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 sort, 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 labourer 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 honour! 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 called "The Master and the Instruments."

"That is what you get, madam," said the Pen to the Inkstand, when the
two were alone again. "Did you not hear him read aloud what I have
written down?"

"Yes, what I gave you to write," retorted the Inkstand. "That was a
cut at you, because of your conceit. That you should not even have
understood that you were being quizzed! I gave