Uh-oh. It was Mr. Krankowitz. Any minute now, the old man would bang on their door to complain to their father

F

ishel and Faivish had been sent to their room, following an incident with a ball and a smashed flowerpot. According to them the ball had simply slipped out of their hands, and there must have been something wrong with the flowerpot.

“The ball hardly touched it, and it broke. It must be defective,” argued Fishel.

“A pot shouldn’t break from one tiny little touch,” echoed Faivish. “It wasn’t our fault.”

But their parents had been unmoved. Now the troublesome two were looking out of their bedroom window, bored. Moishy Morris’s big sister Leah came into sight, lugging a bag of books home from Sem.

“Oh my, look at all those books,” remarked Fishel.

“Uh-huh,” replied Faivish. “Poor Leah.”

Leah was going shopping for shoes later. She suddenly remembered she still hadn’t decided which shade of brown to get. She frowned in concentration.

“Seriously! She looks really miserable! She’s working too hard.”

“Yeah. We’ve gotta cheer her up. I know what! I’ll get out my trumpet and play a tune.”

“I’ll get my drum. It’s sure to take her mind off her troubles.”