When I hear the praises of the rich man Rothschild, who out of his immense
revenues devotes whole thousands to the education of children, the care of
the sick, the support of the aged, I admire and am touched.
But even while I admire it and am touched by it, I cannot help recalling a
poor peasant family who took an orphan niece into their little tumble-down
'If we take Katka,' said the woman, 'our last farthing will go on her,
there won't be enough to get us salt to salt us a bit of bread.'
'Well,… we'll do without salt,' answered the peasant, her husband.
Rothschild is a long way behind that peasant!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem