There was once a fine gentleman who possessed, among other things, a boot-jack and a hair-brush; but he also had the finest shirt-collar in the world, and of this collar we are about to hear a story.
The collar had become so old that he began to think about getting married. One day, he happened to find himself in the same washing-tub as a garter.
"Upon my word," said the shirt-collar, "I have never seen anything so slim and delicate, so neat and soft before. May I venture to ask your name?"
"I shall not tell you," replied the garter.
"Where do you reside when you are at home?" asked the shirt-collar. But the garter was naturally shy and did not know how to answer.
"I presume you are a girdle," said the shirt-collar, "a sort of under girdle. I see that you are useful as well as ornamental, my little lady."
"You must not speak to me," said the garter. "I do not think I have given you any encouragement to do so."
"Oh, when anyone is as beautiful as you are," said the shirt-collar, "is not that encouragement enough?"
"Get away; don't come so near me," said the garter. "You appear to me quite like a man."
"I am a fine gentleman, certainly," said the shirt-collar. "I possess a boot-jack and a hair-brush." This was not true, for these things belonged to his master; but he was a boaster.
"Don't come so near me," said the garter. "I am not accustomed to it."
"Affectation!" said the shirt-collar.
Then they were taken out of the wash-tub, starched, hung over a chair in the sunshine, and laid on the ironing-board. 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. "You old rag!"
The edges of the shirt-collar were a little frayed, so 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-jack, 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 aside 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-jack."
"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. They had many things to relate, especially the shirt-collar, who was a terrible boaster.
"I have had an immense number of love affairs," said the shirt-collar. "No one left me any peace. It is true I was a very fine gentleman; quite stuck up. I had a boot-jack and a brush that I never used. I shall never forget my first love; she was a girdle, so charming, and fine, and soft, and she threw herself into a washing tub for my sake. There was a widow too, who was warmly in love with me, but I left her alone, and she became quite black. The next was a first-rate dancer; she gave me the wound from which I still suffer. Even my own hair-brush was in love with me. Yes, I have had great experience of this kind, but my greatest grief was for the garter. I have a great deal on my conscience, and it is really time I should be turned into white paper."
And the shirt collar came to this at last. All the rags were made into white paper, and the shirt collar became the very identical piece of paper on which this story is printed. It happened as a punishment to him for having boasted so shockingly of things which were not true. And this is a warning to us, to be careful how we act, for we may some day find ourselves in the rag-bag, to be turned into white paper, on which our whole history may be written.