked Jacob.

"Once he thought he did." Rebecca smiled at the recollection. "She was going through the castle courtyard with a basket on her arm and some one told him she was taking bread to the poor people. He was very angry and ran after her and asked her what was underneath the napkin on her basket. You can just imagine how frightened she was!"

"Did she tell him?" Matilda wanted to know.

"I suppose she was so frightened she just didn't know she was telling a lie," Rebecca excused her heroine, "and before she knew what she was saying, she told her husband that she was carrying roses. And it was in the middle of the winter, too! And when he snatched the napkin off the basket—" the story teller paused impressively, "what do you suppose he found there?"

"Bread," chorused her listeners.

"No!" Rebecca shook her curls. "Because she was so good, God saved her from telling a lie and her basket was filled with beautiful red roses. And when her husband saw how much God thought of her, he became good, too, and tried to help Elizabeth care for all the poor people in the country."

"She must have been very rich to help so many poor people," observed Joseph.

"Oh, she was a real princess and I guess all princesses have plenty of money," answered his sister easily.

"Then you can be just like her, if you want to," the admiring Matilda assured her. "Your papa's one of the richest men in Philadelphia, I guess, and you're beautiful like Elizabeth and with that long veil and those pearls you look just like a real princess this minute, doesn't she, Rachel?"

"Let's play the princess in the tower?" cried Joseph, springing up, already weary of the game. "Becky, you get on top of that trunk and we'll put chairs around it and play it's a high tower and Jacob and I will be princes and come and rescue you and take you away on our horses—the way they did in the fairy book you read us the other day."

"But what'll we be?" cried Rachel and Matilda together.

"You can be her ladies-in-waiting or something," Joseph decided, "and Benjamin can be our page and hold our horses while we climb into the tower." He straddled one of the fencing foils and pranced across the room. "A rescue!" he called shrilly to his brothers, "a rescue for the lovely Princess Rebecca."

Hyman Gratz, Rebecca's sixteen-year-old brother, entering the room at that moment, smiled at their sport. Swinging Benjamin to his shoulder he advanced toward the tower which sheltered the three lovely ladies and pulled Rebecca's face down to his for a kiss. "Having a happy birthday?" he asked.

"Just splendid." Rebecca's eyes danced with happiness. "We're playing the princess in the tower and I'm the princess."

Hyman, his face suddenly grave, looked over the happy, dancing figures in their fantastic dresses. Although he did not know why, he wished at that moment that the children playing in the old attic need never grow up, but might always be carefree and laughing in their idle games. His eyes lingered longest on Rebecca, such a dainty little princess in her yellow silk and pearls and he sighted a little. But all he said was: "If I were you youngsters, I'd play in the garden. The rain's all over and there's a fine rainbow just behind the old chestnut tree."

* * * * *

Washington Irving sat crouched in one of the great arm chairs of the drawing room in Mr. Gratz's house in Philadelphia. His elbow on his knee, he sat with his hand shading his face, his eyes seeking the floor. When Rebecca Gratz entered the room, he seemed about to rise, but with a gesture she urged him to remain seated and took a chair beside him. For a long time they sat there in silence, Rebecca's hands twisting a small package that lay in her lap, her face pale and tired, her dark eyes filled with tears.

Sitting there with the soft candle light falling upon her simple blue dress and white arms, she made a picture which young Irving would have appreciated at any other moment. The slim little princess of the nursery had grown into a graceful young girl of gracious, yet dignified bearing, her abundant hair brushed simply back from her forehead, the gravity of her sweet face increased by the earnestness that never left her large dark eyes, even when she smiled. For even in her gayest moments there was always a hint of gentle gravity about Rebecca Gratz; tonight, when utterly exhausted from watching at the deathbed of her childhood friend, Matilda Hoffman, she looked like a beautiful graven image of Sorrow.

At last Rebecca spoke, her low voice tremulous with tears: "The end was very easy—God was good to her at the last. And I do not think she suffered much lately. Matilda just seemed to fade away, not like one ill, but very tired. She often spoke of you when we were together; that is why I asked brother Hyman to send for you. I thought you would like to hear it all from me."

The young man in the arm chair shifted a little. "Yes, I would like to hear everything from you," he answered, not trusting himself to meet her eyes.

Simply, tenderly, Rebecca told young Irving of the last illness of the young girl whom he had hoped to marry. Now and then her voice broke, for she had loved Matilda Hoffman dearly; but she went bravely on until the end, when she placed the little package in Irving's hand. "She said I was to give you this," she told him, and looked away while he opened the cord with fingers that trembled a little.

