But lean and rusty as he was, the rebbe's pupils regarded him with entire respect, and followed his pointer with earnest eyes across the limp page of the alphabet, or the thumbed page of the prayer-book.
For a short time my sister and I went for our lessons to Reb' Lebe's heder, in the bare room off the women's gallery, up one flight of stairs, in a synagogue.

The place was as noisy as a reckless expenditure of lung power could make it.

The pupils on the bench shouted their way from _aleph_ to _tav_, cheered and prompted by the growl of the rebbe; while the children in the corridor waiting their turn played "puss in the corner" and other noisy games.
Fetchke and I, however, soon began to have our lessons in private, at our own home.

We sat one on each side of the rebbe, reading the Hebrew sentences turn and turn about.
When we left off reading by rote and Reb' Lebe began to reveal the mysteries to us, I was so eager to know all that was in my book that the lesson was always too short.

I continued reading by the hour, after the rebbe was gone, though I understood about one word in ten.
My favorite Hebrew reading was the Psalms.