my new home waited for me? He would say that it is no place at all, but
a short box of an alley. Two rows of three-story tenements are its
sides, a stingy strip of sky is its lid, a littered pavement is the
floor, and a narrow mouth its exit.

But I saw a very different picture on my introduction to Union Place. I
saw two imposing rows of brick buildings, loftier than any dwelling I
had ever lived in. Brick was even on the ground for me to tread on,
instead of common earth or boards. Many friendly windows stood open,
filled with uncovered heads of women and children. I thought the people
were interested in us, which was very neighborly. I looked up to the
topmost row of windows, and my eyes were filled with the May blue of an
American sky!

In our days of affluence in Russia we had been accustomed to upholstered
parlors, embroidered linen, silver spoons and candlesticks, goblets of
gold, kitchen shelves shining with copper and brass. We had feather-beds
heaped halfway to the ceiling; we had clothes presses dusky with velvet
and silk and fine woolen. The three small rooms into which my father now
ushered us, up one flight of stairs, contained only the necessary beds,
with lean mattresses; a few wooden chairs; a table or two; a mysterious
iron structure, which later turned out to be a stove; a couple of
unornamental kerosene lamps; and a scanty array of cooking-utensils and
crockery. And yet we were all impressed with our new home and its
furniture. It was not only because we had just passed through our seven
lean years, cooking in earthern vessels, eating black bread on holidays
and wearing cotton; it was chiefly because these wooden chairs and tin
pans were American chairs and pans that they shone glorious in our
eyes. And if there was anything lacking for comfort or decoration we
expected it to be presently supplied--at least, we children did. Perhaps