The tokens that Washington Irving now gazed upon with tear-dimmed eyes and which were never to leave his possession during all the years when he was to acquire fame and wealth as America's leading author were a little prayer book and Bible. Between the pages of the latter the dead girl had placed a lock of her bright hair; as he raised the worn little book several faded rose leaves fell upon the carpet.

"I pressed one of the roses from her coffin for you," Rebecca told him. "I did not think it would fade so soon."

There was a long silence between them, then, the two books pressed again his cheek, the young man burst into a fit of passionate weeping. "It was not right," he cried fiercely. "She was so good and beautiful and young. And we would have been so happy together. It was not right that she should die."

"I know—I loved her, too," said Rebecca gently.

He turned upon her almost angrily. "You can never know. I was her lover; you were only her friend."

"'The heart knoweth its own bitterness'," quoted the girl softly.

But Irving impatiently shook off the pitying hand she had dropped upon his arm, "What do you know of sorrow?" he demanded. "You have everything your heart can desire; wealth, youth, beauty, friends—I have no one."

"And with all my gifts I am more unhappy than you," Rebecca persisted. "For I have not even the memory of a happy friendship and love like yours to bring me comfort now."

For a moment Irving forgot his own grief. "I do not understand," he murmured.

She smiled sadly. "You will not repeat this, I know," she told him quietly. "Only my own family know, but you have been such a close friend of my brother's that my secret is safe with you. I have loved—and been loved—by a young man who was all my parents could desire for me. But last month he went away and I shall never see him again."

For the first time that evening Irving's eyes met hers. The girl's glance was sad but very brave. "I do not understand," he repeated.

Again she smiled sadly. "You know how liberal my family have always been in their religious opinions. We have always mingled freely with non-Jews; Matilda, although not a Jewess, was my dearest friend. In fact, a number of my relatives have married outside our faith." She broke off a moment. "The young man was not a Jew," she said slowly. "He loved his religion as well as I did mine. It was very hard to have him go away." She leaned toward Washington Irving and lightly touched the two little books she had given him. "You have lost your joy, too," she said, and now her clear tones trembled a little. "Neither of us can ever be very happy again. We will both be so lonely sometimes, that I think we must learn to be very good friends, don't you?" And Irving pressed her hand in silence.

It was a more portly Irving, the Irving with the bright eyes and kindly smile which we have learned to associate with the author of "Rip Van Winkle" and "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow," that waited for Rebecca Gratz in the drawing room of her father's home about ten years later. Since the death of Matilda Hoffman, he had grown to be a very close friend of the Gratz family, never failing when in Philadelphia to visit their home where he might "roost," as he put it, in the large, comfortable guest room. He had never referred to his intimate conversation with Rebecca when she had tried to comfort him after Matilda's death; yet their mutual grief and confidence had created a strong bond between them, and when Irving returned from an extended trip abroad, he welcomed the opportunity of going to Philadelphia to see his latest book through the press. For he longed to visit Miss Gratz, who, so the home letters had informed him, had grown to be a famous beauty and belle during his absence.

She came into the room with her swaying, graceful carriage of old days, but with a new dignity and reserve of manner, carrying her lovely head with just a little more pride than in her girlhood, greeting Irving, for all her warm friendliness, like a young queen graciously ready to accept homage from her subjects. She sank into a low chair beside the fire, the flames casting a warm glow over her arms and neck from which her gold colored scarf had slipped at her entrance. Irving thought of another night ten years ago when she had sat in that very chair with the candle light falling upon her blue draperies. Then she had been a lovely girl just on the threshold of life; now she was a cultured, well-poised woman of the world, crowned by virtue of her beauty and position as the ruler of the society in which she moved. He sighed a little and suddenly felt that he was growing old. For a while they spoke of what had occurred during Irving's absence from America, the countries the young author had visited, the great men he had met on his travels. Finally he told her of his visit to Sir Walter Scott, "days of solid enchantment," he described them, from the moment when the famous author had limped down to the gate of his estate in Scotland to welcome him, his favorite stag hound leaping about him, as he grasped his guest's hand.

"We spent much of our time in long rambles over the hills," Irving continued, "Scott telling me legends of the countryside as only he could tell them. And in the evenings we would sit like medieval barons before the blazing logs in the great dim hall at Abbotsford and there would be more stories and confidences until long after midnight. Ah, Rebecca, it was worth a trip across the Atlantic, just to touch his hand."

She leaned toward him, her eyes sparkling. "How I would like to know him—not only his books, which I love so much, but the real man in his home," she cried.

Irving smiled mysteriously. "You may not know him, but he knows you well, my lady. I told him of my American friends, your brother Hyman among them, and, surely, I could not omit you, another heroine to hang in his gallery of fair ladies of romance."

Rebecca shook her head, smilingly. "But I am not a heroine nor a lady of romance," she protested.

"Scott seemed to think you were," Irving insisted. "I told him of your beauty, your goodness—well, you can't deny them," as she raised a protesting hand, "and your loyalty to your people. He had not finished his novel, 'Rob Roy,' then, but he told me he was eager to write a new romance, with the adventures of a lovely Jewess named Rebecca to form the silver thread of the story. He has written me from time to time," went on Irving, as Rebecca smiled a little incredulously, "to tell me how the work progressed. Much of the romance was dictated when Scott lay on a couch too ill to write. He tells me that his two secretaries grew to love the heroine, Rebecca, as much as he did, and that once one of them grew so impatient to hear what became of her, that he looked up from his manuscript and cried: 'That is fine, Mr. Scott—get on—get on!'"

"And did Mr. Scott finally 'get on' and finish his book with a Jewish heroine?" laughed Rebecca.

Irving reached toward the table and handed her a package he had placed there. She broke the string curiously, a slow flush mounting her cheek as she saw the volume, the first to be read by an American, but now in every library in the land. "'Ivanhoe'," she read the tide, softly, "but, surely, I am not in the story."

"He sent me this letter with the volume," answered Irving, drawing a sheet of folded taper from between the pages. "I brought it with me because I knew it would interest you."

And Rebecca, flushing over one of the most beautiful compliments ever paid an American girl, read: "How do you like my Rebecca? Does the Rebecca I have pictured compare well with the pattern given?" She folded the paper and slipped it back between the pages. "But, surely, I am not in the story," she repeated. "I am not a lady of romance, not a real princess since the days little Matilda and Rachel and I used to dress up and pretend we lived in a fairy tale."

Irving's merry eyes softened at mention of their dead friend. Then: "You are more like a lady of romance than any woman I have ever known," he declared stoutly, "and I have met some of the greatest ladies of all Europe. But none of them seemed half so much a queen as you. No, I am not flattering you, Rebecca. Hasn't your brother written me of all your triumphs in society, here in Philadelphia, when he took you to Saratoga Springs, when you visited your brother in Lexington and were treated like a real princess by everyone who met you from Henry Clay down to the negro slaves?"

"Oh, that—" Rebecca shrugged a little disdainfully. "I hope the Lady Rebecca in 'Ivanhoe' does something worth while."

"She heals the sick and comforts the suffering; she is a great lady in the real sense of the word; lady, a loaf-giver," answered Irving. "Just as you are," he concluded, warmly.

"What else is there for me to do?" said Rebecca. "I shall never build a home of my own or have little ones to love and care for. So I am glad to use my wealth and leisure in building other homes, in being something of a mother to the little orphans of our city."

"No matter whether they are Jew or Gentile," added Washington Irving who had heard much of her many charities.

"We have all one Father," she reminded him, gently. "But, really, I do not do half that I would. I am not a St. Elizabeth and no miracles are wrought for me," and she smiled a little at her childish admiration of the generous lady. "So I am half afraid to read what you have brought me," indicating the volume, "for I know I shall be found wanting when I am cast in the scale with the lovely Lady Rebecca."

"No, indeed! She is all that a princess in romance should be, but I prefer our own Princess of Philadelphia," answered Washington Irving, gallantly.

The Princess of Philadelphia, as the great author often called her, half in jest, half in earnest, lived to be very old, surviving many members of her family, and the brilliant circle over which she had long reigned as a queen. But she was not too lonely; the young girls whom she guided as an older sister, the orphan children who found in her a second mother, countless unfortunates, some of them needing gold, others a word of hope and comfort, became her subjects and enthroned her in their grateful hearts. Her life, after all, was a placid one. Unlike the Rebecca of the romance, she never experienced thrilling adventures; no duels were fought in her names; no gallant knights sought to save her from her enemies. Yet even when her marvellous beauty faded and her glossy hair became threaded with gray, she remained as youthful as any princess in a fairy tale, for she never grew old at heart. And little children, divining the youth in her soul, always felt that she was one of them.

