will never bring any of it back again. O
the misery endured for the want of an errant piece of twine, when you
are in a nervous hurry to do up a parcel, some one waiting at the door
meanwhile! After an immense deal of pains, you have it at last folded
to your liking, with every corner squared and even, every wrinkle
smoothed. Then, clasping tightly with one hand the stiff wrapper, you
search distractedly with the other for a ball of twine, which you
distinctly remember tossing into the paper-drawer only the day before.
In vain you surround yourself with newspaper and brown paper, and
useless rubbish, tumbling your whole drawer into confusion. In vain
you relinquish your nicely packed parcel, and see its contents
scattered in all directions. In vain you grumble and scold. The ball
is not forthcoming. Your little brother has seized it to fly his kite,
or your sister is even now tying up her trailing morning-glories, or
sweet peas, with the stolen booty. You plunge your hand exploringly
into the drawer, and bring up a long roll wound thickly with twine of
all kinds and colors. Your eyes sparkle at the prize; but, alas! the
first energetic pull leaves in your hand a piece about four inches
long, and a quantity of dangling ends and rough knots convince you
that you have nothing to hope in that quarter. A second plunge brings
up a handful of odds and ends, strong pieces clumsy and rough, coarse
red quill-cord, delicate two-colored bits far too short, cotton twine
breaking at a touch, fine long pieces hopelessly tangled together, so
that not even an end is visible. The more you twitch at the loops, the
more desperate is the snarl. Poor mortal! Your pride gives way before
the urgency of haste. You send off your nice packet miserably tied
together by two kinds of twine.

All the rest of the day you are tormented by a superfluity of the very
thing you needed so much. It was impossible to get it when you wanted
it; but now it is pertinaciously in your way when you do _not_ want
it. You almost break your neck tripping over a long, firm cord, which
proves to be a pair of reins left hanging on a chair by some careless
urchin. The carpet and furniture are strewed with long, straggling
pieces of packthread. You find a white end dangling conspicuously from
your waistcoat pocket. As you walk the streets you see twine flying
from fences, or lying useless on the sidewalk, black with dust and
age. To crown the whole, a friend comes with a