urmur of a rippling stream, sometimes like the singing of birds,
sometimes like the tempest sweeping through the mighty pine forests.
He fancied he heard his own heart weep, but in the sweet tones that
can be heard in a woman's charming voice. It seemed as if not only the
strings of the violin made music, but its bridge, its pegs, and its
sounding-board. It was astonishing! The piece had been a most
difficult one; but it seemed like play--as if the bow were but
wandering capriciously over the strings. Such was the appearance of
facility, that every one might have supposed he could do it. The
violin seemed to sound of itself, the bow to play of itself. These two
seemed to do it all. One forgot the master who guided them, who gave
them life and soul. Yes, they forgot the master; but the poet thought
of him. He named him, and wrote down his thoughts as follows:

"How foolish it would be of the violin and the bow, were they to be
vain of their performance! And yet this is what so often we of the
human species are. Poets, artists, those who make discoveries in
science, military and naval commanders--we are all proud of ourselves;
and yet we are all only the instruments in our Lord's hands. To Him
alone be the glory! We have nothing to arrogate to ourselves."

This was what the poet wrote; and he headed it with, "The Master and
the Instruments." When the inkstand and the pen were again alone, the
latter said,--

"Well, madam, you heard him read aloud what I had written."

"Yes, what I gave you to write," said the inkstand. "It was a hit at
you for your conceit. Strange that you cannot see that people make a
fool of you! I gave you that hit pretty cleverly. I confess, though,
it was rather malicious."

"Ink-holder!" cried the pen.

"Writing-stick!" cried the inkstand.

They both felt assured that they had answered well; and it is a
pleasant reflection that one has made a smart reply--one sleeps
comfortably after it. And they both went to sleep; but the poet could
not sleep. His thoughts welled forth like the tones from the violin,
murmuring like a pearly rivulet, rushing like a storm through the
forest. He recognised the feelings of his own heart--he perceived the
gleam from the everlasting Master.

To Him alone be the glory!

_The Child in the Grave._

There was sorrow in the house, there was sorrow in the heart; for the
youngest child, a little boy of four years of age, the only son, his
parents' present