cissors, was laid on the shelf, and finally thrown into a
box among nails and screws and files. Years of darkness and disgrace for a
scissors so highly born as I. But one day I was hauled out. A bell tinkled
in the street. An Italian scissors-grinder wanted a job. I was put upon the
stone, and the grinder put his foot upon the treadle, and the bands pulled,
and the wheel sped, and the fire flew, and it seemed as if, in the heat and
pressure and agony, I should die. I was ground, and rubbed, and oiled, and
polished, till I glittered in the sun; and one day, when young Harriet was
preparing for the season, I plunged into the fray. I almost lost my senses
among the ribbons, and flew up and down among the flounces, and went mad
amongst the basques. I move round as gay as when I was young; and modern
scissors, with their stumpy ends, and loose pivots, and weak blades, and
glaring bows, and course shanks, are stupid beside an old family piece like
me. You would be surprised how spry I am flying around the sewing-room,
cutting corsage into heart-shape, and slitting a place for button holes,
and making double-breasted jackets, and hollowing scallops, and putting the
last touches on velvet arabesques and Worth overskirts. I feel almost as
well at eighty years of age as at ten, and I lie down to sleep at night
amid all the fineries of the wardrobe, on olive-green cashmere, and beside
pannier puffs, and pillowed on feathers of ostrich.

Oh! what a gay life the scissors live! I may lie on gayest lady's lap, and
little children like me better than almost anything else to play with. The
trembling octogenarian takes me by the hand, and the rollicking
four-year-old puts on me his dimpled fingers. Mine are the children's curls
and the bride's veil. I am welcomed to the Christmas tree, and the
sewing-machine, and the editor's table. I have cut my way through the ages.
Beside pen, and sword, and needle, I dare to stand anywhere, indispensable
to the race, the world-renowned scissors!

But I had a sad mission once. The bell tolled in the New England village
because a soul had passed. I sat up all the night cutting the pattern for a
shroud. Oh, it was gloomy work. There was wailing in the house, but I could
not stop to mourn. I had often made the swaddling-clothes for a child, but
that was the only time I fashioned a robe for the grave. To fit it around
the little neck, and make the sleeves just long enough for the quiet
arms--it hurt me mor