A long time passed, and then the collar came into a bag and was sent to the paper-mill. There was a grand company of rags, the fine ones in a heap by themselves, and the common ones in another, as was only right. They had all a lot to say, especially the collar; he was a regular braggart!
"I have had a terrible lot of sweethearts," said the collar; "I was never left in peace. But I was quite a gentleman, you must know, starched up to the nines! I kept both a boot-jack and a comb, which I never used. You should have seen me at the time when I was turned down! I shall never forget my first sweetheart; she was a waistband, so fine, so soft, so beautiful; she threw herself into a wash-tub for my sake. Then there was a widow, who was head and ears over in love with me, but I left her to herself to remain in her weeds. Then there was a première-danseuse; she gave me the gash you see me with—she was a fury! My own comb was in love with me; she lost all her teeth through disappointed love. Yes, I have gone through a lot of such experiences. But I am most sorry for the garter—the waistband I mean, who jumped into the wash-tub. I have a great deal on my conscience; it is really time I was made into white paper!"
And all the rags were made into paper; the collar became the very piece of white paper before me, on which this story is printed—all in punishment for having boasted so dreadfully of what had never happened. We ought to take warning by this, and try to behave better, for one never knows what may happen; we might find ourselves one day in the bag with rags, and be made into white paper, and then have the whole story of our life, even the most secret part of it, printed upon the paper, and have to run about and tell it, just like the shirt collar.
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