"Quicker, Busie, quicker!" I said to her the day before the "Shevuous." I took her by the hand, and we went quickly up the hill. "The day will not stand still, little fool. And we have to climb such a high hill. After the hill we have another stream. Over the stream there are some boards—a little bridge. The stream flows, the frogs croak, and the boards shake and tremble. On the other side of the bridge, over there is the real Garden of Eden—over there begins my real property."

"Your property?"

"I mean the Levada—a big field that stretches away and away, without a beginning and without an end. It is covered with a green mantle, sprinkled with yellow flowers, and nailed down with little red nails. It gives out a delicious odour. The most fragrant spices in the world are there. I have trees there beyond the counting, tall many-branched trees. I have a little hill there that I sit on when I like. Or else, by pronouncing the Holy Name, I can rise up and fly away like an eagle, across the clouds, over fields and woods, over seas and deserts until I come to the other side of the mountain of darkness."

"And from there," puts in Busie, "you walk seven miles until you come to a little stream."

"No. To a thick wood. First I go in and out of the trees, and after that I come to the little stream."

"You swim across the water, and count seven times seven."

"And there appears before me a little old man with a long beard."

"He asks you: 'What is your desire?'"

"I say to him: 'Bring me the Queen's daughter.'"

Busie takes her hand from mine, and runs down the hill. I run after her.

"Busie, why are you running off?"

Busie does not answer. She is vexed. She likes the story I told her excepting the part about the Queen's daughter.

. . . . .

You have not forgotten who Busie is? I told you once. But if you have forgotten, I will tell you again.

I had an older brother, Benny. He was drowned. He left after him a water-mill, a young widow, two horses, and a little child. The mill was neglected; the horses were sold; the widow married again, and went away, somewhere far; and the child was brought to us. This child was Busie.

Ha! ha! ha! Everybody thinks that Busie and I are sister and brother. She calls my mother "mother," and my father "father." And we two live together like sister and brother, and love one another, like sister and brother.

Like sister and brother? Then why is Busie ashamed before me?

It happened once that we two were left alone in the house—we two by ourselves in the whole house. It was evening, towards nightfall. My father had gone to the synagogue to recite the mourners' prayer after my dead brother Benny, and my mother had gone out to buy matches. Busie and I crept into a corner, and I told her stories. Busie likes me to tell her stories—fine stories of "Cheder," or from the "Arabian Nights." She crept close to me, and put her hand into mine.

"Tell me something, Shemak, tell me."

Softly fell the night around us. The shadows crept slowly up the walls, paused on the floor, and stole all around. We could hardly, hardly see one another's face. I felt her hand trembling. I heard her little heart beating. I saw her eyes shining in the dark. Suddenly she drew her hand from mine.

"What is it, Busie?"

"We must not."

"What must we not?"

"Hold each other's hands."

"Why not? Who told you that?"

"I know it myself."

"Are we strangers? Are we not sister and brother?"

"Oh, if we were sister and brother," cried Busie. And I imagined I heard in her voice the words from the "Song of Songs," "O that thou wert as my brother."

It is always so. When I speak of Busie, I always think of the "Song of Songs."

. . . . .

Where was I? I was telling you of the eve of the "Shevuous." Well, we ran down hill, Busie in front, I after her. She is angry with me because of the Queen's daughter. She likes all my stories excepting the one about the Queen's daughter. But Busie's anger need not worry one. It does not last long, no longer than it takes to tell of it. She is again looking up at me with her great, bright, thoughtful eyes. She tosses back her hair and says to me:

"Shemak, oh, Shemak! Just look! What a sky! You do not see what is going on all around us."

"I see, little fool. Why should I not see? I see a sky. I feel a warm breeze blowing. I hear the birds piping and twittering as they fly over our heads. It is our sky, and our breeze. The little birds are ours too—everything is ours, ours, ours. Give me your hand, Busie."

No, she will not give me her hand. She is ashamed. Why is Busie ashamed before me? Why does she grow red?

"There," says Busie to me—"over there, on the other side of the bridge." And I imagine she is repeating the words of the Shulamite in the "Song of Songs."

"Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field; let us lodge in the villages.

"Let us get up early to the vineyards; let us see if the vine flourish, whether the tender grape appear, and the pomegranates bud forth."

And we are at the little bridge.

. . . . .

The stream flows; the frogs croak; the boards of the little bridge are shaking. Busie is afraid.

"Ah, Busie, you are a—— Why are you afraid, little fool? Hold on to me. Or, let us take hold of one another, you of me, and I of you. See? That's right—that's right."

No more little bridge.

We still cling to one another, as we walk along. We are alone in this Garden of Eden. Busie holds me tightly, very tightly. She is silent, but I imagine she is talking to me in the words from the "Song of Songs":

"My beloved is mine, and I am his."

The Levada is big. It stretches away without a beginning and without an end. It is covered with a green mantle, sprinkled with yellow flowers, and nailed down with red nails. It gives out a delicious odour—the most fragrant spices in the world are there. We walked along, embraced—we two alone in the Garden of Eden.

"Shemak," says Busie to me, looking straight into my eyes, and nestling still closer to me, "when shall we start gathering the green boughs for the 'Shevuous'?"

