"You are not to have that book at all."
"What! You talk absurdly."
"We merit trust, the Count will own;
For nothing's left of flesh or bone,"
quoted Kalimann from Schiller's ballad "The Forge." "As for 'Nana,' I've simply pushed it in the stove."
"Kalimann, this is going too far."
"It is not a book for a Jewish woman to own."
The widow flushed indignantly, but would not yield the victory to her adversary.
"If you have burned my book you must give me an equivalent."
"With pleasure," replied the bookbinder, and taking down a picture from the wall, he begged her acceptance of it. It represented a scene from Schiller's "Song of the Bell," a fair young woman, surrounded by her children, seated on the balcony of her house. As title to the picture were printed these lines:
"The house spreadeth out,
And in it presides
The chaste gentle housewife,
The mother of children;
And ruleth metely
The household discreetly."
Our bookbinder had a reverential admiration for all scholars, poets, or artists, irrespective of
