THE
STORY OF A NEEDLE

A black stream was flowing down on the carpet.
Page [32].

THE STORY OF A NEEDLE

❧ BY A. L. O. E.

LONDON, EDINBURGH,

DUBLIN, AND NEW YORK

THOMAS NELSON

AND SONS

CONTENTS

THE STORY OF A NEEDLE:—

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE STORY OF A NEEDLE.

─────

CHAPTER I.
MY EDUCATION.

I REALLY can say nothing of my earliest days except from report. I have heard, but I can hardly believe it, that I was once part of a rough mass of iron ore, that had lain for ages in a dark mine in Cornwall; that I was dug out, and put into a huge furnace, and heated till I became red-hot, and melted; that I was made into part of an iron bar, and when in a fiery glow was suddenly plunged into cold water, which changed my whole constitution and name, for iron was thenceforth called steel. I can just fancy how the water fizzed and hissed, and how my fiery flush faded suddenly away, and I became again quite black in the face! I can fancy all this, as I said, but I really remember nothing about it.

Nor have I any recollection of being drawn out into wire, forced to push myself through little holes, smaller and smaller, till I was long enough and slim enough for the purpose for which the manufacturer designed me. My very earliest remembrance is of finding myself lying on an anvil, along with thousands of others of my species. But you must not fancy me then, gentle reader, in the least like the neat, trim, bright little article that now has the pleasure of addressing you. I fancy that I looked uncommonly like a bit of steel wire, neither useful nor ornamental.

While I lay quietly reflecting in a kind of dull, sleepy doze, for at that time I was not sharp at all, a violent blow on one end of me startled me not a little—I had been hit on that side as flat as a pancake!

“What next?” thought I. I had little time for thinking. I was popped into the fire in a minute, but taken out again before I had time to melt. Then down came another blow upon me, which had quite a different effect from the first. It pierced out a little hole in my flat head, and I received the advantage of having an eye. No sooner did I possess it than I began to use it. I peered around me with much curiosity, now on the long brick building in which I found myself; now on the rough care-worn faces of the workmen, reddened by the glow of the fire-light; now on the multitude of baby needles around me, all looking up with their little round eyes.

I was now placed upon a block of lead, and my eye was punched to bring out the little bit of steel, which was neither tidy nor convenient. Then, to improve the shape of my flat head, it was filed a little on both sides.

I felt now tolerably well satisfied with myself—something like a child (for I have since seen a good deal of the world) when it has mastered the first difficulties of learning, and begins to fancy itself a genius. But there was a good deal more of filing, and heating, and polishing before me; education is a slow and troublesome matter, whether to children or needles!

I am afraid that I should tire you, dear reader, were I to give you the whole story of how I was filed into a point; how I thought the file hard, disagreeable, and rough, as many young folk have thought their teachers; how I was then heated in a fire till I grew as red as naughty boys who have been caned by their master; then left to cool in a basin of cold water, like the same boys shut up to think over the matter.

Then I and a number of my companions were held in a shovel over the fire, and stirred about, and then straightened with blows of the hammer. I thought that I must now be quite perfect; but never was needle more mistaken. How could I go through linen, cloth, and silk—how could young gentlemen and ladies go through the world—without a proper degree of polish! Thousands of us were put on a piece of buckram sprinkled with emery dust; more emery dust was thrown over us, and then a small quantity of oil; for I wish that every teacher would remember that though the emery of discipline is necessary enough, it works best when laid on with the sweet oil of kindness.

Oh, if I could only describe the rolling backwards and forwards, the rubbing and scrubbing again and again, the washing, the wiping, the smoothing on a stone, thought necessary to complete a good needle! Depend upon it, dear reader, your reading and writing, your sums and your tables, nay, even the terrible dog’s-eared grammar, are nothing to what the smallest needle must go through before it is fit to appear in the world!

CHAPTER II.
MY FIRST ADVENTURE.

OUR education being now finished, two hundred and fifty of us were packed up together, and remained in darkness and seclusion for some time. We were then removed, separated, and in smaller numbers placed in neat little dark-coloured papers, and kept in a box in a shop. Of all the tiresome parts of my life, this was the most tiresome by far. I longed for the moment when I should be taken from the prison, and see a little of the world. I was quite discontented with my state.

“Why was I made, if not to be used?” thought I. “Why have I undergone all this heating, hitting, and polishing? why am I so sharp, so neat, so bright, if not to make some figure in the world?” I was only a young needle, you see, and impatience is natural to youth: I am not the only one who has found it hard to stay contentedly in the position in which he has been placed.

At length I felt myself moved (you know that I could see nothing out of my paper). I believe that I had been bought and sold; and though not at once released from my confinement, I felt reasonable hopes that I soon should be so. Nor were my expectations disappointed.

“Oh, mamma! dear mamma! what a sweet little work-box—and all fitted up so nicely!” exclaimed a childish voice near me. I longed to have a peep at the speaker.

“I hope that it may assist my Lily to be a tidy, useful little girl, such as her mother would wish to see her.”

“What a pretty silver thimble! and it fits me exactly; just see! You’ve left a place for my scissors, as I have a nice pair already. What neat, tiny reels!—and what’s this? a yard measure—ah! and here is wax to make my thread strong! Thank you, dear mamma, again and again!”

I confess that I was rather in a state of irritation. Nobody seemed to be thinking in the least about me; after all my finished education, it was not thought worth while even to give me a look. At length my paper was moved, very roughly torn open, light flashed upon its contents, and I and my companions were scattered in every direction, I alighting on the Holland pinafore of a fair, chubby-faced boy, who had been the author of the mischief.

“Oh, Eddy! you tiresome child! if you would only leave my box alone—just see what you’ve done with my needles!”

I seized the opportunity of looking around me, in no hurry for my resting-place to be discovered. I found myself in a very comfortable room, full of so many things to excite my curiosity, that I felt as though I could have gazed for ever! But perhaps what interested me most was my first sight of the human beings who occupied the apartment. They were so unlike the workmen to whom I had been accustomed, that I examined them just as a philosopher might examine some newly-discovered curiosity.

