“I speak to be the teacher,” cried the Raisin Doll.

“Very well, you must tell the first story, then.”

“What must the stories be about?”

“Oh, there is only one thing to tell. We must each tell our history from the time we were born, in order to have the gift.”

“Will the gift be good to eat?” asked the creamy white Fat Boy.

“Best ever you tasted. That’s all I could find out about it. Now begin.”

The Raisin Doll pranced over to the end of the hearth, made a quick bow, and politely began:

“Ladies and Gentlemen:”

Everybody giggled, but he went bravely on.

“I don’t seem to remember the day I was born.”

“Not many do,” whispered one to another.

“It isn’t polite to interrupt,” frowned the speaker.

“The first thing I remember a whole bunch of us was hanging from a vine—”

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” shouted the chorus. “A whole bunch of him was hanging from a vine!”

“Well, there was a whole bunch of us, and as I looked about I saw many bunches and many, many vines.

“It was beautiful there in the sunlight. I never saw such glorious sunshine—”

“Where?” cried the audience.

“In a place called California.”

“Where is that?” asked one.

“Don’t tell us; we don’t want to know,” hastily cried the audience. “We aren’t to learn things here in this school.”

“I won’t tell you. I’ll show you,” and the speaker hopped on to the large globe that stood in the corner.

He slid down one side and placed his big toe on the spot where California claimed to be.

They all watched his antics closely, for in their hearts they did want to know where those bunches of grapes grew, even though they didn’t seem to want to learn anything.

“That’s exactly where my bunch of grapes grew, but I have cousins called Malagas and Muscatels who come from Spain.

“You don’t want to know where that is, of course. I am now going to take a little run around the world. Pretend I’m a top spinning, and the spot where I stop and twirl will be where my relatives live. When it’s time to twirl I’ll squeak and you can then close your eyes for the moment, so you won’t add anything to your store of knowledge.

“For my part, I would feel quite pleased if I were sailing around the world and could say, ‘Oh, Mr. Captain, just stop a few moments in Mediterranean Spain. I want a pocket full of raisins to eat; the layer kind, big fat juicy ones’; or if I were pudding hungry I’d wheedle him a little. I’d say, ‘Now, Captain dear, I’d just like to run into Valencia. We need a few pudding raisins. We’ll have a pudding that’ll melt in your mouth if we can go there.’

“I think that’s much better than to stand around with my mouth open, and when we steam into these places be wondering what grows there, and why we stopped.”

That was a new idea. Journeys on ships were fun, and how proud one would feel to be able to show the Captain just where to go for certain things.

“Mother,” whispered Jack, “let’s watch where he twirls. Maybe a captain might even beg us to go and show him where raisins grow, so he can bring back a shipload of them!”

The Raisin Doll now skipped gaily along as though he were going to the corner grocery for a stick of candy.

The audience gazed fascinated, and instead of closing eyes as he squeaked, they hardly dared wink for fear they might miss some of that raisin country.

“Where is he now?” one and another whispered as he paused and twirled, crying:

“There! There is the very spot where many of my cousins live, and because they live there instead of in California they are much sweeter.”

“Tell us why, tell us why,” clamoured the audience.

“For a very good reason. We are picked in bunches and dried in an oven in sugar. They are dried in the sun, and are called sun raisins. Their leaves are taken off, and a jolly time they have in the sunshine and fresh air. A much better way than to be shut in an oven in the dark.

“However, we have to make the best of it; the cool nights and heavy dews would ruin us if we stayed out, so we just cuddle up in the nice warm dark, and look forward to the moment when the big oven door will fly open, then we know something nice is to happen, for America sends millions of pounds of raisins to other countries, and we just love to go.

“The sun raisins are the kind used for Christmas goodies, and are packed between layers of paper in large wooden boxes.

“Other places they come from are here, and here, and here, and here.”

As he spoke, he twirled over various parts of the globe, touching Persia, Greece, Italy, and Southern France.

“It is quite grand to be a sun raisin and come in a box looking so large and delicious, and to know you are the finest of your kind, but I’d just about as soon be a pudding raisin, when the Cook comes in and says:

“‘Dear suz me, Missus, we can’t have pudding to-day!’

“Then all the children set up a dismal wail and Missus says, ‘Why not, I’d like to know!’

“‘Because we are just out of pudding raisins,’ but she adds cheerfully, ‘We have the layer kind. Could we use those?’

“‘Certainly not,’ says the Missus, with her head up like this and her mouth turned down like this. ‘They cost too much. We’ll have to have something else.’

“Then at dinner the Mister cries, ‘Why didn’t we have pudding to-day; we always have it on Tuesday!’

“‘Cause no pudding raisins in the house,’ cry the children, sniffing again.

“‘Send for a barrel of them,’ orders the Mister. ‘When that gives out, get another at once. When I have my mouth made up for pudding on Tuesdays I don’t want to be disappointed.’

“Wouldn’t that make a cute little pudding raisin hug herself?

“Another kind of raisin grows here in Smyrna; they are the small seedless kind.”

“The Corinthian raisin currant—”

“Boo! hoo! hoo!” interrupted somebody, apparently much grieved.

“Who’s crying like that?” asked the Raisin Doll.

“I am,” came in sobbing tones.

“Why?” asked everybody, standing on tip toe to see the weeping one.

“He’s telling my story. There isn’t much to tell about me, and if he tells it, I can’t; then I won’t get a gift!”

“To be sure you won’t!” said the tall Stick Doll. “Mr. Raisin, are you going to tell everybody’s story, may I ask?”

“Why, no,” said the Raisin Doll, a bit fussed over the uproar; “I forgot that one of my cousins was present.