THE PEN AND THE INKSTAND [1]
got, 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 upon it.
But the poet did not sleep. Thoughts rose up 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."
THE END
.
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 upon it.
But the poet did not sleep. Thoughts rose up 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."
THE END
.