Now, I suppose I shall be sent on my
travels, shall be sent round the wide world, so that all men may read
me. I should think that would be the wisest plan. Formerly I had
blue blossoms, now for every single blossom I have some beautiful
thought, or pleasant fancy--who so happy as I?"
But the Paper was not sent on its travels, it went to the printer's
instead, and there all that was written upon it was printed in a
book; nay, in many hundred books: and in this way an infinitely
greater number of people received pleasure and profit therefrom
than if the written Paper itself had been sent round the world, and
perhaps got torn and worn to pieces before it had gone halfway.
"Yes, to be sure, this is much more sensible," thought the Paper.
"It had never occurred to me, though. I am to stay at home and
be held in as great honor as if I were an old grandfather. The
book was written on me first, the ink flowed in upon me from the pen
and formed the words. I shall stay at home, while the books go
about the world, to and fro--that is much better. How glad I am!
how fortunate I am!"
So the Paper was rolled up and laid on one side.
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