It happened one day that Rebecca Gratz visited the Hebrew School she had founded in Philadelphia, the forerunner of our modern Jewish Sabbath School and the first institution of its kind in America. She had not only donated large sums of money for its support, but had helped to select and plan text books for the students, even writing some of the daily prayers to be used by the little Jewish children of her native city. It was her birthday—the seventy-fifth—and as the gentle-faced old lady passed down the quiet corridors, she thought half-tenderly, half-sadly of the birthday party in the garret so many years ago. What silly things children dream! she thought with a smile. Matilda had written no wise books and her adventure-loving brother had never lived with the Indians. For herself—well, she was not really a princess as Matilda had declared she ought to be, but like the Princess Elizabeth she had been allowed to go about doing good among the people.

A sound of stiffled sobbing reached her ear. Turning, she saw a little girl curled up in one of the low window sills, an open book on her lap. Rebecca Gratz hurried to her and slipped a comforting arm about the shaking shoulders.

"Tell me what is the matter?" she whispered.

The child raised a wet face. "Oh, it's you, Miss Gratz," she exclaimed. "I know I'm just as silly, but I can't help it. I came to the sad part of the book where they want to burn 'Rebecca' for a witch and I just couldn't help crying. Though I know it's going to come out all right in the end," she added, wiping her eyes, "'cause story books always do."

"Yes, story books do, even if real people's stories don't always end happily," agreed Miss Gratz, sitting beside her. "Do you like the book, Helen?"

"Ever so much, Miss Gratz. Miss Cohen, my teacher, lent it to me. And what do you suppose she said?" She hesitated a moment, then, encouraged by the kind eyes looking down into hers, added bashfully: "Miss Cohen said, 'You ought to enjoy 'Ivanhoe,' Helen, because a great many people think the character of Rebecca was taken from our Miss Gratz.' Is that really true?" she ended, shyly.

Miss Gratz laughed as gayly as a child. "I mustn't tell," she teased. "Only it doesn't seem likely, does it? The Rebecca in the story wears pearls and veils every day and is imprisoned in a dungeon and goes to the tournament. While I am just a plain old lady in a bonnet and shawl and never do anything more exciting than visit your Hebrew classes. So it's not likely Rebecca in the story and I are the same person, is it?"

Helen considered a moment, her eyes fastened upon Miss Gratz's face. When she spoke it was in a tone of deep conviction. "Maybe Miss Cohen wasn't exactly right," she admitted, "but even if you're not a real princess, and all that, you're just as sweet and good as Rebecca in the story book, anyhow."



A PRESENT FOR MR. LINCOLN

How President Lincoln Set Out for Washington and How He Returned.

Little Morris Rosenfelt stirred uneasily on the hard bench as he tried in vain to concentrate his wandering thoughts on his Hebrew lesson. It happened to be all about the building of the Tabernacle in the wilderness, but Morris was not at all interested in Bezalel, the artist of old, who built the first sanctuary for his people. Instead, although his eyes were fastened to the coarse black characters in the page before him, the boy was living over again the scene that had passed in the parlor of his father's house, the night before.

Mr. Abraham Kohn, city clerk of Chicago, had dropped in to talk over congregational matters with Morris's father, for Mr. Kohn was one of the early presidents of Kehilath Anshe Ma'arav, Chicago's first synagogue, and one of its most active members. Morris, busy in the next room with his lessons for the next day, had paid scant attention to their conversation, until the words, "Mr. Lincoln," and "flag" caught his ear. Then he closed his geography with a slam, for like every other nine-year-old boy of his day, he had heard much of the "rail splitter from Illinois," as his opponents called him, and shared his state's enthusiasm for the man who had just been elected president.

"I'm glad we Jews did our part in electing him," said Mr. Kohn. "He will make a strong president in these uncertain times; perhaps, the only man who can keep this country out of civil war if the southern states attempt to secede."

"They'll not fight, especially as Mr. Lincoln has promised not to interfere with slavery in the states where it now exists," Mr. Rosenfelt answered easily. He was a stout, cheerful man who refused to borrow trouble, very unlike Morris's mother who always saw sorrow and accident for her family hovering in the near future. "With a strong man like Mr. Lincoln in Washington, we can stop worrying for a while."

