“I always said no girl of mine should marry a Dutchman.”  Mr. Belcovitch spoke as if at the close of a long career devoted to avoiding Dutch alliances, forgetting that not even one of his daughters was yet secure.

“Nor any girl of mine,” said Mrs. Belcovitch, as if starting a separate proposition.  “I would not trust a Dutchman with my medicine-bottle, much less with my Alte or my Becky.  Dutchmen were not behind the door when the Almighty gave out noses, and their deceitfulness is in proportion to their noses.”

The company murmured assent, and one gentleman, with a rather large organ, concealed it in a red cotton handkerchief, trumpeting uneasily.

“The Holy One, blessed be He, has given them larger noses than us,” said the Maggid, “because they have to talk through them so much.”

A guffaw greeted this sally.  The Maggid’s wit was relished even when not coming from the pulpit.  To the outsider this disparagement of the Dutch nose might have seemed a case of pot calling kettle black.  The Maggid poured himself out a glass of rum, under cover of the laughter, and murmuring “Life to you.” in Hebrew, gulped it down, and added, “They oughtn’t to call it the Dutch tongue, but the Dutch nose.”

“Yes, I always wonder how they can understand one another,” said Mrs. Belcovitch, “with their chatuchayacatigewesepoopa.”  She laughed heartily over her onomatopoetic addition to the Yiddish vocabulary, screwing up her nose to give it due effect.  She was a small sickly-looking woman, with black eyes, and shrivelled skin, and the wig without which no virtuous wife is complete.  For a married woman must sacrifice her tresses on the altar of home, lest she snare other men with such sensuous baits.  As a rule, she enters into the spirit of the self-denying ordinance so enthusiastically as to become hideous hastily in every other respect.  It is forgotten that a husband is also a man.  Mrs. Belcovitch’s head was not completely shaven and shorn, for a lower stratum of an unmatched shade of brown peeped out in front of the shaitel, not even coinciding as to the route of the central parting.

Meantime Pesach Weingott and Alte (Fanny) Belcovitch held each other’s hand, guiltily conscious of Batavian corpuscles in the young man’s blood.  Pesach had a Dutch uncle, but as he had never talked like him Alte alone knew.  Alte wasn’t her real name, by the way, and Alte was the last person in the world to know what it was.  She was the Belcovitches’ first successful child; the others all died before she was born.  Driven frantic by a fate crueller than barrenness, the Belcovitches consulted an old Polish Rabbi, who told them they displayed too much fond solicitude for their children, provoking Heaven thereby; in future, they were to let no one but themselves know their next child’s name, and never to whisper it till the child was safely married.  In such wise, Heaven would not be incessantly