“There is no more to tell,” said the shoe.
If Carl had been puzzled on Friday as to what story he would hear, he was yet more doubtful on Saturday. There lay the pine-cone, the hymn-book, and the stocking, on the old chest, and there sat Carl on the floor beside them,—sometimes pulling his fingers, and sometimes turning over the three remaining story-tellers, by way of helping him to make up his mind. As a last resort he was taking a meditative survey of the ends of his toes, when a little shrill voice from the chest startled him; and the pine-cone began without more ado.
THE STORY OF THE PINE CONE.
“‘Whew!’ said the north wind ‘Whew—r—r—r—r!’
“The fir trees heard him coming, and bowed their tall heads very gracefully, as if to tell the wind he could not do much with them. Only some of the little cones who had never blown about a great deal, felt frightened, and said the wind made their teeth chatter.
“‘Do you think we can stay on?’ asked one little cone; and the others would have said they didn’t know, but the wind gave the tree such another shake that their words were lost.
“‘Whew—r—r—r—r—r!’ said the wind.