Russia, or a paragraph in the newspaper, or a conversation overheard in
the street-car, suddenly reminded me of what I might have been,--I
thought it miracle enough that I, Mashke, the granddaughter of Raphael
the Russian, born to a humble destiny, should be at home in an American
metropolis, be free to fashion my own life, and should dream my dreams
in English phrases. But in the beginning my admiration was spent on more
concrete embodiments of the splendors of America; such as fine houses,
gay shops, electric engines and apparatus, public buildings,
illuminations, and parades. My early letters to my Russian friends were
filled with boastful descriptions of these glories of my new country. No
native citizen of Chelsea took such pride and delight in its
institutions as I did. It required no fife and drum corps, no Fourth of
July procession, to set me tingling with patriotism. Even the common
agents and instruments of municipal life, such as the letter carrier and
the fire engines, I regarded with a measure of respect. I know what I
thought of people who said that Chelsea was a very small, dull,
unaspiring town, with no discernible excuse for a separate name or
existence.

The apex of my civic pride and personal contentment was reached on the
bright September morning when I entered the public school. That day I
must always remember, even if I live to be so old that I cannot tell my
name. To most people their first day at school is a memorable occasion.
In my case the importance of the day was a hundred times magnified, on
account of the years I had waited, the road I had come, and the
conscious ambitions I entertained.

I am wearily aware that I am speaking in extreme figures, in
superlatives. I wish I knew some other way to render the mental life of
the immigrant child of reasoning age. I may have been ever so much an