In Chelsea, as in Boston, we made our stand in the wrong end of the town.  Arlington Street was inhabited by poor Jews, poor Negroes, and a sprinkling of poor Irish.  The side streets leading from it were occupied by more poor Jews and Negroes.  It was a proper locality for a man without capital to do business.  My father rented a tenement with a store in the basement.  He put in a few barrels of flour and of sugar, a few boxes of crackers, a few gallons of kerosene, an assortment of soap of the “save the coupon” brands; in the cellar a few barrels of potatoes, and a pyramid of kindling-wood; in the showcase, an alluring display of penny candy.  He put out his sign, with a gilt-lettered warning of “Strictly Cash,” and proceeded to give credit indiscriminately.  That was the regular way to do business on Arlington Street.  My father, in his three years’ apprenticeship, had learned the tricks of many trades.  He knew when and how to “bluff.”  The legend of “Strictly Cash” was a protection against notoriously irresponsible customers; while none of the “good” customers, who had a record for paying regularly on Saturday, hesitated to enter the store with empty purses.

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.  My father had come to America to make a living.  America, which was free and fair and kind, must presently yield him what he sought.  I had come to America to see a new world, and I followed my own ends with the utmost assiduity; only, as I ran out to explore, I would look back to see if my house were in order behind me—­if my family still kept its head above water.