"I hope so." Mr. Kohn's voice was a little doubtful. "I hate to predict trouble, but I do believe that our candidate is going to have a harder row to plough than any president we ever had since Washington. I was thinking of that when I had the verses printed on the flag I am going to send him."

"Oh, are you going to send Mr. Lincoln a flag?" cried Morris, forgetting he was not supposed to be listening.

His father shook his head and ordered the boy to attend to his lessons. "His reports are worse every month," he told Mr. Kohn. "Rabbi Adler tells me he is a good boy, but that doesn't raise his marks in Hebrew and arithmetic and history, and his mother——"

"But I don't like history about dead people," objected the boy. "Now Mr. Lincoln's alive—and he's history, too, isn't he?"

"The boy's right," laughed Mr. Kohn. "Come in here, Morris, if your father'll let you, and I'll tell you all about the flag I'm sending Mr. Lincoln next week before he leaves his home in Springfield for Washington." Morris, needing no second invitation, gladly deserted his books and slipped into the parlor, curling up in one corner of the horsehair sofa as he attempted to be as little in the way as possible. For he didn't want his mother, should she happen to come into the room, to send him back to his lessons again.

"It is a large American flag," explained Mr. Kohn, "woven of the finest silk. And across it I've had inscribed in Hebrew the command given to Joshua when he took command of the Israelites after the death of Moses." He turned to Morris, a teasing twinkle in his eyes. "I suppose you can tell your father what that was," he said, very seriously. "What?" as Morris, really embarrassed, shook his head. "I thought you really learned more in Rabbi Adler's school. Suppose you get your Bible and show us how well you can translate the passage."

Doubtful of his skill as translator, but sure that kindly Mr. Kohn who had been one of the early cantors of the congregation and "knew everything about Hebrew" would lend him a hand at the hard places, Morris turned to the first chapter of Joshua, and, with a little prompting translated the command given to the Jewish leader:

"Have I not commanded thee?" he read. "Be strong and of good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed; for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest." He looked up, his boyish spirit thrilled with the words. "I like that," he exclaimed naively, "it's so—so—alive—not a bit like the Bible."

"So that's what's written on your flag?" commented Mr. Rosenfelt. "Well, no matter what happens, I guess we won't have to worry over our Mr. Lincoln. He'll be 'strong and of good courage,' alright, and make us glad we sent him on to Washington. Morris, go into the dining room now and study your lessons. Are you going to take the flag to Mr. Lincoln yourself before he leaves Springfield?" he asked, turning back to Mr. Kohn, as Morris unwillingly went back to his lessons for the next morning.

"No. I can't leave my work just now," answered Mr. Kohn, who was city clerk. "But I'm sending it with a friend who will be in Springfield before Mr. Lincoln leaves. I want him to have a real going-away present to tell him what the Jews of Illinois think of their new president."

Then the talk drifted to other matters, but Morris went to bed his heart filled with envy for the man who should take the flag to Mr. Lincoln. He knew that there wasn't the slightest chance for him to go to Springfield; his mother would remember all the dreadful stories she had ever heard of little boys being kidnapped while taking railway journeys alone; his father would tell him he couldn't spare the money for such a trip and that Morris couldn't afford to lose a day of school. Then, if he couldn't go to Springfield, it would be almost as good to send a present to Mr. Lincoln such as Mr. Kohn planned to do—but what could a little boy with a limited amount of pocket money send a man just elected to be president of the United States. He even crept out of bed very stealthily, not caring to arouse his ever-wakeful mother in the next room—to look over the treasures in the top drawer of his little dresser; the finest stamp collection ever possessed by any boy who attended his school, he thought proudly; a box of shells and lucky stones gathered on the lake shore last vacation; a prize book given him at school for perfect attendance, which Morris never cared to read, as it seemed to be the tale of a very good little boy who always stood at the head of his class and never disobeyed his parents; a set of fishing tackle discarded by his older brother, Harry. Treasures, though they were, Morris would have sent any or all of them with Mr. Kohn's flag as a going-away gift to the new president, already enshrined in so many hearts; but, boy though he was, he knew that a grown up man would not care for his poor presents. He even lifted his little blue bank and rattled it softly; but he did not take the trouble to pry it open, for he knew that for all its jingling, the pennies inside would not amount up to more than a dollar. Disappointed, yet determined not to let Mr. Kohn outdo him in the matter, Morris crept back to bed.