In the first place, there was a gentle, blue-eyed lady, who sat near the table on which the work-box was placed; while on her knee rested a very plump little child, calmly engaged in sucking her thumb. A girl of about ten years of age (I knew nothing of ages then, and had not a notion of anything growing, but I have since learned much from observation) was on her knees, searching for her needles. She was evidently to be my future mistress, and I anxiously glanced into her face to read what sort of a child she might be. I scarcely knew whether her countenance pleased me or not. She had light eyes, like her mamma; rather a turned-up little nose, which gave her a somewhat saucy expression; and I am sorry to say that, just at that moment, I saw on her brow sundry creases, which did not give me an idea of good temper. I know that it is a foolish feeling of mine, but whenever I see those ugly creases rising on the brow of a little boy or girl, I always feel inclined to bestow on them a little prick, just by way of good counsel, you understand! I have seen lines, and very deep lines, made on the forehead by care; I could just faintly trace some on that of Mrs. Ellerslie; they became only too distinct in the course of time, but they never for a moment altered the gentle expression of her face.

I think now that I hear her soft voice as she said,—

“Oh, Lily, do not be so much vexed with your brother. You know that he is only a little boy. Come, my Eddy, let us help to look for the needles; you must not touch the papers again!”

I cannot say much for Eddy’s skill or industry in the search; he was much more intent on making baby laugh by snapping his fingers and grinning at her, turning his head knowingly first on one side, then on the other, till he succeeded in drawing from her a merry crow, and a smile showed her little toothless gums.

Such success elated Eddy, and, determined to press a good kiss on that sweet little mouth, he came close—too close to her, alas! for he caused me to inflict, I am sorry to confess it, a very tiny scratch on the baby’s plump white arm.

You should have heard what a scream she set up! I really felt quite embarrassed: was this to be the commencement of my career, was I to begin my services by mischief? You must consider also, gentle reader, that my astonishment was very great at the effect produced by my head simply rubbing against a child’s arm! I myself, though not a thousandth part of the size of the baby, had borne hammering, bruising, and battering, not only in silence, but with little inconvenience; and here the smallest touch seemed to excite terror and pain such as had never even entered into my fancy. Ah! I soon found how very different the human species is from ours; how easily their tender flesh is wounded, and—what I thought still more strange—how easily their feelings are pained! It has seemed to me, from what I have observed in life, and from what I have heard from companions of my own, possessing greater experience, that there are some human beings whose great business seems to be, pricking and paining the hearts of those around them; as if life were not full enough of sorrows without our wilfully bringing them upon our neighbours.

Eddy seemed much more penitent for having hurt baby than for having overthrown Lily’s paper of needles, though the latter action had been the cause of the former. He joined his mother and sister in trying to soothe little Rosey, and assured her so often that he was “very, very sorry,” and called her by so many sweet names, “little pet, darling, and duck,” and kissed the scratched arm so often, that she soon appeared quite pacified. I was not so well pleased at the titles which he gave me, throwing all the blame on “the naughty, ugly needle,” that had been the innocent cause of her pain. I was rather in ill humour when Lily hastily replaced me in the work-box, not dreaming of putting me back in my paper, but sticking me unceremoniously into the red silk which lined the top of the box. And there I was to remain, in company with other articles of metal, with which I soon entered into acquaintance; for all the metals are naturally related to each other, and I was able to make myself understood by everything bearing the nature of a mineral.

CHAPTER III.
CONVERSATION IN A WORK-BOX.

“WELL, what do you think of your new life?” said the Scissors, as soon as we were left quietly in the box. Perhaps I had better pause for a moment to describe my new companion, before I record our conversation.

The pair of Scissors, with which I had now to make acquaintance, had rather an old-fashioned air. One end was rounded, the other had been sharp, but a little piece had been broken off the point. I fancy that I detected on one of the handles something reddish, like a little speck of rust, and the brightness of the whole article was dimmed. This was doubtless a mark of antiquity, and it was in the patronizing manner of one who was aware of her own superiority, that Mrs. Scissors repeated her question, “Pray, what do you think of your new life?”

“I have hardly had time to judge,” was my reply; “but I am rather hurt at the way in which that little boy laid the whole blame of his own fault upon me.”

“Oh, that is what you must always expect,” laughed the Scissors; “a bad shearer never has good shears. I’ve been these ten years in the family, and I’ve always found it the same. When Miss Lily took it into her head to imitate the hairdresser, and practise upon Eddy’s flaxen poll, when I glanced aside, and snipped his little ear, whose fault was that but ‘the stupid Scissors’!’ And when I was seized upon to open a nailed box, whose contents the young lady was impatient to see, whose fault was it when my poor point suddenly snapped? why, ‘the good-for-nothing Scissors’,’ to be sure.”

“I hope that I shall not be treated in such a way,” said I, rather alarmed at her words; “it would be too bad, after the trouble that has been taken to form me, after having had to pass to perfection through so many hands, to be snapped by a careless child.”

“You would have nothing but the dust-hole before you,” said the Scissors. I thought the remark very unpleasant.

“I almost wish that I had remained in my mine,” sighed I.

“Oh no,” said a soft voice beside me, and I remarked a beautiful little Thimble, of a metal unknown to me before, so bright, and white, and shining, that I felt at once that it was of superior nature.

“Would you wish,” she continued, “to lie useless, to be of no benefit to any? Has not man refined, formed, polished, improved you, and exerted the powers of his reason to render you an instrument of good?”

“What has man’s reason to do with us?” said I.

“I know not whether I can explain myself clearly,” replied the Thimble, “but I will endeavour to show you what I mean. Man has been gifted with a power called reason; by this he governs the world, by this he subdues creatures stronger than himself, and makes all things combine to serve him. He has discovered that iron possesses a strength which he may turn to valuable account. It would be endless labour to plough the fields, if the ground had to be torn up by the hand; it would be terrible work to reap the corn, if each blade had to be pulled off by the fingers. Man determined to aid his own weakness by the wonderful strength of iron. He made the ploughshare, and the furrows are turned up; he made the sickle, and the sheaves are gathered; huge trees, which he would never have had force to pull down, are laid low by a few strokes of his axe.”

“There is no doubt but that ours is the most useful metal by far,” said the Scissors, with something of a sneer. “Who would use ploughshares, or sickles, or axes of silver? Precious little work they would do!”

“I grant it,” said the Thimble, with perfect good-humour; “but we all have our place in the world, we all have some good purpose to fulfil. Zinc, lead, tin, arsenic, platina, nickel—”

“Stop, stop,” I exclaimed, overwhelmed with such a list; “I never knew there were so many metals before.”

“Mamma, please, will you lay down the hem for me?” said Lily.
Page [27].

“Nay,” replied the Thimble gaily, “I have not numbered one half of them,—

“Manganese, cobalt, rhodium,

Copper, potassium, sodium—”

“Who ever such names bestowed on ’em?

Such long names I hold in odium!”

cried I.

“There’s rhyme, but not reason,” laughed the Thimble.

“If it is hard to number up the metals,” I observed, “how impossible must it be to count all the uses to which they are put!”

“Impossible indeed,” said the Thimble. “Man avails himself every day, every hour, of the treasures which he has won from the mine—for

“Ploughing, digging, and hoeing;

Cooking, ironing, mowing;

Cutting, sawing, and sewing;

Holding the embers glowing;

Speeding the vessel’s going;

Music, when horns are blowing;

Money, when debts are owing;

Bridges, where streams are flowing,

Lace, where finery’s showing;

Greenhouse, where plants are growing—”

“In short, there’s no counting or knowing

All that man to metals is owing!”

cried I.

CHAPTER IV.
A MOTHER’S DELIGHTS.

“SEWING! how I hate sewing! I wonder what use there is in my learning to sew,” exclaimed Lily, in rather a fretful tone, as she took me out of the box.

“I wonder what’s the use of learning to spell!” yawned little Eddy over a dog’s-eared book, as he sat on a stool close by his mother.

Mrs. Ellerslie was busy at her desk, examining her monthly accounts, with a grave and anxious expression. She was interrupted, in the midst of summing up a long bill, by her little girl bringing her work to her.

“Mamma—”

“Yes, my dear,” said Mrs. Ellerslie, without raising her eyes, and continued murmuring half aloud, “Thirteen pounds and a half at seven-pence three-farthings—I thought there must be an error somewhere.”

“Mamma, please will you lay down the hem for me?”

“Really, my love, I am very busy at present. I think that, after all the trouble which I have taken to teach you, you might manage to do that for yourself;” and again she went on with her accounts; while Lily, looking rather discontented, slowly returned to her seat.

“Mamma,” said Eddy, rising, and laying his book on her knee, “I know my lesson.”

“Wait a minute, my boy; I will hear you almost directly.”

So Eddy waited cheerfully enough, and, to amuse himself in the meantime, began trying to mend his mother’s pen, to the no small damage of the pen, and the imminent risk of his own fingers.

“Oh, Eddy, put that knife down!” exclaimed the harassed lady, when she had raised her head for a moment to see the nature of his occupation. “Come, you had better say your lesson at once,” she continued, hopelessly laying down the bill, and taking up the spelling book. She was too gentle, too loving, to be irritable or peevish; but petty cares and petty troubles were wearing out her strength, and damping the spirits which had once been so light. I saw that though Mrs. Ellerslie fondly loved her children, she could not help feeling them a weariness to her; and though they had much affection for their mother, they had little consideration for her comfort.

“Now, Eddy,” said Mrs. Ellerslie, as the little gentleman stood with his arms pressed down to his sides before her, “how do you spell the word pan?”

“B-o-y,” replied Eddy, with emphasis.

“Oh, fie! that’s not knowing your lesson. You had better look it over again,” she continued, as a servant brought in a note with the words, “The messenger is waiting for an answer.”

In the meantime, I was making my first essay in sewing; and though, I assure you, it was from no fault of mine, a lamentably bungling essay it was. The hem laid down by my little mistress was in some parts twice as broad as in others, while in one place the edge was scarcely turned in at all. I was quite hurt at the crooked stitches which Lily forced me to make, and I wondered to myself whether she worked thus from stupidity or a wilful temper.

While the lady read and answered the note in haste, Eddy sat demurely on his stool, leaning his elbows on his knees, and his chin on the palm of his hands, as if buried in profound study. As soon as the servant had left the room, he came again to his mother with,—

“Mamma, I know my lesson now.”

“What do p-i-n make?” said the lady.

“Pin,” replied Eddy; for which correct answer he received a smile and a quiet “That’s right.”

“And what do p-i-n-e make?” continued his mother.

“Needle!” shouted out the child with decision. Mrs. Ellerslie laid the book down on her knee. “I’m afraid that I must turn you again, Eddy.”

Eddy pouted as he took back his lesson, and before Mrs. Ellerslie resumed her accounts, she said to Lily, “Let me see how you are getting on with your work.”

Lily brought it reluctantly to her mother.

“Oh fie! this will never do! Are you not ashamed of such hemming?”

“I couldn’t lay down the hem right,” said Lily very dolefully.

“Could not, or would not, Lily? I am sure that you can work more neatly than that. Just take it back and unpick it nicely.”

Lily coloured, and as she bent over me again, I saw a big tear fall close beside me.

“Three and eight, nine and four,” murmured Mrs. Ellerslie over her accounts. “Lily, hold up your head; you must not stoop so my child. Eddy, do not pull off your buttons.” She leaned her head upon her hand. I believe that it was aching, and so Lily would have suspected had she looked at that pale face; but the young lady was gloomily proceeding with her work, and perhaps grumbling in her heart at the little task which she might so easily have performed.

It was clear to me that the poor mother was to have no peace, for again she was interrupted to pay the washerwoman, and had scarcely finished that small piece of business, rendered troublesome by not having enough of change, when there was a sound of crying from the room above.

“Is not that baby’s voice?” exclaimed Mrs. Ellerslie, half rising from her seat. She glanced at Lily, probably intending to send her on a message—at least it appeared so from the movement of her head; but Lily had no idea of reading the wishes of her mother, and kept sullenly pricking me in and out, sitting as if fastened to her seat. Mrs. Ellerslie, therefore, took the shortest way of settling the matter, and herself ran upstairs to the baby.

