Sad to say, Lucy’s days of taking journeys were long past. For many years now she had remained nestled in a woven basket along with an assortment of neglected sewing notions. Her company consisted of a small community of pins and a dwindled congregation of buttons. It should not be thought that she failed to appreciate her basket home, however, for it kept her quite safe and warm. She even had a small velvet cushion which, despite some balding here and there, made for a bed of much comfort, and in the winter she could pile snippets of fabric from the scrap bag on top of it and stay ever so cozy.
Lucy was most thankful, however, for the fact that her basket contained enough spools of thread that if stacked just right, she could perch upon them for a view beyond the brim. If she looked directly down, the enormous chest upon which her basket sat could be seen. It was a finely crafted piece of furniture and something for which she had both fondness and fear. Its contents were of no mystery to her although she could not remember the last time they had been put to task in the decking of a Christmas tree.