The doll with the small brown head now arose and walked over to the place of honour. She was a study in green. Her gown was formed of leaves from the tree upon which she grew, and an artistic picture she made as she faced her audience.

“My dear friends,” she said, and paused.

“I take my pen in hand to say I am well—” came in an audible whisper.

“And hope you are the same,” flashed the Nutmeg. “I admit I was a bit flurried. But thanks to your hurried letter just received I am myself again. I need to be, for I am rather interesting.

“I come chiefly from the Banda Islands, and some of my poor relations come from the West Indies and Brazil, where dear little Allspice lives.

“She forgot to welcome you to her home and I will show you where it is,” and she took from her pocket some tiny round balls and tossed them in various directions.

To the surprise of all, the balls lodged and stuck, and the onlookers were so interested in learning whether they stuck where they should they forgot they weren’t to learn anything.

“They did!” whispered Jack and Mother in one breath, and, sure enough, some lodged in the Banda Islands, others in the West Indies.

“Some of us live in South America,” and she lightly tossed a few more balls, all of which clung to their native lands.

“What do you mean by poor relations?” asked the Stick Doll.

“I mean the poorer quality of nutmegs. The Brazilian nutmeg brings oil for hard soap and candles.

“I am the better quality, and am the kernel of a fruit which is round and about the size of a walnut.

“The outside coat is two inches across before it splits open, and the nutmeg, of course, comes out, just as the chestnut falls from the burr. A network of tiny fibres is wound about it, and this second coat is dried and ground and called mace.

“The olive-shaped nut, about an inch in length, is turned over every day for two months, and treated with lime to preserve it. Then it is the nutmeg which you see before you.”

“What are you good for, please, Mam?” asked the Vinegar Cruet with a sour expression.

“What am I good for?” she cried indignantly. “What am I not good for? Look in the cook-book on the pantry shelf and see if there is anything worth while that hasn’t a dash of me in it.

“You’ll find every good housewife has one of me in a tiny grater hanging where she can find it in the dark. Your puddings, and pies, and gingerbreads, and cakes, and blanc-manges, and egg noggs, and—”

“Here! Here! my dear lady, we can’t wait to let you go through the whole cook-book. We’ll take your word for it. Now since I seem to belong to the same family, perhaps I had better entertain you next.