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By Hans Christian ANDERSEN 62 cys HERE was once a Darning-Needle
who thought herself so fine, she imagined she was an embroidering needle.
"Take care, and mind you hold me
tight!” she said to the Fingers which 2 took her out. "Don't let me fall! If I fall on the ground I shall certainly never be found again, for I am so fine!”
“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 kerchief about her neck with it.
"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 were in a state coach, and looked all about her.
“May I be permitted to ask if you are 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 every one 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!”
But she really was lost.
"I'm too fine for this world,” she observed, as she lay in the gutter. “But I know who I am, and there's always something in that.”
So the Darning-Needle kept her proud behavior, and did not lose her good humor. And things of many kinds swam over her—chips and straws and pieces of old newspapers.
“Only look how they sail!” said the DarningNeedle. “They don't know what is under them! I'm here; I remain firmly here. See, there goes a chip thinking of nothing in the world but himself -of a chip! There's a straw going by now. How he turns? How he twirls about! Don't think only of yourself; you might easily run up against a stone. There swims a bit of newspaper. What's written upon it has long been forgotten, and yet it gives itself airs. I sit quietly and patiently here. I know who I am, and I shall remain what I am.”
One day something lay close beside her that glittered splendidly; then the Darning-Needle believed that it was a diamond; but it was a Bit of broken Bottle; and because it shone, the DarningNeedle spoke to it, introducing herself as a breastpin.
"I suppose you are a diamond?” she observed. “Why, yes, something of that kind.”
And then each believed the other to be a very valuable thing; and they began speaking about the world, and how very conceited it was.
"I have been in a lady's box,” said the DarningNeedle, “and this lady was a cook. She had five fingers on each hand, and I never saw anything so conceited as those five fingers. And yet they were only there that they might take me out of the box, and put me back into it.”
"Were they of good birth?” asked the Bit of Bottle.
“No, indeed,” replied the Darning-Needle, “but very haughty. There were five brothers, all of the Finger family. They kept very proudly together, though they were of different lengths. The outermost, the Thumbling, was short and fat; he walked out in front of the ranks, and had only one joint in his back, and could only make a single bow; but he said if he were hacked off from a man, that man was useless for service in war. Dainty-Mouth, the second finger, thrust himself into sweet and sour, pointed to the sun and moon, and gave the impression when they wrote. Longman, the third, looked at all the others over his shoulder. Goldborder, the fourth, went about with a golden belt round his waist; and little Playman did nothing at all, and was proud of it. There was nothing but bragging among them, and therefore I went away.”
“And now we sit here and glitter!” said the Bit of Bottle.
At that moment more water came into the gutter, so that it overflowed, and the Bit of Bottle was carried away.
"So, he is disposed of,” observed the DarningNeedle. “I remain here; I am too fine. But that's my pride, and my pride is honorable." And proudly she sat there, and had many great thoughts. “I could almost believe I had been born of a sunbeam, I'm so fine. It really appears to me as if the sunbeams were always seeking for me under the water. Ah! I'm so fine that my mother cannot find me. If I had my old eye, which broke off, I think I should cry; but no, I should not do that; it's not genteel to cry.”
One day a couple of street boys lay grubbing in the gutter, where they sometimes found old nails, farthings, and similar treasures. It was dirty work, but they took great delight in it.
“Oh!” cried one, who had pricked himself with the Darning-Needle. “There's a fellow for you.”
“I'm not a fellow, I'm a young lady,” said the Darning-Needle.
But nobody listened to her. The sealing wax had come off, and she had turned black; but black makes one look slender, and she thought herself finer even than before.
“Here comes an eggshell sailing along,” said the boys; and they stuck the Darning-Needle fast into the eggshell.
“White walls, and black myself! that looks well,” remarked the Darning-Needle. “Now one can see me. I only hope I shall not be seasick!" But she was not seasick at all. “One is proof against seasickness if one has a steel stomach and does not forget that one is a little more than an ordinary person! The finer one is, the more one can bear.”
“Crack!” went the eggshell, for a hand-barrow went over her.
“How it crushes one!” said the Darning-Needle. “I'm getting seasick now—I'm quite sick.”
But she was not really sick, though the handbarrow had run over her; she lay there at full length, and there she may lie.
By Thomas Moore
To me 'tis exactly the same.
But I care not a button for them;
When the earth is hoed up to my stem.