“Zusha, what’s going to be with my father’s vodka? If you drink it all up there’ll be nothing left for the rest of the winter!”

Zissy was a good person, with a strong personality. However, as she grew older, it became hard for her to stop herself from rebuking the needy who came into the house.

“Shmelke, do you trek mud across the floor in your own home, too?”

Shmelke the pauper put down the hot tea he was sipping and glanced at the trail of mud prints he had left across the kitchen floor.

“How long would it take for you to wipe your feet at the entrance, Shmelke? I must have reminded you a hundred times this winter alone… Who cleans it up at the end of the day? My poor mother, and myself! It’s simply not fair. And Yankele, do you plan on leaving over any of that babka for anyone else? The pan was meant as a serving dish, not your personal plate. Whenever my mother bakes that babka, you don’t leave over any for the rest of us. What will be? Should we started calling you Yankele the Miser?”

Yankele wiped the crumbs hanging from the ends of his beard and stared sorrowfully at the babka that was now restricted.

“And Zusha, what’s going to be with my father’s vodka? If you drink it all up there’ll be nothing left for the rest of the winter!”