The Human Touch

I am an inveterate book browser. You know the type. He usually wears glasses. So do I. I browse along Fourth avenue stalls and in the homes of friends, when and if I am fortunate enough to be asked, and if said friends have books in their possession. Most of my friends read, whether or not they do own books. The other evening I was a visitor at the home of a couple both of whom read and have books. It is an inter-married couple, which is part of the point of the story.

The young man is Jewish, the young woman Celtic. Their mutual library is a small one and I doggedly went through it, to see what good books they had that I had not and also for the pleasure of comparing notes on books in their possession which I also had read and enjoyed. After all talk on books is the jumping off place for talk on many things, such as people and anecdotes and memories. If no two members of a group have shares in a memory there is no conversation.

The “library” of this intermarried couple is not a large one; in fact, I may say it is a small one I can say with pride, but without conceit, that my collection is much larger. But in the whole expanse of my collection of books, there is not one in any language other than English. I am uni-lingual in my books, anyway. You may therefore imagine my surprise when out of the slender row of books, which I was extracting one by one, I found a book in Hebrew. I assumed naturally,—and who wouldn’t?—that it had been acquired by the Jewish husband. My surprise, however, was doubly distilled when I learned that that book had been acquired by the Celtic wife. How come, how come? I asked.

A TEACHING BARTER

Some years ago, the story unfolded, the Irish girl had become friendly with the family of a famous Hebrew scholar. You would recognize the name without the slightest difficulty if I gave it to you here, and if you didn’t, you would merely be proving yourself an ignorant cuss. However, this young Celt—not colt—gave piano lessons to a daughter of this learned scholar. Now with what should the scholar in Hebrew have repaid her for these services? Not in coin of the realm, but in Hebrew lessons, and in a short time she learned more Hebrew than many of her Jewish friends ever had. And this slim Hebrew volume which I had extracted from the row of books was the text book from which our Irish friend had learned some of the basic mysteries of the tongue more ancient than Celtic. Our Irish friend has since forgotten the Hebrew she knew, through desuetude, but she has kept the book, through many vicissitudes, as a memory of this barter in instruction.

Now this story has a bit of an anti-climax. Later in the evening the Jewish husband presumed to correct his wife’s pronunciation of a Celtic name, the name equivalent to Michael, but, unfortunately, I could not judge between their two pronunciations because I do not know how the Irish would, or should, pronounce the name of Michael. Anyone in this audience know?

A MEMBER OF THE PUBLIC

One of our associates who returned from his vacation tells us of an amusing experience of his. Speculation had been aroused among his fellow-boarders by the fact that he preferred to be alone most of the time. Men who are prophets sometimes act like that. Persons who prefer to be alone are usually considered queer fish, for the simple reason that they don’t travel in shoals, or schools. But one day this solitary fish was sitting at mealtime beside a plain workman who seemed to be particularly curious.

“And what do you do?” asked the plain workman.

“I write for the papers,” was the rather sketchy reply.

“Which papers?”

“All of them.”

Some Yiddish papers were lying about, and the curious one pointed at these and asked, “For these?”

“Yes.”

“Well, where are your pieces?”

Various news stories bearing the Jewish Telegraphic Agency credit line were indicated. “These are the things I write when I’m not on vacation.”

The interrogator’s face dropped. So did the news writer’s stock, by about seventy-five points. “But where is your name?”

“My name is not printed over these news articles.”

“Well, in that case …” and the stock continued its decline.

Conversation was painfully resumed. The plain workman picked up a copy of one of the English tabloids, one of the one-syllable tabloids which puts everything very plainly indeed, for the understanding of all plain working-men.

The day’s headline read something like: “Frisco Strike Halted at F. D. R.’s Order.” The plain workman was plainly puzzled. “Who,” he asked, “is this F. D. R. S.?”

MORE IGNORANCE

Reference to the young woman who didn’t know who Stavsky and Arlosoroff were prompts a young woman reader of Rochester, N. Y., to report on a similar experience. This is her story:

“On the day the Jewish Daily Bulletin reached me with the headline about the reversal of the Stavsky verdict, I was hurrying to attend a meeting of a group of young women “interested in Palestine.” Arriving a little late and after making the usual apologies and greetings, I enthusiastically voiced my delight over the release of Stavsky. The silence that followed was eloquent.” Of blank ignorance apparently.

My astonished correspondent realized too late what advantage she might have taken of the eloquent silence; solicit subscriptions for The Bulletin to assure the distribution of information as to the identities of persons so important in Jewish news as Stavsky.