“Yum! A juicy pear, freshly picked off the tree! I get first dibs, of course, once it’s washed. It was my idea, after all”

“Take a look at that,” observed Fishel. “A ripe, yellow pear, on Mr. Krankowitz’s tree — at this time of year, too! Wonder if he’d let us have it for Tu B’Shevat.”

“Let’s ask him,” Faivish replied promptly. “It looks really juicy and delicious.”

The brothers went to ring Mr. Krankowitz’s doorbell. It took three tries. The third time they pressed the bell for a whole minute, as the old man was rather hard of hearing.

“No need to keep your finger on the bell for so long!” the old man grumbled as he opened the door. “Just give a short ring, that’s all.”

“Er — sorry,” stammered Fishel.

“We apologize,” echoed Faivish with an ingratiating smile. “Um… there’s a yellow pear on the tree in your back garden. Do you think we could have it?”

“Yeah, it would be perfect for Tu B’Shevat,” said Fishel eagerly. “Unless you want it for yourself, of course.”

The old man thought for a moment. Instead of “pear,” he thought they’d said “chair.” He had indeed put an old, rickety yellow chair in the garden some time ago. He was intending to chop it up for firewood. But he supposed there was no harm in giving it to Fishel and Faivish. It would save him the bother of chopping it up.

“All right,” he replied. “Come back in half an hour, and I’ll have it ready for you to collect.”

“Wow, thank you!” exclaimed Fishel.

“So nice of you,” declared Faivish.

“Sure you don’t want us to get it down for you?” asked Fishel. “We’re good climbers!”

Mr. Krankowitz looked at him oddly.

“No, thank you,” he replied firmly. “I’ll get it myself.”