SELF-POISED, balanced.
What is a sanctuary? In the Temple at Jerusalem,
what was the Holy of
Holies? Why are the sanctuaries of Catholic churches
so supremely holy?
Why are “sweet childish days” as long
“As twenty days are now?”
Tell what you know of the author’s life.
Memorize the poem.
[Illustration:]
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70
re tort’ ed quizzed in cred’ i ble
man u fac’ ture sat’ ire vi o lin’
ist com pre hend’ me lo’ di ous ly hu’
mor ex hib’ it a chieve’ ments for’
ests
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 assure 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.