Master Eddy took advantage of her absence to clamber up her vacant chair, and make himself acquainted with the contents of her desk. A very little care on the part of Lily might have prevented him from doing any mischief; but, whether from ill-temper or inattention, she took no notice whatever of his pranks. When Mrs. Ellerslie re-entered the room, she found her ink-bottle overturned on the table, and a black stream flowing down on the carpet, which her little boy was attempting to stop with a handful of bills.

“Oh, Eddy, Eddy, what have you done!” cried the poor lady. “Lily, run quickly and call down the housemaid. I cannot leave the room for a minute,” she added, provoked beyond even her powers of endurance, “but some mischief is sure to occur.”

“Mamma, I didn’t know there was ink in the bottle—I only turned it up to see if there was any; but I’m trying to wipe it all up.”

“Oh dear! the bills!—and your hands and pinafore; just see what a state they are in! You must run up to Sarah directly!”

“I’ll never do so any more!” cried Eddy, looking at his blackened fingers, and beginning to whimper.

When the housemaid had performed her office, and the children had been sent up to prepare for their walk—happily the weather was not rainy—the weary, delicate mother again took her place before the table, and pushing aside the blackened heaps of bills, which she had now hardly a hope of being able to make out, she leaned back upon her chair and sighed.

“The children are too much for me!” she murmured to herself; “I really have not the strength to do them justice. I must ask Edward to let me have a governess. But no; how could I think of such a thing, after the hint which he gave me about expense, after his parting with his own horse and gig, and giving up the trip into Wales? He spoke, too, of the expense of keeping George at school! I am sure that there is something weighing upon his mind; shall I add to it the burden of my petty cares? No, no; whatever my dear husband finds to annoy him in the busy, bustling world, he must find his own home a quiet haven of rest. I must manage as well as I can, and always have a cheerful smile for him! One comfort is, that George’s holidays are so near;—my own boy, what a welcome he shall have!” and her lips parted with a pleasant smile, and the lines upon her pale brow quite disappeared, as if smoothed down by an invisible hand.

“This is odd enough!” thought I, as I lay half out of the work-box, sticking in my unfortunate hem; “three children are more than this poor lady can manage. I should have thought that a fourth would have driven her wild!”

CHAPTER V.
A PERFECT METAL.

“I AM not very sorry,” observed I to the Thimble, “that careless Miss Lily has forgotten to replace our companion, Mrs. Scissors, in the box. Her manners are so sharp, her remarks so cutting, that I take little pleasure in her society.”

“She has a little speck of rust on her, I own,” quietly replied my philosophic friend; “but we must all learn to bear patiently with the weaknesses of others, and see that we keep our own metal bright.”

“You have no difficulty about that,” I observed.

“Pardon me,” answered the Thimble; “silver is not subject to rust, but it tarnishes, especially if exposed to impure, smoky air.”

“And was your origin as low as mine?” I inquired; “were you also dug from the earth?”

“I was dug out of a mine in Norway; I have been, like you, purified in a furnace, and exposed to heavy blows of the hammer.”

“I wonder how long it is,” exclaimed I, “since man first found out the use of metals, and employed them in making whatever he requires!”

“The use of metals was known before the time of the Flood, more than four thousand years ago. Tubal-Cain is the name of the first man who is recorded to have worked in metals.”

“Oh!” cried I, “how much I should like to know who it was who first invented needles!”

“I dare say that the invention is of early date,” replied the Thimble, “though the needles of ancient times were probably far inferior to the polished, delicate articles of which I see so fine a specimen before me. I have heard that needles were first manufactured in England by an Indian, in the reign of stout Harry the Eighth, upwards of three hundred years ago.”

“Well,” I exclaimed in admiration, “what it is to have a thimbleful of information! I shall always couple silver and knowledge together, the best metal and the best thing in the world!”

“Ah, there you are wrong!” said my bright companion; “there is a metal far more precious than silver, and a possession even more valuable than knowledge. What is learning compared to virtue! what is silver compared to gold!”

“Gold! what is that?” said I. You must remember that I was but a young needle, with little information, but eager to obtain more.

“Gold is what is called a perfect metal,” replied the Thimble; “it is injured by neither fire nor water, and it is reckoned of great value in the world. It is found chiefly in South America, California, and lately in the immense island of Australia.”

“And has it to submit to the hammer as well as we?” I inquired.

“It has much more wonderful power of enduring it than either silver or steel,” replied the Thimble. “It never breaks beneath the heaviest stroke, but it spreads itself out beneath it, and that to such an amazing extent that I have heard that a bit of gold not so large as a halfpenny can be beaten out into a wire a thousand miles long.”

I was not a little astonished to hear this, and I was still more so as the Thimble proceeded.

“Look around you, and, even in this room, you will see wonderful proofs of the malleability of gold—that is the name given to this curious property which it possesses. See the picture-frames glittering in the light, the shining pattern on the paper on the wall, the edge of all those gaily bound books; they owe their beauty to a layer of gold so thin that, though that metal is one of the heaviest known, the gentlest sigh would have blown the leaves away.”

“And is gold useful for anything but gilding?” said I.

“It is much used in various ways,” she replied; “amongst others, it was formerly much employed in medicine, and is now used in giving a fine red colour to glass.”

“And is this beautiful and wonderful metal also dug out of the earth?”

“It is procured in some places,” answered the Thimble, “by washing carefully sand drawn from the beds of some rivers, which is mixed with particles of gold; but it is chiefly found by digging.”

“Well, then,” cried I, rather triumphantly, “though silver and gold be both esteemed more perfect and more precious than iron and steel, man would have very little chance of gaining either of them without the help of a humbler metal! If silver be like knowledge, and virtue like gold, to what shall iron be compared.”

“To firm resolution,” said the Thimble thoughtfully, “without which man would acquire little of either.”

CHAPTER VI.
A PIECE OF MISCHIEF.

THE next day I found that the lesson of work was to be omitted. Little Miss Lizzie Baker came to spend the day with my young mistress, who was, therefore, excused from performing her tasks; which, I could not help imagining, would be felt quite as great a relief by the teacher as by the pupil.

