this is certainly the wisest plan," said the written paper; "I
really did not think of this. I shall remain at home and be held in
honor like some old grandfather, as I really am to all these new books.
They will do some good. I could not have wandered about as they can, yet
he who wrote all this has looked at me as every word flowed from his pen
upon my surface. I am the most honored of all."

Then the paper was tied in a bundle with other papers and thrown into a
tub that stood in the washhouse.

"After work, it is well to rest," said the paper, "and a very good
opportunity to collect one's thoughts. Now I am able, for the first
time, to learn what is in me; and to know one's self is true progress.
What will be done with me now, I wonder? No doubt I shall still go
forward. I have always progressed hitherto, I know quite well."

Now it happened one day that all the paper in the tub was taken out and
laid on the hearth to be burned. People said it could not be sold at the
shop, to wrap up butter and sugar, because it had been written upon. The
children in the house stood round the hearth to watch the blaze, for
paper always flamed up so prettily, and afterwards, among the ashes,
there were so many red sparks to be seen running one after the other,
here and there, as quick as the wind. They called it seeing the children
come out of school, and the last spark, they said, was the schoolmaster.
They would often think the last spark had come, and one would cry,
"There goes the schoolmaster," but the next moment another spark would
appear, bright and beautiful. How they wanted to know where all the
sparks went to! Perhaps they will find out some day.

The whole bundle of paper had been placed on the fire and was soon
burning. "Ugh!" cried the paper as it burst into a bright flame; "ugh!"
It was certainly not very pleasant to be burned. But when the whole was
wrapped in flames, the sparks mounted up into the air, higher than the
flax had ever been able to raise its little blue flowers, and they
glistened as the white linen never could have glistened. All the written
letters became quite red in a moment, and all the words and thoughts
turned to fire.

"Now I am mounting straight up to the sun," said a voice in the flames;
and it was as if a thousand voices echoed the words as the flames
darted up through the chimney and went out at the top. Then a number of
tiny beings, as many as the flowers on the flax had been, and invis