bringing up nor had ever associated intimately with Jewish circles. Mendel at first conjectured that the scissors-grinder was a nobleman of some European nation, who had been compelled to leave his native land for a political or other reason, and was obliged to support himself by his own labor in exile. Noblemen in exile do not, however, usually select a vocation requiring as much skill and industry and withal so low in the social scale as scissors-grinding, so on second thought Mendel abandoned this conjecture as untenable, and, not being able to set up any more satisfactory one, found himself, as far as this question was concerned, _vis à vis de rien_. Not feeling able to remain in this condition, he cast about for other means of solving the problem and gratifying his curiosity. He determined to ask the scissors-grinder’s name. Names, it is true, may be assumed, but Mendel thought that even an assumed name would be some sort of clew to its bearer’s identity, for it would, at least, indicate to what nation or class the bearer considered himself and desired to have others consider him as belonging. Accordingly when next the scissors-grinder appeared in the neighborhood of Mendel’s shop and was bringing back finely renovated the penknife which Mendel had given him to sharpen, the latter remarked: “Fine weather we are having to-day, Mr. ——!” and paused with expectant air. “My name,” said the scissors-grinder quietly, “is Eliezer Schwartzfeld.” Mendel gazed at him in undisguised astonishment. “That sounds extremely Jewish,” he said. “You are not one of the chosen people, are you?” “Yes, I am a Jew,” answered the scissors-grinder, with just a suggestion of a smile at Mendel’s evident surprise; “a Russian Jew at that, too.”