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THE SOUTHERN ISRAELITE
)isap pea ring
lortgages
Loans
On Homes
The easiest and
most convenient
way to own your
home. Simple
interest. Investi
gate Today.
JEFFERSON
MORTGAGE
COMPANY
Loan Agents For
INVESTORS SYNDICATE
(>0 Broad St., N.W. WA. 0814
TYPEWRITERS
W •• -*•11. rent, mul repair all make, of
t> pewriter*. Special rental rale, to
-tu.lent-.
American Writing Machine Co.
Knroyth St.. N. W. WA. 2860
COPYmaHT 1*10
OLAKKR PLAN COUP.
SAVINGS
5 %
At
Semi-a n n ually
ORGANIZED 1919
Hamilton Douglas. Jr. President
Hr. Lillis B. June- ... Vice-President
••lirrra Shuman Secretary-Treasurer
QUAKER SAVINGS
ASSOCIATION
93 Pryor Street, S. W.
office Hours: 9 a. m. to 5 p. m.
$ave Where You Can Borroiv
WHAT METCALF SAYS IS SO”
The Old House
(Continued from page 13)
less closet, was scolded when, as rare
ly happened, he came late for his
meals, scolded mildly in his turn
when, as often happened, his shoes
were not propely shined, and, for the
rest, went his own ways. And we
must confess that these ways were
not always the most virtuous, that
he went them chiefly by night, and
that it was due to these ways that
he was known as a man-about-town.
After supper he would rise self-
importantly, mumble something to the
effect that he had work to do, rumple
his mother’s gray wig, say gaily and
yet respectfully: “Kuess die Hand,
Madam Blum!” and depart, whistling.
It would be past midnight before he
would return home, bringing the alien
perfumes of gay and none-too-clean
night resorts into his tiny room.
One night Old Lady Blum heard
the young gentleman’s return. An
hour before she had been wakened by
an annoying stinging in her eyes,
which she watched with tense and
growing attention. She moaned softly
as the pain became more real, so to
speak, as if a sharp end ever sharper
needle were being thrust under her
eyebrows. “It’s from my cold,” she
decided, and gingerly turned over on
her other side.
The lighter contours of the windows
did not stand out so clearly in the
dark room as on other nights; the
darkness was not as black as usual.
Curious gray mists rose—the old
woman watched them closely—and
fell, deeper and deeper, finally dis
sipating while a new gray weil form
ed at the ceiling and floated down
ward. She felt the stinging again—
but no, that was no stinging; it was
the tiny, bright green spot sliding
along the wall; now it burst into
many brilliant flares, whose burning
points bored their way into her eyes
as another bright green spot slid
along the wall.
The clock struck two. The old
woman drew her fevered hand across
her forehead. The pain had become
unbearable.
The Young Gentleman, alarmed by
her moaning, had come to her side.
What is it, Mother? Don’t you feel
well?”
He lit a candle, seized the cognac
bottle, which always was prepared for
his mother’s nocturnal attacks, and
bent over her. At sight of the candle
the old woman screamed and covered
her eyes with her hand. Thin little
Rose, shrilly anxious, came running
out of her room.
“My eyes—my eyes!” cried Old
Lady Blum, waving away the cognac
bottle. For a while she whimpered
softly, then she began to scream
again: “My head’s bursting—burning
burning! The doctor—the doctor—
I’m dying—I’m dying!”
Hastily the young gentleman went
out for the doctor, while thin little
Rose knealt beside the bed and help
lessly stroked her mother’s withered,
groping hands; her husband’s voice,
hoarse and cough-punctuated, came
from the next room as he tried to
calm little Leo.
Neighbors, aroused by the scream
ing, came in extraordinary negligees
to learn its cause. By the time the
young gentleman returned with the
physician he had to plow his way
through a milling crowd of old women,
who, however, quickly and respect
fully retired to the hall.
With a kindly gesture the doctor sat
down beside the bed, asked questions
in a cheerful tone, felt the aged head
with his soft hands, gaily let his
glasses drop from his nose, grew more
and more kindly and cheerful; finally
he worked on his patient’s eyes for
a while with one of his instruments,
and the pain disappeared—though the
old woman’s whimpering did not
cease.
Later the doctor, still smiling
soothingly, told Rose and the young
gentleman: “Mother has a gray cata
ract—we’ll have to operate. A very
simple thing—it’ll soon he over. The
simplest thing in the world. Now, if
it had been a green cataract—but its
gray, nothing to worry about.”
One might have thought that a cata
ract was really something pleasant
and desirable.
And as the old woman, now quiet,
lay sleepless, with her son sitting be
side her, as was customary after her
“attacks” and with a black bandage
over her eyes, she would sigh, from
time to time: “God gives life—God
gives death; how much longer can it
last?”
After this night, which was in the
autumn, the other two great events
in the career of the Blum family—the
chimney fire of ten years before and
the death of Old Lady Blum’s husband
twenty-two years ago—were relegated
to the background. The operation was
performed, the young gentleman foot
ing the bill; and on one eye the opera
tion was successful, though the doctor
had feared the worst. Now Old Lady
Blum, a black bandage over her blind
eye, sat in the cashier’s booth once
more and was really happy. For her
high-class customers, the particularly
pious Jewesses of wealth and the
wives of the city’s rabbis, were not
so unusually kind to her; it seemed
almost as if this little piece of black
cloth had raised her to their level.
But her remaining eye grew worse
and worse; one day the doctor, his
voice a disquieting mixture of cheer
fulness and sympathy, was forced to
admit that, “as he had feared”, a
green cataract had attacked the eye.
Another operation was performed, and
by the time the autumn winds again
swept curled up brown leaves through
the courtyard, Old I>ady Blum was
totally blind.
(Next Page Please)
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