De La Salle Fifth Reader Part 44

me lo' di ous ly hu' mor ex hib' it a chieve' ments for' ests

THE PEN AND THE INKSTAND.

In the room of a poet, where his inkstand stood upon the table, it was said, "It is wonderful what can come out of an inkstand. What will the next thing be? It is wonderful!"

"Yes, certainly," said the Inkstand. "It's extraordinary--that's what I always say," he exclaimed to the pen and to the other articles on the table that were near enough to hear. "It is wonderful what a number of things can come out of me. It's quite incredible. And I really don't myself know what will be the next thing, when that man begins to dip into me. One drop out of me is enough for half a page of paper; and what cannot be contained in half a page?

"From me all the works of the poet go forth--all these living men, whom people can imagine they have met--all the deep feeling, the humor, the vivid pictures of nature. I myself don't understand how it is, for I am not acquainted with nature, but it certainly is in me. From me all things have gone forth, and from me proceed the troops of charming maidens, and of brave knights on prancing steeds, and all the lame and the blind, and I don't know what more--I a.s.sure you I don't think of anything."

"There you are right," said the Pen; "you don't think at all; for if you did, you would comprehend that you only furnish the fluid. You give the fluid, that I may exhibit upon the paper what dwells in me, and what I would bring to the day. It is the pen that writes. No man doubts that; and, indeed, most people have about as much insight into poetry as an old inkstand."

"You have but little experience," replied the Inkstand. "You've hardly been in service a week, and are already half worn out. Do you fancy you are the poet? You are only a servant; and before you came I had many of your sorts, some of the goose family, and others of English manufacture.

I know the quill as well as the steel pen. Many have been in my service, and I shall have many more when _he_ comes--the man who goes through the motions for me, and writes down what he derives from me. I should like to know what will be the next thing he'll take out of me."

"Inkpot!" exclaimed the Pen.

Late in the evening the poet came home. He had been to a concert, where he had heard a famous violinist, with whose admirable performances he was quite enchanted. The player had drawn a wonderful wealth of tone from the instrument; sometimes it had sounded like tinkling water-drops, like rolling pearls, sometimes like birds twittering in chorus, and then again it went swelling on like the wind through the fir trees.

The poet thought he heard his own heart weeping, but weeping melodiously, like the sound of woman's voice. It seemed as though not only the strings sounded, but every part of the instrument.

It was a wonderful performance; and difficult as the piece was, the bow seemed to glide easily to and fro over the strings, and it looked as though every one might do it. The violin seemed to sound of itself, and the bow to move of itself--those two appeared to do everything; and the audience forgot the master who guided them and breathed soul and spirit into them. The master was forgotten; but the poet remembered him, and named him, and wrote down his thoughts concerning the subject:

"How foolish it would be of the violin and the bow to boast of their achievements. And yet we men often commit this folly--the poet, the artist, the laborer in the domain of science, the general--we all do it.

We are only the instruments which the Almighty uses: to Him alone be the honor! We have nothing of which we should be proud."

Yes, that is what the poet wrote down. He wrote it in the form of a parable, which he called "The Master and the Instrument."

"That is what you get, madam," said the Pen to the Inkstand, when the two were alone again. "Did you not hear him read aloud what I have written down?"

"Yes, what I gave you to write," retorted the Inkstand. "That was a cut at you, because of your conceit. That you should not even have understood that you were being quizzed! I gave you a cut from within me--surely I must know my own satire!"

"Ink-pipkin!" cried the Pen.

"Writing-stick!" cried the Inkstand.

And each of them felt a conviction that he had answered well; and it is a pleasing conviction to feel that one has given a good answer--a conviction on which one can sleep; and accordingly they slept upon it.

But the poet did not sleep. Thoughts welled up from within him, like the tones from the violin, falling like pearls, rus.h.i.+ng like the storm-wind through the forests. He understood his own heart in these thoughts, and caught a ray from the Eternal Master. To _Him_ be all the honor!

_Hans Christian Andersen._

PIPKIN, a small pipe; a small jar made of baked clay.

Write as many synonyms as you know, or can find, of the words _vivid, exhibit, comprehend_. Consult the dictionary.

What one word may you use instead of "laborer in the domain of science?"

Seek in your dictionary the definition of the word _parable_. Relate one of our Lord's parables.

By means of the prefixes and suffixes that you have learned, form as many words as you can from the following: man, do, late, loud, art, room, blind, easy, heart, humor, vivid, maiden, famous, service, furnished.

_71_

THE WIND AND THE MOON.

Said the Wind to the Moon, "I will blow you out.

You stare in the air Like a ghost in a chair, Always looking what I am about, I hate to be watched; I'll blow you out."

The Wind blew hard, and out went the Moon.

So, deep on a heap Of clouds, to sleep Down lay the Wind and slumbered soon, Muttering low, "I've done for that Moon."

He turned in his bed; she was there again!

On high in the sky, With her one ghost eye, The Moon shone white and alive and plain.

Said the Wind, "I will blow you out again."

The Wind blew hard, and the Moon grew dim.

"With my sledge and my wedge I have knocked off her edge.

If only I blow right fierce and grim, The creature will soon be dimmer than dim."

He blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread: "One puff more's enough To blow her to snuff!

One good puff more where the last was bred, And glimmer, glimmer, glum, will go the thread."

He blew a great blast, and the thread was gone, In the air nowhere Was a moonbeam bare; Far off and harmless the shy stars shone; Sure and certain the Moon was gone!

The Wind he took to his revels once more; On down, in town, Like a merry-mad clown, He leaped and holloed with whistle and roar,-- "What's that?" The glimmering thread once more!

He flew in a rage--he danced and he blew; But in vain was the pain Of his bursting brain; For still the broader the moon-sc.r.a.p grew, The broader he swelled his big cheeks, and blew.

Slowly she grew, till she filled the night, And shone on her throne In the sky alone, A matchless, wonderful, silvery light, Radiant and lovely, the Queen of the Night.

Said the Wind: "What a marvel of power am I!

With my breath, good faith!

I blew her to death-- First blew her away right out of the sky, Then blew her in; what a strength am I!"