The Needle, “extra fine gold-eyed,”
    Was very sharp and full of pride,
    And thus, methought, she did begin:—­
    You clumsy, thick, short, ugly Pin,
    I wish you were not quite so near;
    How could my mistress stick me here? 
    She should have put me in my place,
    With my bright sisters in the case.”

    “Would you were there!” the Pin replied;
    “I do not want you by my side. 
    I’m rather short and thick, ’tis true;
    Who’d be so long and thin as you? 
    I’ve got a head, though, of my own,
    That you had better let alone.”

    “You make me laugh,” the Needle cried;
    “That you’ve a head can’t be denied;
    For you a very proper head,
    Without an eye, and full of lead.”

    “You are so cross, and sharp, and thin,”
    Replied the poor insulted Pin,
    “I hardly dare a word to say,
    And wish indeed you were away;
    That golden eye in your poor head
    Was only made to hold a thread;
    All your fine airs are foolish fudge,
    For you are nothing but a drudge;
    But I, in spite of your abuse,
    Am made for pleasure and for use. 
    I fasten the bouquet and sash,
    And help the ladies make a dash;
    I go abroad and gayly roam,
    While you are rusting here at home.”

    “Stop,” cried the Needle, “you’re too much,
    You’ve brass enough to beat the Dutch;
    Do I not make the ladies’ clothes,
    Ere I retire to my repose? 
    Then who, forsooth, the glory wins? 
    Alas! ’tis finery and pins. 
    This is the world’s unjust decree,
    But what is this vain world to me? 
    I’d rather live with my own kin,
    Than dance about like you, vain Pin. 
    I’m taken care of every day;
    You’re used awhile, then thrown away,
    Or else you get all bent up double,
    And a snug crack for all your trouble.”

    “True,” said the Pin, “I am abused,
    And sometimes very roughly used;
    I often get an ugly crook,
    Or fall into a dirty nook;
    But there I lie, and never mind it;
    Who wants a pin is sure to find it;
    In time I am picked up, and then
    I lead a merry life again. 
    You fuss so at a fall or hurt,
    And, if you get a little dirt,
    You keep up such an odious creaking,
    That where you are there is no speaking;
    And then your lackey Emery’s called,
    And he, poor thing, is pricked and mauled,
    Until your daintiness—­O, shocking!—­
    Is fit for what? to mend a stocking!”

    The Needle now began to speak,—­
    They might have quarrelled for a week,—­
    But here the Scissors interposed. 
    And thus the warm debate was closed:—­
    “You angry Needle! foolish Pin! 
    How did this nonsense first begin? 
    You should have both been