I was not, however, to be left in complete idleness. Mrs. Ellerslie entered the sitting-room in which the work-box of her daughter was kept. She was dressed in her bonnet and shawl; and seeing me close at hand, sticking in Lily’s piece of work, she threaded me with a piece of dark silk, and mended a small hole in her glove. There was a great sound over head, as of little feet running about, and now and then a fretful cry from the baby. The lady rose and opened the door, and then I could plainly distinguish a voice speaking from an upper room in the house.

“Indeed, Miss Lily, I shall never get the child to sleep if you make such a constant noise. You’ve woke her up these three times already!”

“Lily! Lily!” called her mother at the foot of the stairs. Whether her call was heard by the little lady I know not, it certainly was not answered, and Mrs. Ellerslie had walked half-way up to the nursery before I heard the servant exclaiming in a sharp tone, “Now do you be quiet, Miss Lily; don’t you hear that mistress is calling you?”

“You had better come to the drawing-room, my darlings,” called the gentle mother, “and then nurse can put poor baby to sleep. I am obliged to go out to make purchases, and to execute commissions for my sister; but I am sure that you will be good and happy while I am away; and do not be too noisy, my pets.”

So Lily and Lizzie Baker, a plump, dark-eyed little girl, came into the room, and seated themselves on an ottoman, near the table on which my work-box was placed. Eddy followed, jumping step by step down the stairs, and trotting up to his sister, said, “Lily, won’t you let me play with you?”

“Oh, we don’t want you here,” was the reply; “we are going to have a quiet chat together. Just you amuse yourself, and don’t trouble us.”

The little fellow turned dolefully away, went up to the window, and flattened his nose against the pane, looking after his mother as she crossed the street; soiled his finger by drawing lines across the glass which he had dimmed with his breath; then, tired of that diversion, tried to pull off the little twists of wool which formed the fringe of the curtain; and then suddenly making up to the table, laid his exploring hand on the work-box.

“There now, Eddy, you tormenting boy, just take your hands off,” cried Lily, turning round just in time to prevent its contents being scattered on the floor. She roughly snatched the box from the child, and giving him something very much like a shake, sent him half crying to another end of the room.

“He is the most mischievous little monkey,” she said to her companion; “would you believe it, he pulled off the wig of my new doll!”

“I think that brothers are great torments,” observed Lizzie.

“Oh, not such brothers as George,” replied Lily; “he is always like sunshine in the house. I am so glad that he is coming from school. I have been counting the days to the holidays.”

“Well, that’s odd,” said Lizzie; “I always dread them. In the morning of the day when our boys return, I always think as soon as I awake, ‘Dear, dear, we’ll have no more peace in the house!’ They are so noisy, so rude, so troublesome, so fond of worrying and teasing us girls, I’m sure that it’s a happy day for us when the coach comes to take them back to school.”

“They must be very different from George. I always am happier when he is with me; and it seems as if he made me better too.”

“But he cannot amuse himself with you. Does he not like hocky, and cricket, and football, and despise the diversions of girls?”

“He does like cricket, and that sort of thing, and is a capital hand at it too, but he does not despise playing with us. I do not think that he despises anything but what is mean or wrong. You don’t know how fond little baby is of him; and as for Eddy, he is never so merry as when he is at romps with Georgie, or listening to one of his stories. I don’t know how it is, but every one seems more happy, and everything looks brighter, when Georgie is at home.”

A funny fancy came into my head at this moment. I could not help recollecting what the Thimble had told me about gold—how that metal, which is so weighty and precious, yet can be spread into leaves so thin as to brighten the paper on the wall and adorn the leaves of the book. I wondered if there were anything like this to be found in human life; if the precious thing called virtue, which my companion had likened to gold, could also be found to extend to trifles, and in the smaller occurrences of life show its power to brighten and adorn. It was an odd idea, but it arose from what I heard Lily say that morning of her brother; and when I had an opportunity of watching George myself, it recurred to me again and again.

So the young ladies sat there chatting and diverting themselves for an hour or more, playing at cat’s-cradle, comparing their dolls, telling stories of the past, and building castles in the air for the future. Eddy more than once broke in on their tête-à-tête, but was told to go away, and not disturb them. Driven to his own resources, the child rode round the room on a footstool; but this amusement was stopped, as being too noisy. He then kicked his heels for some time on the sofa, till, finding the occupation tiresome, he made the discovery of a little hole in a cushion, from which he managed to abstract several tiny feathers, which amused him for a quarter of an hour. Then I watched him—for no eye seemed to watch him but mine—when he wearily sauntered to the other side of the room, and fixed his round eyes upon an instrument which, as I have since learned, is called a thermometer. He stared up at this, till his curiosity grew strong. He dragged, with some labour, a chair to the spot, and scrambling up upon the seat, brought his face to a level with the glass. He put out his hand and touched the round ball at the bottom of the instrument, examining it like any little philosopher; he then pressed it a little harder, I suppose, for I saw the child give a slight start, as if some mischief had been done, and then scramble from the chair faster than he had got up, and throw himself down on the floor.

Glancing up at the thermometer, I could see that the little silver ball had disappeared; but I was at a loss to account for Eddy’s movements now, as, half-stretched on the carpet, leaning on one elbow, he seemed to be attempting to pick up something which eluded his grasp, pouncing down his hand now here, now there, and laughing to himself merrily all the while.

“I think it’s alive,” he said softly; “how funnily it runs about when I try to get hold of it!” and opening his mouth, he stooped closer to the ground, as though to draw up with his lips the something which always slipped from his fingers. He was startled by a frightened exclamation from his mother, who at this moment entered the room.

“Eddy, my child! oh, don’t touch that! it’s quicksilver—poison—it might kill you! Oh, what a mercy that I came just in time!” and weary, agitated, and alarmed, the poor lady drew him close to her bosom and wept.

“Mamma!” exclaimed the child, frightened at her tears, “I didn’t mean—I didn’t know—it looked so funny; I never will do so any more!”

“Oh, Lily, Lily!” cried Mrs. Ellerslie, with something of bitterness in her tone, as both the little girls hurried to her side, “could you not have looked a little after your brother? If I had returned but one minute later your carelessness might have cost the life of my child!”

CHAPTER VII.
THE LIVELY METAL.

