“I have become a scarf-pin,” said the needle. “I knew very well that I should come to honor. When one is worthy one is sure to get on in the world.”
Then it laughed to itself and sat there as proudly as if it was in its own carriage, and it looked about in all directions. “May I take the liberty to ask if you are of gold?” it inquired of a pin that was its neighbor. “Your outward appearance is splendid, and I see you have a head, too, although it is very small. You must endeavor to have it grow, for it is not every one who can receive a sealing-wax head of just the proper size.”
So saying, the darning needle raised itself so proudly that it fell out of the neckerchief into the sink which the cook was rinsing. “Now I am going to travel,” the needle said. “I hope I shall not be lost.”
The cook did not observe it, and down it went through the drain and out into a street gutter. “I am too fine for this world,” it said as it lay there in the mud beneath a shallow flow of water. “However, I know my own worth, and there is always a satisfaction in that.”
So the darning needle kept its proud bearing and retained its cheerful temper. All sorts of things floated past over it—chips, straws, and bits of newspaper. “How they sail along!” the needle said, “and they little know what is lying here under them. There goes a chip, thinking of nothing in the world but itself—a chip! Now a piece of straw floats past. How it twists and twirls about! It ought not to think only of itself, for unless it is careful it will most likely run against a stone. There swims a piece of old newspaper. What is printed on it has long been forgotten, and yet see what airs it gives itself. As for me, here I sit patiently and quietly. I know what I am, and that I shall remain.”
One day something glittering lay close by its side, and the darning needle thought this glittering object was a diamond. Really it was only a piece of a broken bottle. But because it was so bright, the darning needle spoke to it and introduced itself as a scarf-pin. “You are a diamond, I suppose,” said the needle.
“Yes, I am something of that sort,” responded the piece of glass.
So each thought the other something very choice, and they gossiped together about the arrogance and pride of the world.
“I have lived in a box that belonged to a young lady,” explained the darning needle. “The young lady was a cook, she had five fingers on each hand. I was only intimate with those on her right hand, and never have I seen anything else so conceited as were those five fingers. Yet they were made simply to take me out of the box and put me back again.”