"Certainly, this is more than I could ever have dreamt of, when I was a wee little blue flower of the field! How could I then have looked forward to becoming a messenger destined to bring knowledge and pleasure among men? I can hardly understand it even now. Yet, so it is, actually. And, for my own part, I have never done anything, beyond the little that in me lay, to strive to exist, and yet I am carried on from one state of honor and happiness to another; and every time that I think within myself, 'Now, surely, the song is en-ded-ded-ded,' I am converted into something new, something far higher and better. Now, I suppose I shall be sent on my travels, shall be sent round the wide world, so that all men may read me. I should think that would be the wisest plan. Formerly I had blue blossoms, now for every single blossom I have some beautiful thought, or pleasant fancy--who so happy as I?" But the Paper was not sent on its travels, it went to the printer's instead, and there all that was written upon it was printed in a book; nay, in many hundred books: and in this way an infinitely greater number of people received pleasure and profit therefrom than if the written Paper itself had been sent round the world, and perhaps got torn and worn to pieces before it had gone halfway. "Yes, to be sure, this is much more sensible," thought the Paper. "It had never occurred to me, though. I am to stay at home and be held in as great honor as if I were an old grandfather. The book was written on me first, the ink flowed in upon me from the pen and formed the words. I shall stay at home, while the books go about the world, to and fro--that is much better. How glad I am! how fortunate I am!" So the Paper was rolled up and laid on one side. "It is good to repose after labor," said the Paper. "It is quite right to collect oneself, and quietly think over all that dwelleth within one. Now, first, do I rightly know myself. And to know oneself, I have heard, is the best knowledge, the truest progress. And come what will, this I am sure of, all will end in progress--always is there progress!" One day the roll of Paper was thrown upon the stove to be burnt --it must not be sold to the grocer to wrap round pounds of butter and sugar. And all the children in the house flocked round; they wanted to see the blaze, they wanted to count the multitude of tiny red sparks which seem to dart to and fro among the ashes, dying out, one after another, so quickly--they call them "the children going out of school," and the last spark of all is the schoolmaster; they often fancy he is gone out, but another and another spark flies up unexpectedly, and the schoolmaster always tarries a little behind the rest.