I was born in Antomir, in the Northwestern Region, Russia, in
1865. All I remember of my father is his tawny beard, a huge
yellow apple he once gave me at the gate of an orchard where he
was employed as watchman, and the candle which burned at his
head his body lay under a white shroud on the floor. I was less
than three years old when he died, so my mother would carry me
to the synagogue in her arms to have somebody say the Prayer for
the Dead with me. I was unable fully to realize the meaning of the
ceremony, of course, but its solemnity and pathos were not
altogether lost upon me. There is a streak of sadness in the blood
of my race. Very likely it is of Oriental origin. If it is, it has been
amply nourished by many centuries of persecution

Left to her own resources, my mother strove to support herself and
me by peddling pea mush or doing odds and ends of jobs. She had
to struggle hard for our scanty livelihood and her trials and
loneliness came home to me at an early period.

I was her all in all, though she never poured over me those torrents
of senseless rhapsody which I heard other Jewish mothers shower
over their children. The only words of endearment I often heard
from her were, "My little bean," and, "My comfort." Sometimes,
when she seemed to be crushed by the miseries of her life, she
would call me, "My poor little orphan." Otherwise it was, "Come
here, my comfort," "Are you hungry, my little bean?" or, "You are
a silly little dear, my comfort." These words of hers and the
sonorous contralto in which they were uttered are ever alive in my
heart, like the Flame Everlasting in a synagogue