“That’s as it may be,” said the Fingers; and they grasped her round the body.
“See, I’m coming with a train!” said the Darning Needle, and she drew a long thread after her, but there was no knot in the thread.
The Fingers pointed the needle just at the cook’s slipper, in which the upper leather had burst, and was to be sewn together.
“That’s vulgar work,” said the Darning Needle. “I shall never get through. I’m breaking! I’m breaking!” And she really broke. “Did I not say so?” said the Darning Needle; “I’m too fine!”
“Now it’s quite useless,” said the Fingers; but they were obliged to hold her fast, all the same; for the cook dropped some sealing wax upon the needle, and pinned her handkerchief together with it in front.
“So, now I’m a breastpin!” said the Darning Needle. “I knew very well that I should come to honor: when one is something, one comes to something!”
And she laughed quietly to herself—and one can never see when a darning needle laughs. There she sat, as proud as if she was in a state coach, and looked all about her.
“May I be permitted to ask if you are of gold?” she inquired of the pin, her neighbor. “You have a very pretty appearance, and a peculiar head, but it is only little. You must take pains to grow, for it’s not everyone that has sealing wax dropped upon him.”
And the Darning Needle drew herself up so proudly that she fell out of the handkerchief right into the sink, which the cook was rinsing out.
“Now we’re going on a journey,” said the Darning Needle. “If I only don’t get lost!”