“WHAT was that extraordinary metal,” cried I, “which I took for a ball of silver, till I saw the drops running about on the carpet?”

“Ha! ha!” laughed the spiteful old Scissors, which, speck of rust and all, had been replaced in the box, “you never saw the solemn philosopher, Mrs. Thimble, ever cutting a dance like that!”

“The lady called it quicksilver,” I observed. “Was it, then, no relation of my friend?”

“Relation!” again exclaimed the Scissors; “a relation that would eat her, rim, top, and all; make holes for her knowledge to run out of! Quicksilver is a dangerous neighbour.”

“Dangerous both to metal and to man,” quietly rejoined my learned companion. “Its power can dissolve both silver and gold; and to the human species it acts as a powerful poison.”

“I wonder that they do not leave it alone, if it does such mischief,” said I.

“Do you not know,” replied my friend, “that reason and knowledge can find valuable uses even in those things which at first sight appear only hurtful? From quicksilver, also called mercury, a medicine is prepared, which, under the name of calomel, has helped to preserve many a life.”

“How strange!” I exclaimed; “medicine and poison, safety and danger, both from the same curious metal! But is it always a liquid like that?”

“Oh no!” replied the Thimble; “mixed with other metals, it becomes staid and quiet enough. Look at that beautiful mirror in the gilded frame, which reflects every object in the room. To what, think you, does it owe its beauty? To an amalgam (that is the title given to the mixture)—an amalgam of mercury and tin, which lines the glass at the back.”

“And makes it a pretty aid to vanity and folly,” said the broken-pointed Scissors, with bitterness. “If there is one thing which silly mortals like better than another, it is to look at their own faces in a glass.”

“If mercury has often ministered to vanity and folly,” said the Thimble, “I remember hearing of one curious instance where it served to mortify them both. A dashing lady, who was absurd enough to try to increase her beauty by covering her yellow complexion with a delicate coating of white paint, once visited a quicksilver mine. She must have felt it strange to find herself in that gloomy place, where the sickly miners, by the glare of torch-light, pursue their unwholesome occupation.”

“Why should it be unwholesome?” I asked.

“Because mercury is of that poisonous nature, that it is said that those employed to procure it seldom live longer than two years in the mine.”

“I should think that after learning that,” observed I, “the dashing lady would have a feeling of pain when next she looked in a mirror.”

“Probably she had,” replied the Thimble, “but from a different cause. While she had been examining the mine, she little thought of the strange effect which the mercury would have on the paint which covered her face. She entered the place white like a lily; she left it black like a negro!”

The idea of the poor lady with her black face mightily tickled the fancy of the Scissors, who wished that she had been there to see her. But my curiosity about the strange metal mercury was not quite satisfied yet.

“What was the use of that instrument hung on the wall, where the quicksilver lay in its little glass ball, till Master Eddy broke its prison and set it free?”

“That instrument is called a thermometer. It is employed to measure the heat of the weather.”

“I cannot imagine how it can do that.”

“It is the nature of mercury to expand—that is, grow bigger—whenever it is exposed to heat. At the top of the glass ball there is a slender glass tube. When the weather is warm, the mercury swells; and the ball being too small to hold it, it is forced up the tube to a greater or less height, according to the amount of the heat.”

“Then, if plunged into boiling water, the mercury would rise very high indeed.”

“And plunged into ice it would sink very low.”

“Would it ever squeeze itself down into a solid?” said I.

“You mean, would it freeze as water does? It requires very, very intense cold to freeze mercury; but it is not impossible to do it. I have heard the master of the shop in which I lay unsold for years, who was himself something of a philosopher, and from whose conversation with others I have learned the little that I know,—I have heard him say that he has seen quicksilver frozen quite hard, so that even a medal was made of it; but it was not from the mere effect of winter weather.”

“And, of course, if any one had put the medal into his warm pocket, it would have begun to run about again directly. The best way to keep it quiet seems to be to make an am—— What did you call its mixture with some other metal?”

“Amalgam,” replied the Thimble.

“Ah, yes! behind the mirror is an amalgam of quicksilver and tin.”

“Like energy united with common sense.”

“And taught to reflect,” added the Scissors.

CHAPTER VIII.
PACKING THE BOX.

THE next day’s lessons passed over with the usual amount of weariness on the part of the teacher, dulness on that of little Eddy, and carelessness on that of his sister. It was with great difficulty that Mrs. Ellerslie could keep the attention of Lily to the tasks which she had to learn. The thoughts of the little girl were constantly wandering, now to her brother, now to her play, now to some project in her mind, while she tried the patience of her mother almost as much by the numerous little bad habits which seemed to spring up like weeds in neglected ground.

“Lily, do hold up your head!—My child, you must not stand upon one foot!—Little girls ought not to bite their lips!—What! you have been at your nails again!” Such were the sentences which, from the lips of the anxious parent, constantly interrupted the course of the studies. I began to wonder whether little girls could find any peculiar enjoyment in biting their finger-ends—whether they thought it becoming to look hunchbacked, or merely delighted in teasing their teachers, and defeating the efforts of those who love them to make them lady-like and agreeable. As I am a needle, and not a little girl, I cannot tell which of these three motives it was that influenced the conduct of Lily. If any of my young readers ever follow her example, I beg them to decide the question.

At length lessons were finished, and the tired teacher was free, but not to rest. Oh no! but to pack up a box for her sister in India, which must be despatched before one o’clock.

“Now, my darlings, run up and get ready for your walk.”

Lily sauntered slowly up to the window. “Oh, I’m so glad! it’s raining fast!” said she. “I have something that I particularly want to do. See, mamma, what Lizzie gave me yesterday!” And she drew, from a little pocket in her dress, a very small parcel, and opening it, displayed to view a reel of bright, glittering gold thread.

“Very pretty; and what will you make of it, my dear?” said Mrs. Ellerslie, kindly pausing in her occupation of clearing away school-books and slates, Lily never dreaming of offering her assistance.

“I’m going to ornament a pen-wiper for George,” replied the child; “don’t you think that it will please him very much? May I stay here and work it beside you?”

Mrs. Ellerslie nodded her head in assent, but looked a little grave; perhaps she would have preferred being left for an hour in quiet, and had some idea what the permission would cost her.

