The fingers guided the needle straight toward the cook’s slipper.
There was a little tear in the leather, and it must be mended.
“This sort of work is quite beneath me,” said the Needle; “I can never do it. I shall break—I know I shall!” And break it did. “Did not I tell you I was too slender for such a task?” asked the Darning-needle.
“There, now you are good for nothing,” said the fingers; but they still held the needle firmly, and soon they had fixed a ball of sealing-wax on the top.
The cook now used it as a pin to fasten her scarf.
“Ho, ho! So I’m a scarf-pin now! I always knew I should make my way in the world. Worth always tells in the end,” said the Needle. And it chuckled to itself, although you could not see it do so. A darning-needle never lets you see it laugh.
This one sat bolt upright and gazed in all directions, just as if it were riding in a state carriage.
“Might I be allowed to inquire if you are made of gold?” it asked of its neighbor—a pin. “You have a very bright look, and a head of your own, though it is ridiculously small. You must do your best to grow a bit. Of course, it is not every one who is decorated with a ball of red sealing-wax!”
The Darning-needle drew itself up so proudly as it said this, that it overbalanced and fell out of the scarf into the sink, which the cook at that moment was rinsing down.
“Now I am going to see the world,” thought the Needle. “I hope I shall not lose myself.” But lose itself it did. And as it was washed through a long, greasy pipe and carried away into the gutter, it said: “I am not coarse and strong enough to hold my own in this world, but I know who and what I am, and that’s a great comfort.”