One afternoon he sang something to me, with his snuff-box for a
baton, and then asked me how I liked it
"I composed it myself," he explained, boastfully
I did not like the tune. In fact, I failed to make out any tune at all,
but I was overflowing with a desire to please him, so I said, with
feigned enthusiasm: "Did you really? Why, it's so beautiful, so
sweet!"
Reb Sender's face shone
After that he often submitted his compositions to me, though he
was too shy to sing them to older people. They were all supposed
to be liturgical tunes, or at least some "hop" for the Day of the
Rejoicing of the Law. When I hailed the newly composed air with
warm approval he would show his satisfaction either with
shamefaced reserve or with child-like exuberance.
If, on the other hand, I failed to conceal my indifference, he would
grow morose, and it would be some time before I succeeded in
coaxing him back to his usual good humor
Nor were his melodies the only things he confided to me. When I
was still a mere boy, fourteen or fifteen years old, he would lay
bare to me some of the most intimate secrets of his heart
"You see, my wife thinks me a fool," he once complained to me.
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