The next morning he found his plans for Mr. Lincoln's present far more fascinating than his lessons as he sat in the basement schoolroom provided for the children of the congregation. One of the school's non-Jewish teachers had heard his history and geography. In a little while Rabbi Adler would take the classes in Hebrew and German. Morris knew he ought to prepare the lessons so shamefully neglected the night before, but he found it difficult to put his mind on his task.

Fortunately for him, he wasn't called upon during the Hebrew session and managed to escape a scolding for his lack of preparation. So he sat sedately with his eyes glued upon the thick black characters, while his mind pictured the flag with the Hebrew lettering which was to be sent to Springfield. He had seen a good many pictures of Mr. Lincoln and now he tried to imagine how the kindly, homely face would break into a smile at Mr. Kohn's thoughtfulness. Then he roused himself to listen, for now the rabbi was saying something about the lesson that really interested him.

"Of course," said Rabbi Adler, "the Sanctuary Bezalel built in the desert wasn't half so beautiful as the Temple we afterwards raised at Jerusalem. But we were willing to wait. It was always that way with our people—with every nation, too; we must wait for what is worth while and if we wait long enough and work while we are waiting, we will finally achieve what we have been striving for." He paused for a moment, closing his book, as he looked over the class. "Has anyone a question to ask about the lesson?" he ended, in his usual way.

Hardly thinking what he did, Morris shot his hand up in the air, then wished with all his heart that he had not raised it, when the rabbi said: "Well, Morris, what's your question?"

"It's not exactly about the lesson," confessed the boy, awkwardly. "But when you talked about waiting for something for a long time, I wondered—I—how long is a person president of the United States?" he ended desperately, realizing how foolish his question must sound not only to the teacher but to his fellow students as well.

If Rabbi Adler failed to see any connection between the building of the Sanctuary and American politics, he was too kind to say so. "The president is elected for four years," he answered, "although sometimes he is reelected for a second term, which makes eight years in all."

"Then Mr. Lincoln'll be in Washington eight years, 'cause everybody will want him for two terms," decided Morris, loyally, though a little disappointed that the plan which had just occurred to him must take so long to mature.

"So you're a Lincoln man, too?" smiled his teacher. He hesitated a moment, then, feeling that high civic ideals were as necessary to his class as Hebrew, he went on: "We who have worked hard to elect Mr. Lincoln feel that our country is in good hands. He is not one of our people, yet I believe he is more like our Hebrew prophets than any man, Jew or non-Jew, living today. None of you boys may ever be president, but if you strive as earnestly as Mr. Lincoln has always done to serve the right, I shall be well satisfied.... We will take the next chapter for tomorrow," and the lesson was over.

Next came the German class and Morris, after reading and translating his portion of a German fairy tale quite creditably, sank back in his place, again busy with his plans. Rabbi Adler was right, he decided. If one just worked and waited, everything would turn out all right. So Mr. Lincoln would be gone for four years, perhaps eight. Well, since a Jewish gentleman had sent him a going-away present, wouldn't it be a fine thing for a Jewish boy to send him some gift when he returned to his home in Springfield? Morris wasn't sure just what the gift would be, but he was no longer worried. Even four years were not long to wait, especially if one had to save a good deal of money in the interval. For Morris was sure that he would have to send a really expensive present; perhaps a gold watch, which at that particular moment was the one thing, next to a Shetland pony, he most desired for himself.

The four years passed for Morris, now slowly when lessons were long and hard, now all too swiftly during the holiday seasons. They were years of struggle for the nation now torn asunder by a dreadful civil war. Even from the first, Morris was not too young to understand the history that was being made about him; the firing upon Fort Sumter; the secession of the southern states; Mr. Lincoln's call for volunteers. How he despised himself for being such a small boy when he saw his brother Harry in his blue uniform with the brass buttons! He couldn't understand why his mother had cried when Harry went away to be a soldier, since he himself felt cruelly cheated in being deprived of marching off to the battle field. Nor could he understand why Rabbi Adler's voice always faltered now when he read the Kaddish prayer for the mourners every Sabbath in the synagogue, although he had heard that his teacher's young son, Dankmar, serving in the artillery, was wounded at the battle of Chickamauga. For war to the little boy meant nothing but lines of straight soldiers marching to music with flying banners above them, and even when bits of crape appeared, so it seemed, upon the doors of every other home in the city, he thought only of the glory, not the horror of it all. Nor did he ever imagine how President Lincoln's great heart almost broke in those days over the suffering not only of his own Northern soldiers, but the Southern boys too, whom he would never call "rebels" nor cease to regard but as brother Americans. When the boy thought of the president at all, it was always as the captain of a mighty host, pressing fearlessly on to victory. "Like Joshua," he thought, remembering the verses on the flag, resolving that when victory did come at last he would celebrate in his own way, by sending Mr. Lincoln his present.

