ou don't think at all; for if you
did, you would comprehend that you only furnish the fluid. You give the
fluid, that I may exhibit upon the paper what dwells in me, and what I
would bring to the day. It is the pen that writes. No man doubts that;
and, indeed, most people have about as much insight into poetry as an
old inkstand."

"You have but little experience," replied the Inkstand. "You've hardly
been in service a week, and are already half worn out. Do you fancy you
are the poet? You are only a servant; and before you came I had many of
your sorts, some of the goose family, and others of English manufacture.
I know the quill as well as the steel pen. Many have been in my service,
and I shall have many more when _he_ comes--the man who goes through the
motions for me, and writes down what he derives from me. I should like
to know what will be the next thing he'll take out of me."

"Inkpot!" exclaimed the Pen.

Late in the evening the poet came home. He had been to a concert, where
he had heard a famous violinist, with whose admirable performances he
was quite enchanted. The player had drawn a wonderful wealth of tone
from the instrument; sometimes it had sounded like tinkling water-drops,
like rolling pearls, sometimes like birds twittering in chorus, and then
again it went swelling on like the wind through the fir trees.

The poet thought he heard his own heart weeping, but weeping
melodiously, like the sound of woman's voice. It seemed as though not
only the strings sounded, but every part of the instrument.

It was a wonderful performance; and difficult as the piece was, the bow
seemed to glide easily to and fro over the strings, and it looked as
though every one might do it. The violin seemed to sound of itself, and
the bow to move of itself--those two appeared to do everything; and the
audience forgot the master who guided them and breathed soul and spirit
into them. The master was forgotten; but the poet remembered him, and
named him, and wrote down his thoughts concerning the subject:

"How foolish it would be of the violin and the bow to boast of their
achievements. And yet we men often commit this folly--the poet, the
artist, the laborer in the domain of science, the general--we all do it.
We are only the instruments which the Almighty uses: to Him alone be the
honor! We have nothing of which we should be proud."

Yes, that is what the poet wrote down. He wrote it in the form of a
parable, which he