VII.—IN WHICH THE STORY IS FINISHED.

"I learned from day to day, from Fred and the other members of the family, how the sick boy was getting along. He was fast improving, it seemed.

"I was soon transferred to the cushion from which I had been taken, where I remained for some time, until fall, indeed. From time to time, though, I was used for little things by different members of the family, but nothing special occurred in my presence, and I was seldom taken from my resting-place, for I was so long, that it was seldom that any one wanted to use me." (Moral: If you are long about doing things, no one will want your help.)

"One day trunks were being packed, there was a general air of 'going away' about the house, and I learned that the lady, Fred's mother, was going away to be gone for some time. The children were to remain at home with their father. The last day I, or, more properly speaking, the pincushion on which I was, was packed in a satchel, and taken to the depot, and I knew no more of where I was for a good while, except by the rocking and noise of the train. Soon the satchel I was in was picked up, I felt the motion of a carriage again, and when light was let in upon me, we were in a room in a hotel, and my mistress placed my pincushion on the bureau, where I could see the busy street of a large city. The pins that were with me were pretty good company, and we remained in the city (that is, my mistress did) for some weeks, when one day, to our amazement, she packed up and went off, leaving us behind!

"Well, during that winter the room was occupied by various persons, thus affording me opportunity to study human nature, but I will not tire you with the results of the study, for I am simply telling you the story of my life. None of these persons touched me, but finally all the other pins were gone from the cushion, and I was left alone, and consequently was rather lonesome. The room was hired by a mother and her baby, a father and his baby, a young couple taking their wedding trip, I judged, and divers and sundry other people, who, as I remarked before, paid no attention to me. I grew more and more lonely, and was almost despairing of ever getting out of the hotel, when, one day, a fat old gentleman was led into the room by the colored porter, and established himself there. He was an author"—

"The one that boards here now?" I interrupted.

"Never mind," responded the pin, "don't interrupt me, please. This gentleman was an author, as I said before. He had papers and papers and papers! He had pens and pens and pens! He had stylographic pens, Mackinnon pens, and Paragon pens, and Todd's pens, and other pens! He came there to be quiet, he said, but he made more noise than anybody else in the house, except the solo singer, who roomed at our right, and the elocutionist (female, of course) who roomed at our left.

"One day the old gentleman announced to the porter that he couldn't stand it in that horrid place any longer, and he must help him get away the very next day. So he went. And as he was packing up, he found one roll of manuscript that wasn't pinned together, and so he drew me out from my long resting-place, much to my joy, and fastened the roll together with me.

"I was packed up in his satchel, and we journeyed quite a while. When it was opened, we were in a pleasant little room in a country boarding-house"—

"My mother's!" I again interrupted.

"Will you please be so kind as not to interrupt me again?" said the pin, his sharp voice growing sharper than ever. "I found myself, as I remarked before, in a pleasant little room in a country boarding-house. The scenery all around was very beautiful. There were fields, a meadow, a brook and some woods." (I very much wanted to interrupt again, but I bit my tongue, and squealed instead.)

"My master took long walks, and would sit down every little while on stone, stump, or fence, and write. One day as he was going out he asked the lady of the house to give him some lunch, as he would probably not be back for a good while"—

"My mother!" I burst forth.

"I think you are very impolite," the pin replied. "However, to pacify you, I will tell you that you are correct—it was your mother, and she put him up a nice lunch. He took quite a little walk, meditating the while, and every few moments he would lift up his arms, and discourse enthusiastically on the beauty of Nature. These talks were very uninteresting to me, as I felt quite competent to decide for myself what I thought of Nature, but I listened silently and patiently. At one point in the road the gentleman saw a good seat ahead, in the form of a stump, and so he slung his satchel on his arm, after getting some papers out, which he commenced to pin together with me. But at this point, as he was not engaged in looking where he was going, his toe unfortunately collided with the root of a stump which was firmly fixed in the ground, and he fell flat! A breeze coming up at the time, his papers, and so forth, were scattered to the four winds as you might say (though there was but one at the time), and he probably will never find the most of them again. His pens flew into a hollow stump near by, I flew over to the roots of another stump, and he fell on the satchel of lunch that your mother had prepared for him, squeezing it all out on the ground. Then he picked himself up and went home.

"As for me, I remained where I fell until you kindly brought me home with you this afternoon.

"Now, my young friend, I will conclude. I have done my work in this world, so far, as faithfully as I knew how, and I think I have fulfilled the purposes for which I was made. I hope I have proved to you that pins are of some importance, for I came very near causing the death of one person and saved the life of another. If you do your work, no matter how small it may be, as well as I have, you will be as happy as I am, perhaps not joyful, but you will at least be satisfied with yourself, which is a great deal better than being satisfied with others. I am through."

The pin stopped.

"Now shall I take you back to the stump?" I asked. But there was no answer given. I repeated the question, but still I received no reply.

Then I took my acquaintance up carefully, and carried it back to the stump, laying it in a place sheltered from the wet, as that worthy had requested.

"Here is your friend the pin," I said. But the stump made no reply. So I turned sadly and went home, and up to my room, to meditate on the singular silence of both the pin and the stump.

The supper bell startled me and I arose from my chair and my reverie, and hastened down stairs.

As I entered the dining-room, one of the boarders said: "Why, where have you been all the afternoon?"

"Oh, I took a walk down to Racket Brook, and then I stayed up in my room the rest of the time."

(I was not going to tell about the pin and his story.)

"Are you sure you didn't come down again after you went up just after dinner?"

"Yes, I did," I indignantly replied.

"I peeped into your room this afternoon, and you were asleep by your desk."

"You were, I know," assented my little brother. "I saw you way down in the orchard, and you were asleep with your head on the window sill."

I made no reply, but went up to my room as soon as I had finished my supper, and spent the evening in writing my composition. And what do you think it was? Why, just the story of the pin as he told it to me that afternoon. The children wanted to know if it was true, after I had come down from the platform, having been greatly applauded by the audience (the fat author being in it). I replied that, every word of it was true, and went with them to the shore of the brook, where we found the identical stump with the young beech-tree growing beside it. Where was the pin? I do not know. It wasn't there, though, much to my chagrin.

When I got home, the fat author wanted to know if I would let him have my composition for one chapter of his book. I was perfectly willing, but when he showed me the chapter afterward it was headed "A Boy's Dream." And he had it that a boy had gone to sleep on the window-sill, and had dreamed—my composition!

When I returned it to him he asked me what I thought of it.

"I like it."

"And the title?"

I was silent for a moment—then I said,

"Perhaps it is so."