Then they were taken out of the wash-tub, starched, and hung over a
chair in the sunshine, and then laid on the ironing-board. And now came the
glowing iron. “Mistress widow,” said the shirt-collar, “little mistress widow,
I feel quite warm. I am changing, I am losing all my creases. You are
burning a hole in me. Ugh! I propose to you.”
“You old rag,” said the flat-iron, driving proudly over the collar, for she
fancied herself a steam-engine, which rolls over the railway and draws
carriages. “You old rag!” said she.
The edges of the shirt-collar were a little frayed, so the scissors were
brought to cut them smooth. “Oh!” exclaimed the shirt-collar, “what a first-
rate dancer you would make; you can stretch out your leg so well. I never
saw anything so charming; I am sure no human being could do the same.”
“I should think not,” replied the scissors.
“You ought to be a countess,” said the shirt collar; “but all I possess
consists of a fine gentleman, a boot-Jean, and a comb. I wish I had an estate
for your sake.”
“What! is he going to propose to me?” said the scissors, and she became
so angry that she cut too sharply into the shirt collar, and it was obliged to
be thrown by as useless.
“I shall be obliged to propose to the hair-brush,” thought the shirt collar;
so he remarked one day, “It is wonderful what beautiful hair you have, my
little lady. Have you never thought of being engaged?”
“You might know I should think of it,” answered the hair brush; “I am
engaged to the boot-Jean.”
“Engaged!” cried the shirt collar, “now there is no one left to propose to;”
and then he pretended to despise all love-making.
A long time passed, and the shirt collar was taken in a bag to the paper-
mill. Here was a large company of rags, the fine ones lying by themselves,
separated from the coarser, as it ought to be. They had all many things to
relate, especially the shirt collar, who was a terrible boaster. “I have had an
