“It’s the thread man, young lady,” he said finally, after looking her up and down carefully. Then he hurried on, as if afraid she’d ask more. The thread man. How odd! Now she was really curious. A week went by. A tall, looming madam came out of the narrow street one day and nearly ran into her as she passed, arms full of gladiolas and a bag of cabbages. The woman looked approachable -- in a stiff, scratchy sort of way.

“Who is the thread man?” She asked, very politely, in hopes of sounding nonchalant. The tall woman with the thicket eyebrows stopped and peered down at her.

“Why, he fixes string my dear. Piles of it.”

“But why string?”

“Because it’s useful.”

“But…so are other things. Why string?”

“Because it’s beautiful.”

“Beautiful? I don’t understand…”

“My dear. My advice to you is -- stop in and see him sometime. He doesn’t bite. Unless, that is, he sees that you don’t value your string.” Oh dear, a loony zoo, she thought, but thanked the lady and went on home. She did her usual chores around the house before supper, but as she did she kept finding loose bits of thread here and there, just lying around. Funny I never noticed them before, she thought, and got out the vacuum cleaner. But then she stopped and tucked her fist under her chin. Thread, eh? Well, what could it hurt? Maybe he was an old quack or magician. But it might be fun -- and was surely harmless. Instead of vacuuming the thread, she gathered it all into a shoddy little bundle and made up her mind to investigate what was going on behind the blue door the very next day -- if she could get up the courage.

The next day she got her chores done early after school. When she was finished her mother asked could she please run and find some nice onions for the soup tonight. Her opportunity had come. Slipping the string into her pocket, she made up her mind to visit the blue door on her way home. When the moment came and she finally stood before it, knocking, she almost convinced herself a drooling philistine would answer, mistaking her as ingredients for his own soup. She clutched her packages, feeling more foolish than the time she ate her napkin in order to hide that sonnet she’d written for her very first poetry class.

Well, this wasn’t so bad. A short, stout Italian man poked his head out and beamed at her.

“Come in, come in! Don’t just stand there, young goose, hopping so on one foot! Let’s see what you have, eh?

“It really isn’t anything…”

“Onions? Onions are never ‘not anything.’ Um-mah, with red skins. My favorite!”

“No no, it is this,” she said, producing her sad package, “that isn’t anything.”

“Nonsense!” He boomed.

“It’s very messy, truly…”

“Let me be the judge of that, if you don’t mind.”

“Well…” It was quite hopeless. He was very obstinate about seeing the bundle behind the ugly paper wrappings. To her it was merely a package of loosely wrapped string, coming undone. It had been stepped on so often it was limp to the touch. At one time it might have been a pretty color, or colors, vibrant, strong-- something used to stitch together precious moments bound up into little volumes with gold spines. Now it was a dreadful, haphazard raveling, a hopeless tangle for even the deftest fingers. And now it smelled of onions yet. She held it out to him, palms up, blushing with shame, tap-dancing her discomfort around the sad, pretty tangles in her hands.

“Ahh, what a treasure,” he breathed, touching them reverently as if they were made of gold.

“But -- it’s only tangled thread. Old, unkempt, not worth a thing.” She was so frustrated she almost began to cry. She shoved the disgraceful bundle into his hands and turned to go. “If you can do something with it -- that’s fine with me,” she said hurriedly, tired of the game.

“Oh no. I cannot do anything with your thread without your help.” He looked at her gravely.

“What do I have to do?”

“Come tomorrow and we shall see.” I’m crazy, she thought as she closed the blue door. But, as she walked home the greens were greener, the birds tuned wistfully, and the weed-flowers left by the road-groomers (out of pity) seemed more beautiful than before.

As the days and weeks came and went and she went in and out of the little street with all the other people to visit the thread-man, something strange happened. Not immediately, and not like magic; that’s the stuff for irresponsible fairies in happy meadows. Gradually the messy, loose ends of the string-package began to resemble a gift, no longer wrapped in homely brown paper, but the most gloriously embroidered stuff tied up with silver ribbons. Yards and yards of once-tangled string -- fine, silky, vibrant and strong once more.

“I’ll be able to find so many uses for it,” she said one day, excitedly, standing by the window to admire the colors better in the piercing light of an October afternoon. “It’s beautiful.”

“It always was.”

“How could you tell?”

“It is a gift, little lady.”

“But what do I do with it?”

“You must give it away.”

“And if I don’t?”

“It will become all tangled again, as it was the first time, stubborn Irish imp.”

“Then I will give it, Wise One of the Isles.” They shared a hearty laugh, and she turned to go.

“But -- wait.” By the door, she looked back, blanching slightly.

“Yes?”

“One very important thing you mustn’t forget” --

“What?” She squeaked, anxious again.

“You must not be stingy when you give it.”

“So…how don’t I do that?”

“Always wrap it beautifully -- with great care.”

“Why, that is an odd thing to say,” she cried, peeved. “Why must I do that?”

“So you don’t forget that it’s a gift you’re giving, and not an old pile of string.”