stitch and then cut with scissors, which made it look like a hairy
caterpillar. The child took to this, and cared for nothing else. Wool
of every shade was procured for her, and she made caterpillars of all
colours. Her only complaint was that they did not turn into
butterflies. However, she was a sweet, gentle-tempered child, and she
went on, hoping that they would do so, and making new ones. One day she
was heard talking and laughing in her bed for joy. She said that all
the caterpillars had become butterflies of many colours, and that the
room was full of them. In that happy fancy she died.'

"'And the caterpillars came down here?'

"'Not for a long time,' said the beetle; 'her mother kept them while
_she_ lived, and then they were lost and came down. No toys come
down here till they are broken or lost.'

"'What are those sticks doing here?' I asked.

"The music had ceased, and all the toys were lying quiet. Up in a
corner leaned a large bundle of walking-sticks. They are often sold in
toy-shops, but I wondered on what grounds they came here.

"'Did you ever meet with a too benevolent old gentleman wondering where
on earth his sticks go to?' said the beetle. 'Why do they lend them to
their grandchildren? The young rogues use them as hobby-horses and lose
them, and down they come, and the sentinels cannot stop them. The real
hobby-horses won't allow them to ride with them, however. There was a
meeting on the subject. Every stick was put through an examination.
"Where is your nose? Where is your mane? Where are your wheels?" The
last was a poser. Some of them had got noses, but none of them had got