**********
Hello again, Reb Journal. You will never guess what happened today! Papa came home from his
rounds as usual, and as he was putting away his horse in the barn, he called me to him.
"Come here, Chavaleh. I have something for you." And with that, he pulled out a small, leather
bound book from his cart. It was the one I had been looking at the other day in Avrahm's shop,
filled with both Russian and Jewish poetry. I squealed with delight and rushed into his arms,
thanking him over and over again.
"So my Chavaleh likes the gift, I take it?" I nodded and kissed him on the cheek.
"Oh, thank you Papa!"
"Think of it as an early birthday present. . . Oh, and Chavaleh. . . don't tell your sisters." Again I
nodded and went off to my secret hiding spot, an old run down shack on the nearby lake shore.
No one ever goes there, so I am always alone. I sat down and opened the cover of the book.
Inside, on the first page, Papa had scribbled:
"To my Chavaleh,
May your mind take flight
with the words of these poems."
Chavaleh. . . only Papa calls me that. He's always called me that since I was little. When I was a
baby, I was often very ill, and Papa and Mama sat up countless nights, "watching me fight for
my life like a trampled little bird" . . . So it stuck. I am forever Chavaleh, Little Bird, in my
Papa's eyes. Not that I mind it. I am very close to my Papa, more so then I am with my Mama.
Being the middle daughter of five is difficult, but Papa always manages to show me that I am not
forgotten by bringing me small surprises, like the poetry book . . . and my birthday is still three
months away.
Oh well, I must get back to my work now. As Mama says, "The cows won't milk themselves!"
Until later, Reb Journal.
**********
Hello again, Reb Journal. You will never guess what happened today! Papa came home from his
rounds as usual, and as he was putting away his horse in the barn, he called me to him.
"Come here, Chavaleh. I have something for you." And with that, he pulled out a small, leather
bound book from his cart. It was the one I had been looking at the other day in Avrahm's shop,
filled with both Russian and Jewish poetry. I squealed with delight and rushed into his arms,
thanking him over and over again.
"So my Chavaleh likes the gift, I take it?" I nodded and kissed him on the cheek.
"Oh, thank you Papa!"
"Think of it as an early birthday present. . . Oh, and Chavaleh. . . don't tell your sisters." Again I
nodded and went off to my secret hiding spot, an old run down shack on the nearby lake shore.
No one ever goes there, so I am always alone. I sat down and opened the cover of the book.
Inside, on the first page, Papa had scribbled:
"To my Chavaleh,
May your mind take flight
with the words of these poems."
Chavaleh. . . only Papa calls me that. He's always called me that since I was little. When I was a
baby, I was often very ill, and Papa and Mama sat up countless nights, "watching me fight for
my life like a trampled little bird" . . . So it stuck. I am forever Chavaleh, Little Bird, in my
Papa's eyes. Not that I mind it. I am very close to my Papa, more so then I am with my Mama.
Being the middle daughter of five is difficult, but Papa always manages to show me that I am not
forgotten by bringing me small surprises, like the poetry book . . . and my birthday is still three
months away.
Oh well, I must get back to my work now. As Mama says, "The cows won't milk themselves!"
Until later, Reb Journal.
**********
