ncy they have known or met, and all the deep
feeling, the humor, and the vivid pictures of nature. I myself don't
understand how it is, for I am not acquainted with nature, but it is
certainly in me. From me have gone forth to the world those wonderful
descriptions of charming maidens, and of brave knights on prancing
steeds; of the halt and the blind--and I know not what more, for I
assure you I never think of these things."

"There you are right," said the pen, "for you don't think at all. If you
did, you would see that you can only provide the means. You give the
fluid, that I may place upon the paper what dwells in me and what I wish
to bring to light. It is the pen that writes. No man doubts that; and
indeed most people understand as much about poetry as an old inkstand."

"You have had very little experience," replied the inkstand. "You have
hardly been in service a week and are already half worn out. Do you
imagine you are a poet? You are only a servant, and before you came I
had many like you, some of the goose family and others of English
manufacture. I know a quill pen as well as I know a steel one. I have
had both sorts in my service, and I shall have many more as long as _he_
comes--the man who performs the mechanical part--and writes down what he
obtains from me. I should like to know what will be the next thing he
gets out of me."

"Inkpot!" retorted the pen, contemptuously.

Late in the evening the poet returned home from a concert, where he had
been quite enchanted by the admirable performance of a famous violin
player.

The player had produced from his instrument a richness of tone that
sometimes sounded like tinkling water drops or rolling pearls, sometimes
like the birds twittering in chorus, and then again, rising and swelling
like the wind through the fir trees. The poet felt as if his own heart
were weeping, but in tones of melody, like the sound of a woman's voice.
These sounds seemed to come not only from the strings but from every
part of the instrument. It was a wonderful performance and a difficult
piece, and yet the bow seemed to glide across the strings so easily
that one would think any one could do it. The violin and the bow seemed
independent of their master who guided them. It was as if soul and
spirit had been breathed into the instrument. And the audience forgot
the performer in the beautiful sounds he produced.

Not so the poet; he remembered him and wrote down his thoughts on t