"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!
