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"It is good to
repose after labor," said the Paper. "It is quite right to collect
oneself, and quietly think over all that dwelleth within one. Now,
first, do I rightly know myself. And to know oneself, I have heard,
is the best knowledge, the truest progress. And come what will,
this I am sure of, all will end in progress--always is there
progress!"
One day the roll of Paper was thrown upon the stove to be burnt
--it must not be sold to the grocer to wrap round pounds of butter
and sugar. And all the children in the house flocked round; they
wanted to see the blaze, they wanted to count the multitude of tiny
red sparks which seem to dart to and fro among the ashes, dying out,
one after another, so quickly--they call them "the children going
out of school," and the last spark of all is the schoolmaster; they
often fancy he is gone out, but another and another spark flies up
unexpectedly, and the schoolmaster always tarries a little behind the
rest.
And now all the Paper lay heaped up on the stove. "Ugh!" it
cried, and all at once it burst into a flame.


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