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Page 20 The Southern Israelite SAVANNAH, GEORGIA Queen Of A Garden City PURIM SCENES IN TEL-AVIV By RABBI LAZARUS AXELROD, Liverpool, Hebron “But, ya Sidi — two piastres — all this luggage.” And with a deprecat ing gesture, the Arab porter pointed with his dusky hands to the couple of suit cases he had carried in for me from the droshky to the train at Jeru salem station. “And I tell you, you son of Beliyal, that two piastres is more than you de serve.” And with these words I stepped up nimbly into the waiting train, leaving the Arab blinking un certainly at the two metal coins in his hands. Perspiring and panting, I subsided into one of the uninviting wooden seats, straightened collar and tie, and had barely settled down, when the engine gave a piercing shriek for the right of way, and proceeded on its tedious journey to the Garden City, fourteen coaches trailing snakelike in wake. Its human cargo seemed in merry mood, for Purim comes but once a year, and the hilarious festivi ties in Tel-Aviv and its selection of a queen offer a facetious and light dis traction to the daily worries of the Palestinian. From my coign of vantage, I could view the scene with complac ency. The masses of spirited human ity which fills my compartment to overflowing, represents Palestine’s population in miniature. A motley horde, a picturesque blending of the Orient and the Occident, of culture and barbarism, of modernism ami primitiveness, of devil-may-care adol escence and sedate maturity. The at mosphere is heavy with tobacco fumes, and I hasten to open the win dow on my right to admit the exhil arating oxygen, which assails one’s nostrils and sends the blood tingling down the spine. We are now away out of town, and the panorama, tinted with the first blush of spring, un folds itself before our rapturous gaze in an ineffable study of purple and gold. Under the sheen of that East ern sunshine, unrolling between the horizons, lies the broad illimitable ex panse of the Judean plains, the ripen ing corn and sesame whistling softly in the gentle breeze amid a multiplex rustling and wavelike undulations. Dotted here and there, like some in significant specks on a great sweep of landscape, could be seen the jerky figures of Arab fellahin astride their eternal donkeys, leading troops of docile camels laden with precious car goes of luscious Jaffa oranges. Oc casionally an Arab shepherd boy would flash into view, rounding up his wandering flocks of mountain goats, bawling away in his native tongue to subdue the friskiness of those exuber ant spirits. And throughout all this, the puffing engine makes its way amid a series of wild and deafening screeches, round winding curves, up steep slopes, and descending at times precariously near to the brink of a jagged precipice. Reluctant to part with this glory of scenic beauty, I turn to the more prac tical side of life, and discover that hu manity has a romantic flavor all its own. The occupants of the carriage are not slow in manifesting their presence, and soon the twanging notes of old time melody, produced by an amateur guitarist, break in upon the hubbub of guttural jargon, and heat ed discussions. The group of stalwart Chalutzim who have monopolised the entire corner of the compartment, now commence to display their vocal powers, and sing of love and romance, of heroic battles fought and won, of the marvels of the Kinereth, that dreamlike basin of medicinal waters lying at the foot of Tiberias. There is something almost uncanny in the singing of a Chalutz. It is entirely devoid of science, harmony or melody. Yet mysteriously it touches those hid den chords in our hearts, susceptible to all that is divine and godly. The heart leaps in ecstasy, the soul, so long asleep, dances forth to meet those kindred spirits which are cre ated in those thrilling moments. Glistening dewy tears appear in not a few dull weary eyes, as the old folks, their battles over, nod in acqui escence to those old Eretz Yisroel songs, suffused with the story of our heroic past, bringing memories of un told romance. At the extreme end of the carriage, the party of Arab peas ants that came aboard at Bittir and the Vale of Sorek, are gazing hazily at the group of sunbronzed youths who radiate cleanliness and godliness. Un kempt, filthy, and fanaticism personi fied, the Arab fellah contrasts vividly with the halo of spotless purity that clings to our pioneer boys and girls Chatting, singing, reading, smok ing, time wears on, and we finally pull into the Palestine terminus, Ludd or Lydda. Here the scene is one of unusual activity, as the three trains from Jerusalem, Jaffa and Haifa, breathless and exhausted, all meet to unload and reload passengers and freight. Arab porters are tearing their way up and down the long plat forms, struggling desperately with masses of baggage, followed closely by the perspiring and temperamentai passengers. Time is limited, and soon the chimes of the massive bell are heard pealing through the station, warning all and sundry of the ap proaching departure of the trains. Another twenty minutes and our tram is due in Tel-Aviv. We are now pass ing through the most fertile section of Palestine, and the intoxicating scent of orange blossom, fragrant and vivifying, wafts in through the open windows. Suddenly a mighty roar which causes the train to tremble from end to end, breaks forth from the passengers, there is a wild dash for the windows, and all eyes are strained upwards. 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