exception in acuteness of observation, powers of comparison, and
abnormal self-consciousness; none the less were my thoughts and conduct
typical of the attitude of the intelligent immigrant child toward
American institutions. And what the child thinks and feels is a
reflection of the hopes, desires, purposes of the parent who brought him
overseas, no matter how precocious and independent the child may be.
Your immigrant inspectors will tell you what poverty the foreigner
brings in his baggage, what want in his pockets. Let the overgrown boy
of twelve, reverently drawing his letters in the baby class, testify to
the noble dreams and high ideals that may be hidden beneath the greasy
caftan of the immigrant. Speaking for the Jews, at least, I know I am
safe in inviting such an investigation.

Who were my companions on my first day at school? Whose hand was in
mine, as I stood, overcome with awe, by the teacher's desk, and
whispered my name as my father prompted? Was it Frieda's steady, capable
hand? Was it her loyal heart that throbbed, beat for beat with mine, as
it had done through all our childish adventures? Frieda's heart did
throb that day, but not with my emotions. My heart pulsed with joy and
pride and ambition; in her heart longing fought with abnegation. For I
was led to the schoolroom, with its sunshine and its singing and the
teacher's cheery smile; while she was led to the workshop, with its foul
air, care-lined faces, and the foreman's stern command. Our going to
school was the fulfilment of my father's best promises to us, and
Frieda's share in it was to fashion and fit the calico frocks in which
the baby sister and I made our first appearance in a public schoolroom.

I remember to this day the gray pattern of the calico, so affectionately
did I regard it as it hung upon the wall--my consecration robe awaiting
the beatific day. And Frieda, I am sure, remembers it, too, so