“Inkpot!” exclaimed the pen contemptuously.
![](http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/a/a5/Hans_Andersen%27s_Fairy_Tales_%281888%29_-_p._371.png/480px-Hans_Andersen%27s_Fairy_Tales_%281888%29_-_p._371.png)
THE POET IN HIS STUDY.
Late in the evening the poet came home. He had been to a concert, and had been quite enchanted with the admirable performance of a famous violin player whom he had heard there. The performer had produced from his instrument a richness of tone that sometimes sounded like tinkling waterdrops or rolling pearls; sometimes like the birds twittering in chorus, and then rising and swelling in sound like the wind through the fir-trees. The poet felt as if his own heart were weeping, but in tones of melody like the sound of a woman’s voice. It seemed not only the strings, but every part of the instrument from which these sounds were produced. It was a wonderful performance and a difficult piece, and yet the bow seemed to