Humoresque | Page 3

Kantor, nine in years, in the sturdy little legs bulging over
shoe-tops, in the pink cheeks that sagged slightly of plumpness, and in
the utter roundness of face and gaze, but mysteriously older in the
little-mother lore of crib and knee-dandling ditties and in the ropy
length and thickness of the two brown plaits down her back.
There was an eloquence to that waiting, laid-out table, the print of the
family already gathered about it; the dynastic high chair, throne of each
succeeding Kantor; an armchair drawn up before the paternal
mustache-cup; the ordinary kitchen chair of Mannie Kantor, who
spilled things, an oilcloth sort of bib dangling from its back; the little
chair of Leon Kantor, cushioned in an old family album that raised his
chin above the table. Even in cutlery the Kantor family was not lacking
in variety. Surrounding a centerpiece of thick Russian lace were
Russian spoons washed in washed-off gilt; forks of one, two, and three
tines; steel knives with black handles; a hartshorn carving-knife.
Thick-lipped china in stacks before the armchair. A round four-pound
loaf of black bread waiting to be torn, and tonight, on the festive mat of
cotton lace, a cake of pinkly gleaming icing, encircled with five pink
little candles.
At slightly after six Abrahm Kantor returned, leading by a resisting
wrist Leon Kantor, his stemlike little legs, hit midship, as it were, by
not sufficiently cut-down trousers and so narrow and birdlike of face
that his eyes quite obliterated the remaining map of his features, like
those of a still wet nestling. All except his ears. They poised at the sides
of Leon's shaved head of black bristles, as if butterflies had just lighted
there, whispering, with very spread wings, their message, and presently
would fly off again. By some sort of muscular contraction he could
wiggle these ears at will, and would do so for a penny or a whistle, and
upon one occasion for his brother Rudolph's dead rat, so devised as to
dangle from string and window before the unhappy passer-by. They

were quivering now, these ears, but because the entire little face was
twitching back tears and gulp of sobs.
"Abrahm--Leon--what is it?" Her hands and her forearms instantly out
from the business of kneading something meaty and floury, Mrs.
Kantor rushed forward, her glance quick from one to the other of them.
"Abrahm, what's wrong?"
"I'll feedle him! I'll feedle him!"
The little pulling wrist still in clutch, Mr. Kantor regarded his wife, the
lower half of his face, well covered with reddish bristles, undershot, his
free hand and even his eyes violently lifted. To those who see in a man
a perpetual kinship to that animal kingdom of which he is supreme,
there was something undeniably anthropoidal about Abrahm Kantor, a
certain simian width between the eyes and long, rather agile hands with
hairy backs.
"Hush it!" cried Mr. Kantor, his free hand raised in threat of descent,
and cowering his small son to still more undersized proportions. "Hush
it or, by golly! I'll--"
"Abrahm--Abrahm--what is it?"
Then Mr. Kantor gave vent in acridity of word and feature.
"_Schlemmil!_" he cried. "_Momser! Ganef! Nebich!_" by which, in
smiting mother tongue, he branded his offspring with attributes of
apostate and ne'er-do-well, of idiot and thief.
"Abrahm!"
"Schlemmil!" repeated Mr. Kantor, swinging Leon so that he described
a large semicircle that landed him into the meaty and waiting embrace
of his mother. "Take him! You should be proud of such a little momser
for a son! Take him, and here you got back his birthday dollar. A feedle!
Honest--when I think on it--a feedle!"

Such a rush of outrage seemed fairly to strangle Mr. Kantor that he
stood, hand still upraised, choking and inarticulate above the now
frankly howling huddle of his son.
"Abrahm, you should just once touch this child! How he trembles!
Leon--mamma's baby--what is it? Is this how you come back when
papa takes you out to buy your birthday present? Ain't you ashamed?"
Mouth distended to a large and blackly hollow O, Leon, between
terrifying spells of breath-holding, continued to howl.
"All the way to Naftel's toy-store I drag him. A birthday present for a
dollar his mother wants he should have, all right, a birthday present! I
give you my word till I'm ashamed for Naftel, every toy in his shelves
is pulled down. Such a cow--that shakes with his head--"
"No--no--no!" This from young Leon, beating at his mother's skirts.
Again the upraised but never quite descending hand of his father.
"By golly! I'll 'no--no' you!"
"Abrahm--go 'way! Baby, what did papa do?"
Then Mr. Kantor broke into an actual tarantella of rage, his hands
palms up and dancing.
"'What did papa do?' she asks. She's got easy asking. 'What did papa