The clock was in ill humor; so was the vase. It was all on account of
the little shoe that had been placed on the mantel-piece that day, and
had done nothing but sigh dolorously all the afternoon and evening.
"Look you here, neighbor," quoth the clock, in petulant tones, "you are
sadly mistaken if you think you will be permitted to disturb our peace
and harmony with your constant sighs and groans. If you are ill, pray
let us know; otherwise, have done with your manifestations of distress."
"Possibly you do not know what befell the melancholy plaque that
intruded his presence upon us last week," said the vase. "We pitched
him off the mantelpiece, and he was shattered into a thousand bits."
The little shoe gave a dreadful shudder. It could not help thinking it
had fallen among inhospitable neighbors. It began to cry. The brass
candlestick took pity on the sobbing thing, and declared with some show
of temper that the little shoe should not be imposed on.
"Now tell us why you are so full of sadness," said the brass
candlestick.
"I do not know how to explain," whimpered the little shoe. "You see I
am quite a young thing, albeit I have a rusty appearance and there is a
hole in my toes and my heel is badly run over. I feel so lonesome and
friendless and sort of neglected-like, that it seems as if there were
nothing for me to do but sigh and grieve and weep all day long."
"Sighing and weeping do no good," remarked the vase, philosophically.
"I know that very well," replied the little shoe; "but once I was so
happy that my present lonesome lot oppresses me all the more
grievously."
"You say you once were happy--pray tell us all about it," demanded the
brass candlestick.
The vase was eager to hear the little shoe's story, and even the proud,
haughty clock expressed a willingness to listen. The matchbox came
from the other end of the mantel-piece, and the pen-wiper, the
paper-cutter, and the cigar-case gathered around the little shoe, and
urged it to proceed with its narrative.
"The first thing I can remember in my short life," said the little
shoe, "was being taken from a large box in which there were many of my
kind thrown together in great confusion. I found myself tied with a
slender cord to a little mate, a shoe so very like me that you could
not have told us apart. We two were taken and put in a large window in
the midst of many grown-up shoes, and we had nothing to do but gaze out
of the window all day long into the wide, busy street. That was a very
pleasant life. Sometimes the sunbeams would dance through the
window-panes and play at hide-and-seek all over me and my little mate;
they would kiss and caress us, and we learned to love them very
much--they were so warm and gentle and merrisome. Sometimes the
raindrops would patter against the window-panes, singing wild songs to
us, and clamoring to break through and destroy us with their eagerness.
When night came, we could see stars away up in the dark sky winking at
us, and very often the old mother moon stole out from behind a cloud to
give us a kindly smile. The wind used to sing us lullabies, and in one
corner of our window there was a little open space where the mice gave
a grand ball every night to the music of the crickets and a blind frog.
Altogether we had a merry time."
"I 'd have liked it all but the wind," said the brass candlestick. "I
don't know why it is, but I 'm dreadfully put out by the horrid old
wind!"
"Many people," continued the little shoe, "used to stop and look in at
the window, and I believe my little mate and I were admired more than
any of our larger and more pretentious companions. I can remember
there was a pair of red-top boots that was exceedingly jealous of us.
But that did not last long, for one day a very sweet lady came and
peered in at the window and smiled very joyously when she saw me and my
little mate. Then I remember we were taken from the window, and the
lady held us in her hands and examined us very closely, and measured
our various dimensions with a string, and finally, I remember, she said
she would carry us home. We did not know what that meant, only we
realized that we would never live in the shop window again, and we were
loath to be separated from the sunbeams and the mice and the other
friends that had been so kind to us."
"What a droll little shoe!" exclaimed the vase. Whereupon the clock
frowned and ticked a warning to the vase not to interrupt the little
shoe in the midst of its diverting narrative.
"It is not necessary for me to tell you how we were wrapped in paper
and carried a weary distance," said the little shoe; "it is sufficient
to my purpose to say that, after what seemed to us an interminable
journey and a cruel banging around, we were taken from the paper and
found ourselves in a quiet, cozy room--yes, in this very apartment
where we all are now! The sweet lady held us in her lap, and at the
sweet lady's side stood a little child, gazing at us with an expression
of commingled astonishment, admiration, and glee. We knew the little
child belonged to the sweet lady, and from the talk we heard we knew
that henceforth the child was to be our little master."
As if some sudden anguish came upon it, hushing its speech, the little
shoe paused in its narrative. The others said never a word. Perhaps
it was because they were beginning to understand. The proud, haughty
clock seemed to be less imperious for the moment, and its ticking was
softer and more reverential.
"From that time," resumed the little shoe, "our little master and we
were inseparable during all the happy day. We played and danced with
him and wandered everywhere through the grass, over the carpets, down
the yard, up the street--ay, everywhere our little master went, we went
too, sharing his pretty antics and making music everywhere. Then, when
evening came and little master was put to sleep, in yonder crib, we
were set on the warm carpet near his bed where we could watch him while
he slept, and bid him good-morrow when the morning came. Those were
pleasant nights, too, for no sooner had little master fallen asleep
than the fairies came trooping through the keyholes and fluttering down
the chimney to dance over his eyes all night long, giving him happy
dreams, and filling his baby ears with sweetest music."
"What a curious conceit!" said the pen-wiper.
"And is it true that fairies dance on children's eyelids at night?"
asked the paper-cutter.
"Certainly," the clock chimed in, "and they sing very pretty lullabies
and very cunning operettas, too. I myself have seen and heard them."
"I should like to hear a fairy operetta," suggested the pen-wiper.
"I remember one the fairies sang my little master as they danced over
his eyelids," said the little shoe, "and I will repeat it if you wish."
"Nothing would please me more," said the pen-wiper.
"Then you must know," said the little shoe, "that, as soon as my master
fell asleep, the fairies would make their appearance, led by their
queen, a most beautiful and amiable little lady no bigger than a
cambric needle. Assembling on the pillow of the crib, they would order
their minstrels and orchestra to seat themselves on little master's
forehead. The minstrels invariably were the cricket, the flea, the
katydid, and the gnat, while the orchestra consisted of mosquitos,
bumblebees, and wasps. Once in a great while, on very important
occasions, the fairies would bring the old blind hop-toad down the
chimney and set him on the window-sill, where he would discourse droll
ditties to the infinite delight of his hearers. But on ordinary
occasions, the fairy queen, whose name was Taffie, would lead the
performance in these pleasing words, sung to a very dulcet air: