Play pond 🎙🎙

Old Zelig was eyed askance by his brethren. No one deigned to call him Reb Zelig, nor to prefix to his name the American equivalent Mr. The old one is barrel with a stave missing, knowingly declared his neighbours. He never spends a cent; and he belongs nowheres. For  to belong, on New Yorks East Side, is of no slight importance. It means being a member in one of the numberless congregations. Every decent Jew must join A Society for Burying its Members, to be provided at least with a narrow cell at the end of the long road. Zelig was not even a member of one of these. Alone, like a stone, his wife often sighed. In the cloakshop where Zelig worked he stood daily, brandishing his heavy iron on the sizzling cloth, hardly ever glancing about him. The workmen despised him, for during a strike he returned to work after two days absence. He could not be idle, and thought with dread of the Saturday that would bring him no pay envelope. His very appearance seemed alien to his brethren. His figure was tall, and of cast-iron mould. When he stared stupidly at something, he looked like a blind Samson. His grey hair was long, and it fell in disheveled curls on gigantic shoulders somewhat inclined to stoop. His shabby clothes hung loosely on him; and, both summer and winter, the same old cap covered his massive head.