“THERE!” exclaimed Crow Shay as Wooley Ball finished. “There! Hasn’t Wooley Ball long yarns to spin?”

Mary Frances laughed. “You little chatterbox,” she said, “I really believe that you are jealous!”

“I certainly do love to talk,” said Crow Shay; “but I admit I can’t tell about yarns the way Wooley Ball can.”

Here the Yarn Baby interrupted.

“If you will bring your chest of yarns, little Miss,” she said, “we will soon see if you have all those different kinds of yarns.”

Mary Frances went to the closet, and brought the chest to the sewing table.

As she pulled out the bright-colored yarns, some small white balls fell on the table.

“Oh, goody!” exclaimed Wooley Ball. “I see that you are not going to let the moths eat up your treasures. Moths hate camphor and moth balls. I just love them.”

“Oh, I know about moths,” said Mary Frances. “I learned a sad lesson about them. Once my aunt knit my doll a little——”

“Did you say Knit?” came a little voice.

“Did you say Knit?” came another little voice.

“Who was that?” asked Mary Frances.

“Oh, that’s only Knit and Knack, the Knitting Twins,” answered Crow Shay.

He turned toward the table where they lay.

“You two go to sleep again!” he said. “It’s not your turn yet.”

By this time the Yarn Baby looked like a porcupine. Her hair stood out so straight and stiff that Mary Frances was almost afraid to speak.

“He will keep on until he will have to be punished,” whispered Wooley Ball.

“Yes,” said the Yarn Baby, “if he doesn’t stop crowing so much I will not let him crochet.”

That seemed to scare Crow Shay terribly, and he did not utter another sound, but listened with all his ears.

“You were speaking of moths,” Wooley Ball reminded Mary Frances.

“Oh, yes—about the little coat which my aunt made for Angie, my doll. I used it all winter and in the summer I folded it and put it away in a little box. When the weather was cold again, and Angie needed it, I took it out of the box and what do you think happened?”

“I know!” declared Wooley Ball. “I know what happened. The little coat fell to pieces when you picked it up. The moths had bitten it all over.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what happened,” said Mary Frances. “It taught me never to put anything made of wool away without camphor or moth balls.”