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.