Vermont phÅ“nix. [volume] (Brattleboro, Vt.) 1834-1955, 1877-09-07
EAITHFUL UNTO DEATIf.

f1IIHFCL CNIO OEAIH.
l do not know how it is to be accounted
for, that we Jews consider dish of fish in
dispensable for the evening meal of Friday,
the beginning of the Sabbath. The Bible
mentions as national delicacies only on
ions and garlic. Whether the hereditary
dish of fish is to be traced to an historic or-
gin in Peters catch of fish or the miracles
of the loaves and fishes, shall leave for
archeologists 10 decide. This much, how
ever, l know, that in my native town,
which had large Protestant, a small Cath
Olic aud a considerable Jewish population,
the peasants of The suburbs every Friday
held their market at tue Fisbsloue las it
was called) almost exclusively for the last
named class, and that Jewish cooks carried
home their contingent of the Sabbah fish
in more or less cleanly pots, Jewish house
holders in more or less cleanly pocket
handkerchiefs.
The dish had grave significance. The
quality of the fish bore witness TO the great
ness OF the festival; /; TO the three high feast
days belonged the salmon to the lesser
feasts the carp in sauce; ordinary Ssbbaths
udu W Oe COuleul Win DdIDtl duu Nulle-
fish. Yet without distinction of rank the
fish were always prepared by my mother
with her own hands, for my father main
tanned that no one on earth could procure
a nsh sauce "a Ia Mutter." With just
pride every Friday morning my moiher
fastened about her the white apron, by
whose corners 1 and my younger sister
were permitted TO cling in order 10 he wit
nesses of this miracle OF culinary high art.
AS soon as the duly-divded fish was taken
from the bright brass kettle and symmet-
rically arranged upon the long platter uhe
dish was served cold in the EVENING", moth
er laid the choicest part, the head piece up
on separate plate, crowned it with onions
and slices of lemon, aud placed it on the
clean secured s!de-board with the words,
"For Aunt Guttrand."
Every week we children saw this envia-
BILE tribute borne away without being able
to understand the imperative duty that i'm
posed upon us headless fish. Aunt Gut
tran was our grandmother's sister, who
with a bedridden husband and two oldish
daughters had her humble abode, out OF
whi ch she never set her foot, In a narrow
street near the old "school," the "house of
prayer" of the strict believers. But our
mother never mentioned her name without
an expression of pious reverence, to which
we children were constrained without un-
d erslanding it or inquiring into its reason.
Our reveTent awe even took on a shade of
fear when with our mother on Friday eve
nings, after divine service, We clambered
up The sleep wooden stair, guarded by a
cord in place of banister, TO the dwelling of
Aunt Guttrand, in order, according 10 the
custom which our mother bad established.
to receive her blessing.
To this day the picture lives in my men,
ory-ay, the very smell of the room into
which we entered, not without inward re-
luc lance. The sense OF smell has a remark
ably tenacious memory. As 1 wrile al
most breath again that atmosphere of coal
gas, lamp-smoke and camphor as fifty years
ago it struck upon my lungs, and which,
whenever 1 afterwards encountered it in
the abodes of poverty, involuntarily called
up the image of Aunt Guttrand before my
soul.
The room was large and low; from the
blackened cross beams of the ceiling hung
down a brass lamp with seven branches.
from two of whose sockets issued an oil
flame that threw glare of light upon the
round, white covered table standing I'M
derneath, while the rest of the forlorn
apartment lay in dusky obscurity. The
worm-e eaten floor was strewn with white
sand, which cracked disagreeably beneath
our feet. In one of the farther corners
burned an iron eoal-stove, nom the door CT
whose ash-pan the wind-gusts drove out
clouds of smoke : in the other stood bed
with red and-blue checkered cotton hang
ings, in which our aunts husband, whom
we never called "uncle," lay disabled by
rheumatism, his hands and feet bound up
in camphor pOultices. In leathern arm
chair not far from the bed sat our aunt.
Holding a thick prayer book bound in
black leather, and her lips moving inaudi-
bly,, the rose to greet us. Our mother
stretched out her hand to her with a move
ment as if she bent herself before the old
woman, who laid our mother's head upon
her shoulder aud repeatedly stroked her
forehead. "Bless my children, Aunt Gut
trand," said she always, for the lowly old
woman seemed TO walt for this request.
Now she came step or two forward into
the lighted space toward us, who were shy
ly fumbling the corner Of the table.
Aunt Guttrand was of middle height and
slender figure, that seemed little bent, or
rather broken, and was scantily wrapped
in a garment of dark calico. Over her
breast was crossed, without any ornament
whatever, a white kerchief, that made her
pale face seem yellow almost as wax.
over her forehead black band carefully
confined her hair. A white lace cap en-
circled her grave and dlgnitied face. The
nosa xvao On 6naIu draun that n aaamad n