"Good Sabbath!" my father called, as he entered; and "Good Sabbath! Good Sabbath!" we wished him in return.

If he brought with him a Sabbath guest from the synagogue, some poor man without a home, the stranger was welcomed and invited in, and placed in the seat of honor, next to my father.
We all stood around the table while _kiddush_, or the blessing over the wine, was said, and if a child whispered or nudged another my father reproved him with a stern look, and began again from the beginning.

But as soon as he had cut the consecrated loaf, and distributed the slices, we were at liberty to talk and ask questions, unless a guest was present, when we maintained a polite silence.
Of one Sabbath guest we were always sure, even if no destitute Jew accompanied my father from the synagogue.

Yakub the choreman partook of the festival with us.

He slept on a bunk built over the entrance door, and reached by means of a rude flight of steps.