IN a poet's room， where his inkstand stood onthe table， the remark was once made， “It iswonderful what can be brought out of an inkstand.What will come next? It is indeed wonderful.”
“Yes， certainly，” said the inkstand to the pen，and to the other articles that stood on the table; “that's what I always say. It is wonderful andextraordinary what a number of things come out ofme. It's quite incredible， and I really don't know what is coming next when that man dips hispen into me. One drop out of me is enough for half a page of paper， and what cannot half apage contain? From me， all the works of a poet are produced; all those imaginarycharacters whom people fancy they have known or met. All the deep feeling， the humor， andthe vivid pictures of nature. I myself don't understand how it is， for I am not acquaintedwith nature， but it is certainly in me. From me have gone forth to the world those wonderfuldescriptions of troops of charming maidens， and of brave knights on prancing steeds; of thehalt and the blind， and I know not what more， for I assure you I never think of thesethings.”
“there you are right，” said the pen， “for you don't think at all; if you did， you would seethat you can only provide the means. You give the fluid that I may place upon the paper whatdwells in me， and what I wish to bring to light. It is the pen that writes： no man doubtsthat; 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 servicea week， and are already half worn out. Do you imagine you are a poet? You are only aservant， and before you came I had many like you， some of the goose family， and others ofEnglish manufacture. I know a quill pen as well as I know a steel one. I have had both sorts inmy service， and I shall have many more when he comes—the man who performs themechanical part—and writes down what he obtains from me. I should like to know what will bethe next thing he gets out of me.”
“Inkpot!” exclaimed the pen contemptuously.
Late in the evening the poet came home. He had been to a concert， and had been quiteenchanted with the admirable performance of a famous violin player whom he had heardthere. The performer had produced from his instrument a richness of tone that sometimessounded like tinkling waterdrops or rolling pearls; sometimes like the birds twittering inchorus， and then rising and swelling in sound like the wind through the fir-trees. The poet feltas if his own heart were weeping， but in tones of melody like the sound of a woman's voice. Itseemed not only the strings， but every part of the instrument from which these sounds wereproduced. It was a wonderful performance and a difficult piece， and yet the bow seemed toglide across the strings so easily that it was as if any one could do it who tried. Even theviolin and the bow appeared to perform independently of their master who guided them; itwas as if soul and spirit had been breathed into the instrument， so the audience forgot theperformer in the beautiful sounds he produced. Not so the poet; he remembered him， andnamed him， and wrote down his thoughts on the subject. “How foolish it would be for theviolin and the bow to boast of their performance， and yet we men often commit that folly.The poet， the artist， the man of science in his laboratory， the general，—we all do it; andyet we are only the instruments which the Almighty uses; to Him alone the honor is due. Wehave nothing of ourselves of which we should be proud.” Yes， this is what the poet wrotedown. He wrote it in the form of a parable， and called it “The Master and the Instruments.”
“That is what you have got， madam，” said the pen to the inkstand， when the two werealone again. “Did you hear him read aloud what I had written down?”
“Yes， what I gave you to write，” retorted the inkstand. “That was a cut at you because ofyour conceit. To think that you could not understand that you were being quizzed. I gave youa cut from within me. Surely I must know my own satire.”
“Ink-pitcher!” cried the pen.
“Writing-stick!” retorted the inkstand. And each of them felt satisfied that he had given agood answer. It is pleasing to be convinced that you have settled a matter by your reply; itis something to make you sleep well， and they both slept well upon it. But the poet did notsleep. Thoughts rose up within him like the tones of the violin， falling like pearls， or rushinglike the strong wind through the forest. He understood his own heart in these thoughts; theywere as a ray from the mind of the GREat Master of all minds.
“To Him be all the honor.”