Then, when his wrapping papers had been taken off, he was set down on
the floor near a warm chimney in rather a bare and cheerless attic,
and left to himself in the darkness.

But the White Rocking Horse could see in the dark. And when he knew
that no human eyes were watching him he spoke, in the make-believe
language of toy land.

"Is any one here--any toy to whom I can talk, and with whom I can have
a little fun?" asked the White Horse out loud.

There was no answer for a moment, and then a voice said:

"You can talk to me, if you like, but it has been many years since I
have had any fun. I am old and broken and covered with dust."

"Who are you?" asked the White Horse.

"I am an old Jumping Jack," was the answer. "Here I am, over by the
chimney."

"Oh, now I see you!" said the Horse. "But what is the matter? Are you
so very old?"

"Oh, yes, I am almost five Christmases old," was the answer. "My two
legs are broken, and one of my arms, and the spring by which I used to
jump is all worn out. So, as I am no longer of any use in this world,
I am in the Attic Home. That is the last resting place of broken toys,
you know."