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Fish and Honey and Harry's mother, the senior Mrs. Glaser.
    “Poppy!” Ma said. “Not in the parlor!”
    I had to wait until the company had left. Then I was taken to Ma's bedroom to have it explained that some baby boys underwent a
procedure,
but the Minkels and the Glasers were unanimous in judging it quite unnecessary.
    “It's just an old-fashioned
racial
thing,” Honey said, “and we are civilized New Yorkers.”
    I said, “I wish you could stay here, Honey. I'd help you with Sherman Ulysses and we could make dolls' clothes and have fun.”
    “I'm a mother now, Pops,” she said. “I don't have time for fun.”
    So the party was over. Honey took Sherman home, and time slowed down again, crawling past me while I read to Ma from
Collier's Weekly,
and danced imaginary cotillions, but very quietly, so as not to tire her.
    Mrs. Schwab visited, and Mrs. Lesser, and even the Misses Stone returned. They had forgiven me my hysterical outburst and after I turned sixteen they seemed more inclined to take me seriously. They knew better than to mention the distribution of secondhand clothes, but some of their projects, their work amongst “the element,” sounded adventurous and exciting. They raised money for the settlement houses where the Russian Hebrews could be washed and fed and trained out of their rude oriental ways. They arranged classes where the unfortunates could learn hygiene and gymnastics. They sent them to summer camp.
    I said, “Gymnastics and summer camp! I'm sure I shouldn't mind being an unfortunate.”
    The Misses Stone laughed.
    “No, Poppy,” one of them said, “you wouldn't say so if you saw how people lived. Workers and donations are what we need. Perhaps some day, when you're not so much needed at home?”
    “I hope,” Ma sighed, “some day I may feel strong enough to spare Poppy for a few hours.”
    Her true intention was that I should never set foot anywhere near such dangerous territory, but I wore away her resolve with the daily drip, drip, drip of my requests. It took many months. Then suddenly, one summer morning, she threw down her needlepoint and said, “I see you are determined to break my heart, Poppy, so go and be done with it.”
    Two days later I was taken by trolley-car to the Bowery, and then, with a Miss Stone on either side of me for safety, I was swept into the tumult of Delancey Street, the very place where Pa had enjoyed his cherry blintzes.
    I tried to tell the Misses Stone about this exciting coincidence, and they smiled, but I wasn't at all sure they could even hear me. I had never in my life encountered so much noise or seen so many people. Then we turned onto Orchard Street and the buildings and the noise of the stinking, shouting unfortunates pressed in on me even closer.
    There were dead ducks and chickens hanging from hooks, and women with dirty hands selling eggs from handcarts, and pickle barrels, and shop signs in foreign squiggles, and small boys carrying piles of unfinished garments higher than themselves, and ragged girls playing potsy on the sidewalk.
    “Why is everyone shouting?” I shouted.
    “Because they're happy to be here.” That was the best explanation the Misses Stone could offer.
    I said, “I'm sure abroad must be a very terrible place if Orchard Street makes them happy.”
    We went to The Daughters of Jacob Center where the element could learn to dress like Americans and raise healthy children. And then to the Edgie Library where they could study our language.
    “You see, Poppy,” they said, “how much needs doing?”
    I said, “I don't come into my money until I'm twenty-one and I don't know how much there'll be because Pa had complicated affairs.”
    But the Misses Stone said it wasn't only money they needed but helpers, and why didn't I try sitting, just for five minutes, and helping someone with their English reading.
    A small girl stood in front of me with a primer in her hands, trying to stare me down. I turned to tell the Stones I