A look of infinite content and gratitude lit up Isaac’s face. Then, rising slightly on his side, he recited in Hebrew, in a clear though feeble voice, the words of the Jewish ritual for the dying: “Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one. Blessed be the glorious name of Thy kingdom for ever and ever. Into Thy hands I deliver my spirit. Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord, God of truth.” And so he passed away. Every year, on the anniversary of Isaac’s death, Alice, now a maiden ripening into womanhood, visits Isaac’s grave in the Jewish cemetery in Boston in which he rests; and if sincere tears and true sorrow are acceptable in the sight of God, then is her offering indeed acceptable and holy. THE SCISSORS-GRINDER “Scissors to grind! Knives, axes, or saws to sharpen! Everything made as sharp as new!” This is the cry, uttered in a clear and cheerful voice, which is frequently heard in the alleys and back yards as well as the streets and avenues of that vast and densely populated section of the American metropolis known as the great East Side. The man who utters it is an unusually agreeable, as well as active and energetic, representative of the classic trade of scissors-grinding. He is a pleasant-faced, good-humored young fellow, with light-brown hair and rounded, open countenance, from which a pair of bright blue eyes gaze at you with a frank and sympathetic expression. His shabby clothes hang most gracefully on his lithe and erect, not over tall figure; his motions have a sort of trained elegance about them, and when he stands before you with his grinding machine on his back, he seems not so much an humble sharpener of domestic utensils, but rather some strange sort of soldier, and the machine upon his back some peculiar and unusual engine of warfare. He is very well liked in the entire district, and his popularity brings in sufficient trade to insure him a very fair living. When his clear and musical cry is heard anywhere in the neighborhood, the customers pour forth from the many-storied tenements, the cellar dwellings (I had almost written cave dwellings, which term would hardly have rendered me liable to a suit for libel if I had used it), and the little shops and stalls which abound everywhere in the vicinity. Soon he is surrounded by a motley throng—Jews, Italians, Poles, Bohemians, men, women, and children, all sorts and conditions of mankind—who bring him a miscellaneous collection of invalid table knives, dilapidated carving knives, superannuated scissors, and antediluvian saws, all of which he is expected to heal and to restore to their pristine brightness and sharpness. [Illustration: THE SCISSORS GRINDER _Page 186_]