"We can't do too much for Mr. Lincoln," his brother Harry had said when he came home on a furlough, so tanned and sturdy that even Mrs. Rosenfelt had to confess that his soldiering had not broken down his health. And Morris's heart had reechoed the sentiment again and again, especially when Harry was taken to one of the Washington hospitals and wrote glowingly of the president's visits to the sick and wounded soldiers. "He's not like a president—he's just like a father," he wrote, and more than one bereaved household in those dark days learned to agree with him.

For the sadly-tried man from Illinois was never too busy with affairs of state to write a word of comfort to a mother who had lost her son on the battlefield, never too harassed with his many duties to listen to a plea for a furlough or a pardon. But, perhaps, of all the stories that reached Morris at that time the account of Mr. Abraham Jonas of Peoria meant the most.

Mr. Jonas was a Jewish citizen of Peoria, Illinois, and had been a staunch friend and political associate of Lincoln before the latter left Springfield for the White House. Strangely enough, Mr. Jonas's four sons all enlisted in the Southern army. Towards the close of the war, Abraham Jonas fell ill, and, learning from his doctors that his disease would prove fatal, felt that he could never die in peace until he had seen his son Charles, then a Confederate prisoner of war on Johnson's Island, Lake Erie. The dying father appealed to his old friend, and President Lincoln at once gave the order to parole Charles Jonas for three weeks that he might visit his father's bedside.

"After that," admitted Mrs. Rosenfelt, wiping her eyes as she heard the story from a Chicago friend of the Jonas family, "after that, I'll forgive the president everything!" She never explained just why she should feel called upon to forgive President Lincoln for anything, but up to that time the good lady had entertained the notion that the president had made the war and was entirely responsible for her son's enlistment. "Things like that make you feel that there's good in everybody's heart even in war time. Anyhow, the war can't last much longer."

The great war did end that very year and in the spring of 1865 Morris realized that at last he might send Mr. Lincoln his present. "Just for a sort of extra celebration," he told himself, as he counted the money he had so painfully hoarded in an old wallet during the four years of waiting.

It was not a large sum after all, for Mr. Rosenfelt was not a rich man and his business interests had suffered during the war. And, it must be confessed, several times Morris had yielded to temptation and had broken into his little treasury to buy some toy or pleasure that he felt he just must have, intending to pay himself back as soon as he could earn the money. But chores were few and brought little, and even his uncle's barmitzvah present of five dollars failed to raise the sum above fifteen. Still that was a good deal, thought Morris, although he couldn't buy a gold watch with it. But he had grown up a little during the past four years and realized that probably Mr. Lincoln had a gold watch, anyhow. And so, much as he hated to do it, for he wanted the secret to be all his own, he decided to ask his father's advice and waited impatiently for him to come in from the porch, where he stood talking with a neighbor, and have breakfast the Saturday morning after peace was declared.

Although he was only a boy of thirteen at the time, Morris never forgot how the parlor looked that day with the flag draped over Harry's picture taken in uniform, the pale sunshine of early spring streaming upon the bright red geranium plant on the marble-topped table. There was a large tidy on the table, a doily his mother had crotched, his mother who started up with a cry of alarm as Mr. Rosenfelt entered, his face white with terror.

"Harry——" was all she could say for a moment. Then, when she could control her voice a little: "Has anything happened to our Harry?"

Her husband shook his head. "No," he answered in a matter-of-fact tone that contrasted strangely with his dreadful pallor. "Harry, thank God, is safe and will soon be on his way home. But President Lincoln——"

"Yes?" cried Mrs. Rosenfelt, "the president?"

"He was shot last evening by an assassin. He has just died," answered her husband, and he spoke as one speaks of a dear friend.

"It can't be true," cried Morris, hotly. "No one would hurt him—he was so good—we all loved him so." The tears ran down his face as he spoke and for once he was not ashamed to have his father see him cry. Without another word he turned and ran upstairs to his own room. The little blue bank still standing upon the dresser hurt him with a sudden memory. He was comparatively rich now, but he hated the fifteen dollars he had saved with so much eagerness through the years of patient waiting.

