If my father knew the tricks of the trade, my mother could be counted on
to throw all her talent and tact into the business. Of course she had no
English yet, but as she could perform the acts of weighing, measuring,
and mental computation of fractions mechanically, she was able to give
her whole attention to the dark mysteries of the language, as
intercourse with her customers gave her opportunity. In this she made
such rapid progress that she soon lost all sense of disadvantage, and
conducted herself behind the counter very much as if she were back in
her old store in Polotzk. It was far more cozy than Polotzk--at least,
so it seemed to me; for behind the store was the kitchen, where, in the
intervals of slack trade, she did her cooking and washing. Arlington
Street customers were used to waiting while the storekeeper salted the
soup or rescued a loaf from the oven.
Once more Fortune favored my family with a thin little smile, and my
father, in reply to a friendly inquiry, would say, "One makes a living,"
with a shrug of the shoulders that added "but nothing to boast of." It
was characteristic of my attitude toward bread-and-butter matters that
this contented me, and I felt free to devote myself to the conquest of
my new world. Looking back to those critical first years, I see myself
always behaving like a child let loose in a garden to play and dig and
chase the butterflies. Occasionally, indeed, I was stung by the wasp of
family trouble; but I knew a healing ointment--my faith in America.
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