On a Pincushion

On a Pincushion

On a pincushion were a pebble Brooch, a jet Shawl-pin, and a common Pin. They were all complaining because they were so often left behind instead of being taken out like the other brooches and pins.

“It is all very well for you,” said the Shawl-pin, “but for me it is trying, because I have seen better days, and remember the time when I was never used to pin up anything but the finest Indian and Cashmere shawls.”

“Nay,” cried the Brooch, “you cannot expect to be used as much as I, for you are all black, and would not be taken for anything but a dark shawl. But I am all sorts of colours, and therefore might be used any day. I would sooner have been left uncut, unpolished, than brought to this.”

“I don’t think,” said the Pin, “that either of you have as much cause to complain as I, for you are neither of you as useful, and might not be wanted, but I am always needed, and so many pins are taken every day that it seems hard I should be left here for nearly a week, and all because I am run so far into the pincushion that nothing but my head can be seen.”

After a pause the Shawl-pin said, “I wish those Bracelets up there would leave off chattering. There’s nothing disturbs my nerves so much as the clatter of talking.”

“Bracelets are always great talkers,” said the Brooch. “I once passed two months in a jewel-box with a number, and I was truly thankful when I was taken out. Their talking was incessant, and it was impossible to get a wink of sleep.” And all three scowled up at the Bracelets, who were hanging over the looking-glass, but who did not mind them in the least, but went on talking just the same. “Let us do something to drown their noise,” said the Pin. “Let us tell stories.”

“I will tell you one,” said the Brooch, “and I know it to be true, for it was before I was cut and polished, and I was at the place myself where it happened;” and having cleared its throat, the Brooch began as follows.