ood upon his table:--

"It is astonishing all that can come out of that inkstand! What will
it produce next? Yes, it is wonderful!"

"So it is!" exclaimed the inkstand. "It is incomprehensible! That is
what I always say." It was thus the inkstand addressed itself to the
pen, and to everything else that could hear it on the table. "It is
really astonishing all that can come from me! It is almost incredible!
I positively do not know myself what the next production may be, when
a person begins to dip into me. One drop of me serves for half a side
of paper; and what may not then appear upon it? I am certainly
something extraordinary. From me proceed all the works of the poets.
These animated beings, whom people think they recognise--these deep
feelings, that gay humour, these charming descriptions of nature--I do
not understand them myself, for I know nothing about nature; but still
it is all in me. From me have gone forth, and still go forth, these
warrior hosts, these lovely maidens, these bold knights on snorting
steeds, those droll characters in humbler life. The fact is, however,
that I do not know anything about them myself. I assure you they are
not my ideas."

"You are right there," replied the pen. "You have few ideas, and do
not trouble yourself much with thinking. If you _did_ exert yourself
to think, you would perceive that you ought to give something that was
not dry. You supply me with the means of committing to paper what I
have in me; I write with that. It is the pen that writes. Mankind do
not doubt that; and most men have about as much genius for poetry as
an old inkstand."

"You have but little experience," said the inkstand. "You have
scarcely been a week in use, and you are already half worn out. Do you
fancy that you are a poet? You are only a servant; and I have had many
of your kind before you came--many of the goose family, and of English
manufacture. I know both quill pens and steel pens. I have had a great
many in my service, and I shall have many more still, when he, the man
who stirs me up, comes and puts down what he takes from me. I should
like very much to know what will be the next thing he will take from
me."

Late in the evening the poet returned home. He had been at a concert,
had heard a celebrated violin player, and was quite enchanted with his
wonderful performance. It had been a complete gush of melody that he
had drawn from the instrument. Sometimes it seemed like the gentle
m