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Updated: May 31, 2025
We took for a class motto the early Saxon word for lady, translated into breadgiver, and we took for our class color the poppy, because poppies grow among the wheat, as if Nature knew that wherever there was hunger that needed food there would be pain that needed relief.
Somewhere from a distance came the mother's soft voice: "What sort of a breadgiver will you be to me if you begin to drink?" He shut his eyes tightly and answered: "Everybody drinks." The mother sighed. He was right. She herself knew that besides the tavern there was no place where people could enjoy themselves; besides the taste of whisky there was no other gratification.
"They have snatched away your breadgiver, the scoundrels! Well, give us three cents' worth of vermicelli. Never mind, mother! You'll pull through!" "Thanks for the good word!" she returned, smiling. He walked off to one side and mumbled, "It doesn't cost me much to say a good word!"
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