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Updated: May 6, 2025
Well, mebbe, Beckie Frankenstein, I'm thinking what a beautiful world this is, and what a fine time you and me has," and the strange creature broke into a laugh that was more terrible than a sob. "Ah, there you go again, Miriam! What's eatin' you to-day?" cried the foreman, as he came along to inspect the work; and seeing Miriam undoing my blunders, asked, "Who did that?"
Lucy had dark hair like Dora's, and Beckie flaxen hair like Sadie's, so when their heads were close together they were an amusing reduced copy of their mothers as these had looked embracing and kissing a minute before Max often dropped in to see me at my factory, and when I was not busy we would talk of my cloaks, of his instalment business, or of women.
It may be interesting to note, however, that he never took up this kind of topics when we were in his house, not even when his wife was out Sometimes I would have supper at his house. More often, however usually on Monday, when Max seldom went to the dance-halls I would come after supper and spend the rest of the evening there. Sometimes the Shorniks would drop in Sadie, her husband, and Beckie.
But there ran a special note through my poem a thought that only Israel Rubinstein or Beckie Aronovitch could have fully understood, besides myself. For I made myself the spokesman of the "luckless sons of Abraham," saying
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