t too--you know what is in me, and
what a cock of the world I am."

And with this the Yard Cock flapped his wings, and made his comb swell
up, and crowed again; and all of them shuddered--all the hens and the
chickens; but they were proud that one of their people should be such
a cock of the world. They clucked and chirped, so that the Weathercock
heard it; and he heard it, but he never stirred.

"It's all stupid stuff!" said a voice within the Weathercock. "The
Yard Cock does not lay eggs, and I am too lazy to lay any. If I liked,
I could lay a wind-egg; but the world is not worth a wind-egg. And now
I don't like even to sit here any longer."

And with this the Weathercock broke off; but he did not kill the Yard
Cock, though he intended to do so, as the hens declared. And what does
the moral say?--"Better to crow than to be 'used up' and break off."

THE PEN AND INKSTAND.

In the room of a poet, where his inkstand stood upon the table, it was
said, "It is wonderful what can come out of an inkstand. What will the
next thing be? It is wonderful!"

"Yes, certainly," said the Inkstand. "It's extraordinary--that's what
I always say," he exclaimed to the pen and to the other articles on
the table that were near enough to hear. "It is wonderful what a
number of things can come out of me. It's quite incredible. And I
really don't myself know what will be the next thing, when that man
begins to dip into me. One drop out of me is enough for half a page of
paper; and what cannot be contained in half a page? From me all the
works of the poet go forth--all these living men, whom people can
imagine they have met--all the deep feeling, the humour, the vivid
pictures of nature. I myself don't understand how it is, for I am not
acquainted with nature, but it certainly is in me. From me all these
things have gone forth, and from me proceed the troops of charming
maidens, and of brave knights on prancing steeds, and all the lame and
the blind, and I don't know what more--I assure you I don't think of
anything."

"There you are right," said the Pen; "you 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