ee or four years younger, as the only girl,
Elizabeth, came between them, presently followed his brother to the
same business.

As for Isaac, whom hard necessity, or, more probably, a mistaken
thrift, likewise forced away from school when not much more than ten
years old, his earliest ventures bear a curious symbolic likeness to
his latest. He earned his first wages in the service of a religious
periodical, the Methodist publication still known as _Zion's Herald,_
whose office was situated in Crosby Street near Broadway. From there
he went to learn a trade in the type foundry in Great Thames Street.
But as it was already apparent that the family road to prosperity was
identical with that chosen by his elder brothers, we find him working
away beside them in the bake-house by the time he was eleven. They
had already established the bakery in Rutgers Street, between Monroe
and Cherry, where the family lived for so many years. They had
another shop in Pearl Street, to which Isaac used to carry bread
every morning.

This was a part of his life to which he was fond of recurring in his
last years. "Thanks be to God!" he said on the first day of 1886,
"how hard we used to work preparing for New Year's Day! Three weeks
in advance we began to bake New Year's cakes--flour, water, sugar,
butter, and caraway seeds. We never could make enough. How I used to
work carrying the bread around in my baker's cart! How often I got
stuck in the gutters and in the snow! Sometimes some good soul,
seeing me unable to get along, would give me a lift. I began to work
when I was ten and a half years old, and I have been at it ever
since."

And again, a few days later, as a poor woman carrying a heavy basket
passed him in the street, he said to the companion of his walk: "I
have had the blood spurt out of my arm carrying bread when I was a
baker. A lady asked me once for a hundred dollars to help her send
her only son to college. I answered her that my mother had four
children and got along without begging, and that I would not exchange
one year of those I spent working for several at college."

Less than a month before his death he fell into conversation with a
newsboy on the corner near the Paulist church in Fifty-ninth Street.
"It interested me very much," he said afterwards. "I found out that
he is one of five little brothers, and their mother is a widow. She
is trying to bring them up, poor thing! It reminds me of my own
mother."

It is