with disaster in the form of a clump of brooms or a stack of
galvanized pails. But Schabelitz would scramble forward
with a shout and rescue them just before the crash came, and
set them deftly off again in the opposite direction.

"This I must have for my boy in New York." He held up a
miniature hook and ladder. "And this windmill that whirls
so busily. My Leo is seven, and his head is full of
engines, and motors, and things that run on wheels. He
cares no more for music, the little savage, than the son of
a bricklayer."

"Who is that man?" Fanny whispered, staring at him.

"Levine Schabelitz."

"Schabelitz! Not the--"

"Yes."

"But he's playing on the floor like--like a little boy! And
laughing! Why, Mother, he's just like anybody else, only
nicer."

If Fanny had been more than fourteen her mother might have
told her that all really great people are like that, finding
joy in simple things. I think that is the secret of their
genius--the child in them that keeps their viewpoint fresh,
and that makes us children again when we listen to them. It
is the Schabelitzes of this world who can shout over a toy