From me,all the works of a poet are produced; all those imaginary characterswhom people fancy they have known or met. All the deep feeling, thehumor, and the vivid pictures of nature. I myself don't understand howit is, for I am not acquainted with nature, but it is certainly in me.From me have gone forth to the world those wonderful descriptions oftroops of charming maidens, and of brave knights on prancing steeds;of the halt and the blind, and I know not what more, for I assureyou I never think of these things."
  "There you are right," said the pen, "for you don't think atall; if you did, you would see that you can only provide the means.You give the fluid that I may place upon the paper what dwells inme, and what I wish to bring to light. It is the pen that writes: noman doubts that; and, indeed, most people understand as much aboutpoetry as an old inkstand."
  "You have had very little experience," replied the inkstand."You have hardly been in service a week, and are already half wornout. Do you imagine you are a poet? You are only a servant, and beforeyou came I had many like you, some of the goose family, and othersof English manufacture. I know a quill pen as well as I know a steelone. I have had both sorts in my service, and I shall have many morewhen he comes- the man who performs the mechanical part- and writesdown what he obtains from me. I should like to know what will be thenext thing he gets out of me."
  "Inkpot!" exclaimed the pen contemptuously.
  Late in the evening the poet came home. He had been to aconcert, and had been quite enchanted with the admirable performanceof a famous violin player whom he had heard there. The performer hadproduced from his instrument a richness of tone that sometimes soundedlike tinkling waterdrops or rolling pearls; sometimes like the birdstwittering in chorus, and then rising and swelling in sound like thewind through the fir-trees. The poet felt as if his own heart wereweeping, but in tones of melody like the sound of a woman's voice.It seemed not only the strings, but every part of the instrumentfrom which these sounds were produced. It was a wonderfulperformance and a difficult piece, and yet the bow seemed to glideacross the strings so easily that it was as if any one could do it whotried. Even the violin and the bow appeared to perform independentlyof their master who guided them; it was as if soul and spirit had beenbreathed into the instrument, so the audience forgot the performerin the beautiful sounds he produced. Not so the poet; he rememberedhim, and named him, and wrote down his thoughts on the subject. "Howfoolish it would be for the violin and the bow to boast of theirperformance, and yet we men often commit that folly. The poet, theartist, the man of science in his laboratory, the general,- we alldo it; and yet we are only the instruments which the Almighty uses; toHim alone the honor is due. We have nothing of ourselves of which weshould be proud." Yes, this is what the poet wrote down. He wrote itin the form of a parable, and called it "The Master and theInstruments."
  "That is what you have got, madam," said the pen to theinkstand, when the two were alone again. "Did you hear him readaloud what I had written down?"
  "Yes, what I gave you to write," retorted the inkstand. "Thatwas a cut at you because of your conceit. To think that you couldnot understand that you were being quizzed. I gave you a cut fromwithin me. Surely I must know my own satire."
  "Ink-pitcher!"