“‘What a sad story!’ I exclaimed.

“The beetle seemed in no way affected.

“‘It is a curious thing,’ he rambled on, ’that potato takes quite a good place among the toys.  You see, rank and precedence down here is entirely a question of age; that is, of the length of time that any plaything has been in the possession of a child; and all kinds of ugly old things hold the first rank; whereas the most costly and beautiful works of art have often been smashed or lost by the spoilt children of rich people in two or three days.  If you care for sad stories, there is another queer thing belonging to a child who died.’

“It appeared to be a large sheet of canvas with some strange kind of needlework upon it.

“‘It belonged to a little girl in a rich household,’ the beetle continued; ’she was an invalid, and difficult to amuse.  We have lots of her toys, and very pretty ones too.  At last some one taught her to make caterpillars in wool-work.  A bit of work was to be done in a certain 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 wheels.  So they were not true hobby-horses.  Something of the kind occurred with the elder-whistles.’

“‘The what?’ I asked.