The money, still unspent, lay in Morris's wallet the day Mr. Lincoln came home to Springfield. The humble rail splitter had returned to his home town in kingly triumph. As his funeral train crossed the continent, every great city, every tiny village, crape-hung and grief-stricken, had sent its citizens to do him homage. Even the farmers from the scattered farms along the way lit funeral pyres as the dark procession thundered past through the night. Now the citizens of Chicago stood bowed in grief as the body of the martyred president was borne through the silent streets. Strong men wept openly and unashamed; but Morris, standing at his father's side on the curbing, did not cry. Somehow, it all seemed too terrible for tears. And, because he was just a small boy, after all not the least of his grief was the thought that now it was too late to send Mr. Lincoln his present.



THE LAND COLUMBUS FOUND

The Story of the Tablet Placed Upon the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor.

This isn't a story at all, just a sort of "good-bye" word to the boys and girls who have read these tales of Jewish men and women who tried to do their part in the making of America. Do you remember away back to the first one, the story of the Jews who from Columbus's flag ship dreamed of the promised land, but never knew that the continent their admiral discovered would some day be a place of refuge for their race? Now, every year, thousands of men and women and children, a great many of our own people among them, seek a refuge here. If you go to Ellis Island, you may see them entering this New World where they hope to find home and happiness. I have seen them with their baskets and their bundles of household goods, their little children in their arms, (do you remember how Reuben wandered through the storm carrying his little son?), crossing the gang plank of the steamer which brings them to the island, raising their tired eyes in mute gratitude to the American flag which floats above them as they pass. And from where I stood I could also see the great Statue of Liberty Enlightening the World, the woman with the light in her hand to guide the weary wanderers across the sea.

If you visit this statue, boys and girls, you will see at the base a bronze tablet with a short poem engraved upon it. The poem was written by a Jewish woman, Emma Lazarus, our first and greatest Jewish American poet. As a girl she had cared little for the history and traditions of her people; her verses were about the gods of Greece and Rome and the legends of the Middle Ages. Then, when the dreadful persecution of our people in Russia in 1881 drove many of them to our shores, she was called upon to assist in caring for some of the homeless wanderers and, like a loving mother, she gathered them to her heart.

Something new and beautiful awoke in her soul and she gave her strength and energy in caring for these exiles of her own blood. When she wrote now it was of her people. She read our long and wonderful history and immortalized the heroism of our martyrs in such poems as her tragedy, "The Dance to Death." She wrote shorter verses, too, and there are few Jewish boys and girls who have not recited or at least heard her stirring Chanukkah recitations, "The Feast of Lights," and "The Banner of the Jew." Her poems had always been very beautiful, winning the praises of such a high critic as Ralph Waldo Emerson, but now they glowed with a new beauty, her love and new found kinship with her race.

It was her passionate love for America and her knowledge of all that our country means to the Jew, both the native-born and the persecuted wanderer from other lands, that made her see in the Statue of Liberty more than a mere mass of sculptured stone. Instead she saw a gracious, loving woman guarding the gates of the New World, not like the ancient giant figure striding the harbor at Rhodes, a haughty menace to the nations, but a symbol of welcome and freedom and justice to all mankind. So she wrote her verses, to be inscribed later at the statue's base, telling as only a great poet could what America means to her children.

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land, Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome: her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. "Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore, Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"



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- Typographical errors corrected in text: Page 29: her's replaced with hers Page 31: her's replaced with hers Page 58: earings replaced with earrings Page 63: Pharoah replaced with Pharaoh Page 71: 'For if your are discovered' replaced with 'For if you are discovered' Page 76: 'Your are to grow weaker' replaced with 'You are to grow weaker' Page 77: 'wrists and angles' replaced with 'wrists and ankles' Page 78: abuot replaced with about Page 89: Hussiel replaced with Hushiel (twice) Page 91: Hussiel replaced with Hushiel Page 92: hosts's replaced with hosts' Page 93: persade replaced with persuade Page 102: Hushel replaced with Hushiel Page 119: earings replaced with earrings Page 123: pears replaced with pearls Page 144: wainted replaced with waited Page 151: 'love like your's' replaced with 'love like yours' Page 152: 'Irving's eyes met her's' replaced with 'Irving's eyes met hers' Page 154: befor replaced with before Page 159: her's replaced with hers Note that the printers' error on page 32, which starts with "Samuel's eyes sought the governor's face, half- he told her, gently." has been left as is. Every copy of the story consulted has the same error. -

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