‘Oh no; for my part I would rather not speak of myself,’ objected the earthenware pitcher. ‘Suppose we have an intellectual entertainment? I will begin; I will relate something of everyday life, such as we have all experienced; one can easily transport oneself into it, and that is so interesting! Near the Baltic, among the Danish beech-groves----’ ‘That is a capital beginning!’ cried all the plates at once; ‘it will certainly be just the sort of story for me!’ ‘Yes, there I spent my youth in a very quiet family; the furniture was rubbed, the floors were washed, clean curtains were hung up every fortnight.’ ‘How very interesting! what a charming way you have of describing things!’ said the hair-broom. ‘Any one might guess immediately that it is a lady who is speaking; the tale breathes such a spirit of cleanliness!’ ‘Very true; so it does!’ exclaimed the water-pail, and in the excess of his delight he gave a little jump, so that some of the water splashed upon the floor. And the pitcher went on with her tale, and the end proved as good as the beginning. All the plates clattered applause, and the hair-broom took some green parsley out of the sand-hole and crowned the pitcher, for he knew that this would vex the others; and, thought he, ‘If I crown her to-day, she will crown me to-morrow.’ ‘Now I will dance,’ said the fire-tongs, and accordingly she did dance, and oh! it was wonderful to see how high she threw one of her legs up into the air; the old chair-cover in the corner tore with horror at seeing her. ‘Am not I to be crowned too?’ asked the tongs, and she was crowned forthwith. ‘These are the vulgar rabble!’ thought the matches. [Illustration: ‘BUT LET IT MAKE US LAUGH,’ SAID THE KING] The tea-urn was now called upon to sing, but she had a cold; she said she could only sing when she was boiling; however, this was all her pride and affectation. The fact was she never cared to sing except when she was standing on the parlour-table before company. On the window-ledge lay an old quill-pen, with which the maids used to write; there was nothing remarkable about her, except that she had been dipped too low in the ink; however, she was proud of that. ‘If the tea-urn does not choose to sing,’ quoth she, ‘she may let it alone; there is a nightingale in the cage hung just outside--he can sing; to be sure, he had never learnt the notes--never mind, we will not speak evil of any one this evening!’ ‘I think it highly indecorous,’ observed the tea-kettle, who was the vocalist of the kitchen, and a half-brother of the tea-urn’s, ‘that a foreign bird should be listened to. Is it patriotic? I appeal to the turf-basket.’