"The day is long enough, little fool," I say to her. I am on fire. I do not know where to look first, whether at the blue sky, or the green fields, or over there, at the end of the world, where the sky has become one with the earth. Or shall I look at Busie's shining face—into her large beautiful eyes that are to me deep as the heavens and dreamy as the night? Her eyes are always dreamy. A deep sorrow lies hidden within them. They are veiled by a shade of melancholy. I know her sorrow. I am acquainted with the cause of her melancholy. She has a great grief in her heart. She is pained because her mother married a stranger, and went away from her for ever and ever, as if she had been nothing to her. In my home her mother's name must not be mentioned. It is as if Busie had never had a mother. My mother is her mother, and my father is her father. They love her as if she were their own child. They fret over her, and give her everything that her heart desires. There is nothing too dear for Busie. She wanted to go with me to gather green boughs for the Festival decorations (I told her to ask it), and my father said to my mother:

"What do you think?" He looked over his silver spectacles, and stroked the silver white hair of his beard. And there went on an argument between my father and mother about our going off outside the town to gather green boughs for the "Shevuous."

Father: "What do you say?"

Mother: "What do you say?"

Father: "Shall we let them go?"

Mother: "Why should we not let them go?"

Father: "Do I say we should not?"

Mother: "What then are you saying?"

Father: "I am saying that we should let them go."

Mother: "Why should they not go?"

And so forth. I know what is worrying them. About twenty times my mother warned me, my father repeating the words after her, that there is a bridge to be crossed, and under the little bridge there is a water—a stream, a stream, a stream.

. . . . .

We, Busie and I, have long forgotten the little bridge and the river, the stream. We are going across the broad free Levada, under the blue, open sky. We run across the green field, fall and roll about on the sweet-smelling grass. We get up, fall again, and roll about again, and yet again. We have not yet gathered a single green leaf for the Festival decorations. I take Busie over the length and breadth of the Levada. I show off before her with my property.

"Do you see those trees? Do you see this sand? Do you see that little hill?"

"Are they all yours?" asks Busie. Her eyes are laughing. I am annoyed because she laughs at me. She always laughs at me. I get sulky and turn away from her for a moment. Seeing that I am sulky, she goes in front of me, looks into my eyes, takes my hand, and says to me: "Shemak!" My sulks are gone and all is forgotten. I take her hand and lead her to my hill, there where I sit always, every summer. If I like I sit down, and if I like I rise up with the help of the Lord, by pronouncing His Holy Name. And I fly off like an eagle, above the clouds, over fields and woods, over seas and deserts.

. . . . .

We sit on the hill, Busie and I. (We have not yet gathered a single green leaf for the Festival.) We tell stories. That is to say, I tell stories, and she listens. I tell her what will happen at some far, far off time. When I am a man and she is a woman we will get married. We will both rise up, by pronouncing the Holy Name, and travel the whole world. First we will go to all the countries that Alexander the Great was in. Then we will run over to the Land of Israel. We will go to the Hills of Spices, fill our pockets with locust-beans, figs, dates, and olives, and fly off further and still further. And everywhere we will play a different sort of trick, for no one will see us.

"Will no one see us?" asks Busie, catching hold of my hand.

"No one—no one. We shall see every one, but no one will see us."

"In that case, I have something to ask you."

"A request?"

"A little request."

But I know her little request—to fly off to where her mother is, and play a little trick on her step-father.

"Why not?" I say to her. "With the greatest of pleasure. You may leave it to me, little fool. I can do something which they will not forget in a hurry."

"Not them, him alone," pleads Busie. But I do not give in so readily. When I get into a temper it is dangerous. Why should I forgive her for what she has done to Busie, the cheeky woman? The idea of marrying another man and going off with him, the devil knows where, leaving her child behind, and never even writing a letter! Did any one ever hear of such a wrong?

. . . . .

I excited myself for nothing. I was as sorry as if dogs were gnawing at me, but it was too late. Busie had covered her face with her two hands. Was she crying? I could have torn myself to pieces. What good had it done me to open her wound by speaking of her mother? In my own heart I called myself every bad name I could think of: "Horse, Beast, Ox, Cat, Good-for-nothing, Long-tongue." I drew closer to Busie, and took hold of her hand. I was about to say to her, the words of the "Song of Songs":

"Let me see thy countenance, let me hear thy voice."

Suddenly—How do my father and mother come here?

. . . . .

My father's silver spectacles shine from the distance. The silver strands of his hair and beard are spread out on the breeze. My mother is waving her shawl at us. We two, Busie and I, remain sitting. We are like paralysed. What are my parents doing here?

They had come to see what we were doing. They were afraid some accident had befallen us—God forbid! Who could tell? A little bridge, a water, a stream, a stream, a stream! Curious father and mother.

"And where are your green boughs?"

"What green boughs?"

"The green boughs that you went to gather for the 'Shevuous' decorations."

Busie and I exchanged glances. I understood her looks. I imagined I heard her saying to me, in the words of the "Song of Songs":

"'O that thou wert as my brother!'.... Why are you not my brother?"

. . . . .

"Well, I expect we shall get some greenery for 'Shevuous' somehow," says my father with a smile. And the silver strands of his silver-white beard glisten like rays of light in the golden red of the sun. "Thank God the children are well, and that no ill has befallen them."

"Praised be the Lord!" replies my mother to him, wiping her moist red face with the ends of her shawl. And they are both glad. They seem to grow broader than long with delight.

Curious, curious father and mother!