“I am called Cinnamon, and I’m just about as spicy as any of you. I am exactly as important to the pickled peaches as is Miss Clove, and where would the coffee cake be without me, I’d like to know?”

He paused and gazed about in a dramatic way that convulsed Jack, who whispered:

“Isn’t he funny, Mother, so long and lank, and such an expression I never saw!”

“Did any of you ever hear of cinnamon candy?” continued the speaker. “Could it be cinnamon candy without me?”

As no one replied to this, he cried:

“Certainly not! and now I will show you where I grow. It is right here,” and, with one stride of his long legs one foot rested on the Island of Ceylon in the Indian Ocean near Persia.

“Excuse me, Mr. Cinnamon, but where did you get your seven-league boots?” asked the Vinegar Cruet.

“They grew on me, so I didn’t need to buy them. You can’t tease me that way. I can’t help it because I am long legged any more than you can help looking sour. When you turn sweet I’ll have short legs; that’s a bargain. Send me an invitation to your candy pull.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please excuse this rude interruption, and I will proceed.

“When the cinnamon trees are almost two years old small branches are cut off and the outer bark removed, leaving the inner bark, which is then peeled off and dried.

“In drying it takes the form of rolls called quills, the smaller ones, as they dry, are thrust into the larger. Sometimes it is ground fine and packed in bags.

“I am not only used in flavouring food, but in many medicines.

“Now I think the spices have finished their tales, and we can have a complete change of programme.”

“Oh!” cried Allspice, “before we go on let’s have the Story Sprite again.”

“Is it your desire that the Story Sprite appear?” asked Cinnamon Stick. “If so, Allspice and I will break this wishbone I see hanging over the hearth.”

“Oh! Do! Do!” cried one and all.

“Very well, we will both wish for her to come, then we can’t possibly fail whichever way it breaks.”

And so snap went the bone, but much dismayed they were when it was found each held the short end, for the centre had taken to itself wings.

“Oh, I wish she would come anyhow!” they chorused, and once more from the flames sprang the Story Elf.

“You do not need to break wishbones to bring me. All that is necessary is just to wish, and here I am,” she announced.

“This time I want to tell you more about a story you all know very well. It is called: