'Yes, that I have!' answered the hair-brush; 'I'm engaged to the
boot-jack!'

'Engaged!' exclaimed the shirt-collar. And now there was no one
he could marry, so he took to despising matrimony.

Time passed, and the shirt-collar came in a rag-bag to the
paper-mill. There was a large assortment of rags, the fine ones
in one heap, and the coarse ones in another, as they should be.
They had all much to tell, but no one more than the shirt-collar,
for he was a hopeless braggart.

'I have had a terrible number of love affairs!' he said. 'They
give me no peace. I was such a fine gentleman, so stiff with
starch! I had a boot-jack and a hair-brush, which I never used!
You should just have seen me then! Never shall I forget my first
love! She was a girdle, so delicate and soft and pretty! She
threw herself into a wash-tub for my sake! Then there was a
widow, who glowed with love for me. But I left her alone, till
she became black. Then there was the dancer, who inflicted the
wound which has caused me to be here now; she was very violent!
My own hair-brush was in love with me, and lost all her hair in
consequence. Yes, I have experienced much in that line; but I
grieve most of all for the garter,-I mean, the girdle, who threw
herself into a wash-tub. I have much on my conscience; it is
high time for me to become white paper!'

And so he did! he became white paper, the very paper on which
this story is printed. And that was because he had boasted so