“And may I stay here too, mamma?” inquired Eddy. “I want to look at you packing all these things. Do let me stay, darling mamma!”

She could not resist his entreaty; so there he pretty quietly stood, watching his mother as she hastily spread the table with various parcels, brown paper, oil-skin, a tin box, and string.

“Mamma,” said Lily, standing on one foot, with the golden thread dangling from her hand, “don’t you think that this will look well upon a dark ground?”

“Yes, my love,” answered Mrs. Ellerslie, her voice half drowned in the rustling of paper.

“Mamma, do you think blue or green would look best?”

“I really cannot think about it at all just now. My box must be ready before one. Now, my Eddy, you must not open the parcels.”

“I was just peeping in a little, mamma.”

“Don’t come to the table, my sweet boy! Mamma is very busy indeed.”

Eddy trotted off without saying another word.

“Mamma,” began Lily again, “do you think that you have a bit of dark-blue cloth or velvet, whichever you please, to give me for the sides of my pen-wiper?”

“I dare say I have some upstairs in my wardrobe.”

“Could I go and get it, mamma?”

“No; you know that I never allow you to search there,” said the lady, who, having lined the bright tin box with paper, was trying every possible position in which an awkward shaped parcel could take up least room.

Lily remained silent for a few minutes, but without occupying herself with anything but the thought how she could persuade her mother to give her at once what she had set her heart upon obtaining. At length she cautiously commenced with, “I am rather in a hurry to begin.”

“I will look out the piece for you when next I go upstairs.”

Lily gave a very audible sigh.

“This would be just the time for working,” murmured she.

“I shall have no peace till I get it for the child,” exclaimed Mrs. Ellerslie, half to herself; and the too indulgent mother left her parcels and her box, to commence a search for some small remnants of cloth, which, to judge by the length of her absence, she had a good deal of trouble in finding.

“Now, do not interrupt me any more,” she said, as she placed them in the eager hand of Lily, and turned, by more active exertions, to make up for the time which she had lost.

The girl bore them off in triumph to her work-box; but here a new difficulty arose. She snipped off this corner and that corner, by the aid of Mrs. Scissors, but could not satisfy herself with the shape. Again she approached her mother at the table: “Please to make me a good round, mamma. I have tried, but I cannot do it myself.”

“You can wait a little, my dear.” Mrs. Ellerslie was pressing down the lid of the box, which seemed evidently determined not to close, and she looked certainly heated and tired.

Again I heard that naughty, impatient sigh; again the tender mother yielded to importunity; the round was cut out, and a minute’s peace secured.

“Where’s the string?” said Mrs. Ellerslie quickly, moving the box, lifting paper, glancing under the table. The lines on her forehead were plain enough now.

Lily was busily employed trying to force the bright golden thread though my little eye. I saw plainly that she could never succeed, and I felt exceedingly mortified; for what could be a higher object of ambition to a needle than to be threaded with gold? Lily saw that her mother was hunting and searching for the lost piece of string, but she never stirred to assist her.

“Where can it be? I’m sure that I brought some down! Where can I have laid the string?”

“Here it is!” cried Eddy, suddenly becoming aware that his mother wanted something which he had himself carried off. He had been quietly amusing himself in his corner, tying chairs, stool, sofa, and bell-rope together, with a liberal expenditure of string and a very large allowance of tight knots.

It was Mrs. Ellerslie’s turn to be impatient, as, hastily endeavouring to undo the child’s work, she exclaimed, “How on earth shall I unfasten all this?”

“It’s my harness, mamma, and these are my horses! Oh, are you vexed?” he added, looking up in her face, and reading, from her harassed expression, that he had again been guilty of causing her trouble. “I’m very sorry, mamma; I’ll never do so any more.”

Even in the midst of her hurry, the gentle mother stooped down to give him a kiss. She had another hurried run upstairs to bring more string, for she had not the spare time to undo all his knots; but no angry word passed her lips. She let Eddy stand beside her at the table, even trusted him to hold a match which she had lighted, and employed him to ring the bell.

“I am so glad that it is done at last!” cried the lady, sinking wearily on the sofa, as the box—it was barely packed in time—was carried by a servant from the room.

“And I helped you, mamma!” said Eddy proudly.

“I shall never manage this!” cried Lily impatiently. “Oh, the tiresome needle!—stupid thread!”

“I am at leisure now,” said her mother; “bring your work to me, my dear child.”

“One would need a bodkin to hold such great coarse cord,” exclaimed Lily.

What a name to give to the most delicate flexible thread which had ever employed the ingenuity of man to beat out from a single grain of gold!

“If you had waited a little, I should have shown you what to do. The gold thread must not be passed through the thick cloth at all, but be fastened down to it with a little fine cotton. Thread your needle, and I will show you the way.”

Oh, the patience and love of a mother! Alas, that it should often be met, if not with actual ingratitude, yet with that selfish want of consideration which receives every kindness as a matter of course, and never makes the smallest sacrifice in return!

CHAPTER IX.
GOLD ON A DARK GROUND.

“OF what a fine bright metal that box is made,” said I; “I should almost have taken it for silver.”

“Your learned friend here would be shocked to be mentioned in the same breath with tin!” observed the Scissors.

“Far from it,” said the bright silver Thimble. “If usefulness to man gives value to metal, few can rank more highly than tin. England owes to it her earliest fame; for long before her flag waved o’er distant seas—long before her conquering armies trod foreign shores, while her fields were wild forests, and her people barbarians, the Phœnicians sought her coasts for tin, for which her mines in Cornwall are yet famous.”

“Ah! I remember,” I observed, “that it is when mixed with tin that mercury forms the amalgam used for the backs of mirrors.”

“Mercury is not the only metal which unites in a friendly manner with tin. Joined to copper, it becomes bronze, of which those pretty chimney-piece ornaments are made; and pewter, so useful to the poor, comes from tin united with lead. It is also very commonly used to line copper pots and pans, which, without such a coating of tin, might poison the food which they contain.”

“Poison!” I exclaimed in surprise.

“Yes; many serious accidents have arisen from the tin lining wearing away from cooking vessels made of copper. The rust of copper is called verdigris; it is of a bright green colour, and of a most poisonous nature.”

