he
subject: "How foolish it would be for the violin 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,
and yet we are only the instruments which the Almighty uses. To Him
alone the honor is due. We have nothing in ourselves of which we should
be proud." Yes, this is what the poet wrote. He wrote it in the form of
a parable and called it "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 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 of your conceit. To think that you could not understand
that you were being quizzed! I gave you a 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 a good answer. It is pleasing to be convinced that you
have settled a matter by your reply; it is something to make you sleep
well. And they both slept well over it.

But the poet did not sleep. Thoughts rose within him, like the tones of
the violin, falling like pearls or rushing like the strong wind through
the forest. He understood his own heart in these thoughts; they were as
a ray from the mind of the Great Master of all minds.

"To Him be all the honor."

[Illustration]

THE TEAPOT

THERE was once a proud teapot; it was proud of being porcelain, proud of
its long spout, proud of its broad handle. It had something before and
behind,--the spout before and the handle behind,--and that was what it
talked about. But it did not talk of its lid, which was cracked and
riveted; these were defects, and one does not talk of one's defects, for
there are plenty of others to do that. The cups, the cream pot, and the
sugar bowl, the whole tea service, would think much oftener of the lid's
imperfections--and talk about them--than of the sound handle and the
remarkable spout. The teapot knew it.

"I know you," it said within itself. "I know, too, my imperfection, and
I am well aware that in that very thing is seen my humility, my
modesty. Imperfections we all have, but we also have compensations. The
cups have a handle, the sugar bowl a lid; I have both, and one thing
besides, in front, which they can never have. I have a