I like to think, as I look along book shelves, that every one of these favorites was born out of an ink-well.  I imagine the hopes and visions that thronged the author’s mind as he filled his pot and sliced the quill.  What various fruits have flowed from those ink-wells of the past:  for some, comfort and honor, quiet homes and plenteousness; for others, bitterness and disappointment.  I have seen a copy of Poe’s poems, published in 1845 by Putnam, inscribed by the author.  The volume had been bought for $2,500.  Think what that would have meant to Poe himself.

Some such thoughts as these twinkled in my head as I held up the Pierian bottle against the light, admired the deep blue of it, and filled my ink-well.  And then I took up my pen, which wrote: 

A GRACE BEFORE WRITING

On Filling an Ink-well

  This is a sacrament, I think! 
    Holding the bottle toward the light,
  As blue as lupin gleams the ink: 
    May Truth be with me as I write!

  That small dark cistern may afford
    Reunion with some vanished friend,—­
  And with this ink I have just poured
    May none but honest words be penned!

OLD THOUGHTS FOR CHRISTMAS

[Illustration]

A new thought for Christmas?  Who ever wanted a new thought for Christmas?  That man should be shot who would try to brain one.  It is an impertinence even to write about Christmas.  Christmas is a matter that humanity has taken so deeply to heart that we will not have our festival meddled with by bungling hands.  No efficiency expert would dare tell us that Christmas is inefficient; that the clockwork toys will soon be broken; that no one can eat a peppermint cane a yard long; that the curves on our chart of kindness should be ironed out so that the “peak load” of December would be evenly distributed through the year.  No sourface dare tell us that we drive postmen and shopgirls into Bolshevism by overtaxing them with our frenzied purchasing or that it is absurd to send to a friend in a steam-heated apartment in a prohibition republic a bright little picture card of a gentleman in Georgian costume drinking ale by a roaring fire of logs.  None in his senses, I say, would emit such sophistries, for Christmas is a law unto itself and is not conducted by card-index.  Even the postmen and shopgirls, severe though their labors, would not have matters altered.  There is none of us who does not enjoy hardship and bustle that contribute to the happiness of others.