“Ah!” said the Scissors, “that accounts for our good lady’s alarm, when she found one morning, about two years ago, Master Eddy sucking a copper halfpenny! A precious deal of trouble that young gentleman has given her. He’s as active as quicksilver, and as mischievous.”

“Pity that we can’t make an amalgam of him,” laughed I, “and teach the little rogue to reflect.”

“He, Miss Lily, and the baby are killing their mother by inches between them,” said the Scissors.

I felt rather afraid that she spoke truth, when I saw how faint and exhausted the poor lady appeared, when at length she found a few minutes for repose. She looked so very thin and so pale, as she stretched herself on the sofa, when the light of day began to grow dim. She opened a book with gilt edges, which I had observed to be her favourite companion, and which my friend had told me was, as she believed, a great mine from which man drew all the virtue which he possessed. She read a little, until her worn, anxious face assumed a peaceful expression. She raised her eyes, and looked upwards; I thought that they were moistened with tears; and her pale lips silently moved, as if she were speaking to some unseen friend. Then she shut the book, and placed it beside her, and her blue eyes languidly closed; and she lay so still, so very still, that she looked as though she never would move again.

The sound of the opening of the outer door seemed to awaken her in a moment. She started up with quite a changed look, so bright, so animated, so cheerful; passed her hand hastily over her hair to smooth it, and then ran out of the room: and I heard her voice below in lively tones giving a fond welcome to her husband.

It must have been difficult, however, for the poor lady to keep up a cheerful manner in his presence. I never saw so gloomy a man. It was in vain that she troubled him not with a single care of her own,—that she spoke not a word of her failing health, her difficulties with servants, her troubles about the bills, her ceaseless anxieties with the children. I watched him where I lay beside my thread of gold; for Lily’s habit of filling her box so full that she never even attempted to close it, gave me constant opportunities of looking about me, and seeing what passed in the room. When the children were called down to see their father, the stern gloom in his face never changed. Even when his wife placed little Rosey in his arms, he kissed her soft cheek with an air so sad, that the babe, half frightened, held out her hands to be taken back to her mother. Lily could not win his attention at all, and left the room mortified and vexed; and Eddy received no answer when he said, “Are you not glad that Georgie is coming home to-morrow?”

“I’m sure that there’s something the matter with that man,” said the Thimble, when the sound of the dinner-bell had cleared the room.

“There’s something weighing on his heart, you may be sure,” observed the Scissors, “for he used to be as merry as a child. I’ve seen him galloping up and down this very room, with Master Eddy perched upon his shoulders, and Lily scampering at his heels; and it would have puzzled even our sharp friend the Needle to say which was the liveliest of the three.”

“He’s in trouble, then,” said the Thimble: “I’ve seen enough of life to know that mortals have their trials, which are to them as the hammer and the furnace to us.”

The opinion of our philosophic friend was confirmed that evening, as, when the lamp was lighted, and the curtains drawn, and the children all quiet in bed, the husband and wife sat together in deep, earnest conversation.

“You will hide nothing from me, my beloved,” said the lady, laying her hand fondly on his, and looking anxiously into his face. “I have felt for a long time that something was wrong; suspense is worse than the truth could be. I can bear all, all but to see you unhappy, and not be able to lighten, or at least share your trials!”

He drew her closer to him. I could not see his face; it was turned from the place where I lay; and he spoke so low, in a hoarse, agitated voice, that I could catch but few of his words. They were such as “ruin,” “bankruptcy,” “poverty;” the meaning of which I could scarcely comprehend; but I saw the lady’s cheek grow very pale, though her manner was quiet and composed.

“Well, dearest,” she said softly at length, “there are far greater trials than poverty. It will only draw us closer together. I can be happy in a very small abode—a cabin, a hut—so that my dear husband and children are with me. I will be Rosey’s nurse myself. We can manage on little; so little, you shall see what a housewife I shall be!”

“Ah!” thought I, as I looked on that sweet loving face, “the gold indeed looks brightest on the dark ground, and virtue most lovely in affliction.”

“It may not come to that; all may yet be well,” said the husband, rising and pacing up and down the room. “If I only could meet the present difficulty! A loan at this time would keep us all afloat; one good friend at this crisis might save us.”

“George Hardcastle,” suggested the lady.

“I have thought of him a thousand times,” replied her husband, stopping in his agitated walk. “He is rolling in wealth; he is generous; he is our cousin; our boy was named after him. But then—” He paused, and looked at his wife.

“We have quarrelled with him.”

“I have quarrelled with him. We have not met for months. I could not stoop to write to him now.”

“Not for your children’s sake?” said the mother, rising and laying her hand on his arm. “Oh, Edward, we must think of our helpless babes! Even if he refused to lend money to you, he might, I think that he would, do something for our George.”

Mr. Ellerslie uttered a sigh that was almost a groan, and threw himself down on his chair.

“It seems to me as though we should lose no time,” continued his anxious wife; “so much is at stake! Let’s see: this is Wednesday,” she continued, pressing her hand on her forehead. “I think there are two posts to Bristol; if we wrote at once, we might have an answer on Friday. Edward, when all depends on it, why should there be one hour’s delay?”

I could see that it went sorely against the will of Mr. Ellerslie to yield to the persuasions of his wife. It seemed to me, from words that dropped from him, that he was conscious of having behaved ill towards his cousin; that he regarded Mr. Hardcastle with a feeling of dislike, and almost preferred remaining in difficulties to asking assistance from him. I saw, though no mortal ever saw it, that Mrs. Ellerslie had a good deal to endure from her husband, however dear she might be to his heart. What patience she required, what earnest persuasion, to induce his proud spirit to bend so far as to write at all to his offended relative! And then, when the desk was opened, what a painful task was hers to make him write what would not offend, to alter sentences and soften expressions, and stoop to explain the greatness of his need. Often the ink dried on the pen, twice was the half-written sheet pushed angrily away, and bitter things were uttered, even to her whose every look and every tone was love. I scarcely believed that the letter would ever be finished. But finished it was at last; and Mr. Ellerslie hastily quitted the room, impatient with his wife, with himself, with all the world!