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"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.
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.
"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.
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