I am afraid that I should tire you, dear reader, were I to give you the whole story of how I was filed into a point; how I thought the file hard, disagreeable, and rough, as many young folk have thought their teachers; how I was then heated in a fire till I grew as red as naughty boys who have been caned by their master; then left to cool in a basin of cold water, like the same boys shut up to think over the matter.
Then I and a number of my companions were held in a shovel over the fire, and stirred about, and then straightened with blows of the hammer. I thought that I must now be quite perfect; but never was needle more mistaken. How could I go through linen, cloth, and silk—how could young gentlemen and ladies go through the world—without a proper degree of polish! Thousands of us were put on a piece of buckram sprinkled with emery dust; more emery dust was thrown over us, and then a small quantity of oil; for I wish that every teacher would remember that though the emery of discipline is necessary enough, it works best when laid on with the sweet oil of kindness.
Oh, if I could only describe the rolling backwards and forwards, the rubbing and scrubbing again and again, the washing, the wiping, the smoothing on a stone, thought necessary to complete a good needle! Depend upon it, dear reader, your reading and writing, your sums and your tables, nay, even the terrible dog’s-eared grammar, are nothing to what the smallest needle must go through before it is fit to appear in the world!
CHAPTER II.
MY FIRST ADVENTURE.
OUR education being now finished, two hundred and fifty of us were packed up together, and remained in darkness and seclusion for some time. We were then removed, separated, and in smaller numbers placed in neat little dark-coloured papers, and kept in a box in a shop. Of all the tiresome parts of my life, this was the most tiresome by far. I longed for the moment when I should be taken from the prison, and see a little of the world. I was quite discontented with my state.
“Why was I made, if not to be used?” thought I. “Why have I undergone all this heating, hitting, and polishing? why am I so sharp, so neat, so bright, if not to make some figure in the world?” I was only a young needle, you see, and impatience is natural to youth: I am not the only one who has found it hard to stay contentedly in the position in which he has been placed.
At length I felt myself moved (you know that I could see nothing out of my paper). I believe that I had been bought and sold; and though not at once released from my confinement, I felt reasonable hopes that I soon should be so. Nor were my expectations disappointed.
“Oh, mamma! dear mamma! what a sweet little work-box—and all fitted up so nicely!” exclaimed a childish voice near me. I longed to have a peep at the speaker.