“I shall teach you not to trust to appearances,” said the boat.
“What do you mean?” said Carl.
“I mean that when you have looked at me you have got the best of me.”
“That’s very apt to be the way with pretty things,” said the stocking.
“It isn’t!” said Carl. For he had more than once known his mother call him a “pretty boy.”
“However that may be,” said the boat, “I can’t tell a story.”
“Can’t tell a story!—yes, you can,” said Carl. “Do it, right off.”
“I haven’t any to tell,” said the boat. “I was once of some use in the world, but now I’m of none, except to be looked at.”
“Yes, you are of use,” said Carl, “for I like you; and you can tell a story, too, if you’re a mind, as well as the pine cone.”
“The pine cone has had a better experience,” said the boat, “and has kept good society. For me, I have always lived on the outside of things, ever since I can remember, and never knew what was going on in the world, any more than I knew what was going on inside of my old tree. All I knew was, that I carried up sap for its branches—when it came down again, or what became of it, I never saw.”