钢笔和墨水瓶童话故事

篇一：钢笔和墨水瓶

THE PEN AND THE INKSTAND. IN a poet's room, where his inkstand stood on the table, the remark

was once made, "It is wonderful what can be brought out of an

inkstand. What will come next? It is indeed wonderful. "

"Yes, certainly, " said the inkstand to the pen, and to the other

articles that stood on the table; "that's what I always say. It is

wonderful and extraordinary what a number of things come out of

me. It's quite incredible, and I really don't know what is coming

next when that man dips his pen into me. One drop out of me is

enough for half a page of paper, and what cannot half a page

contain? From me, all the works of a poet are produced; all those

imaginary characters whom people fancy they have known or met.

All the deep feeling, the humor, and the vivid pictures of nature. I

myself don't understand how it is, for I am not acquainted with

nature, but it is certainly in me. From me have gone forth to the

world those wonderful descriptions of troops of charming maidens,

and of brave knights on prancing steeds; of the halt and the blind,

and I know not what more, for I assure you I never think of these

things. " "There you are right, " said the pen, "for you don't

think at all; if you did, you would see that you can only provide the

means. You give the fluid that I may place upon the paper what

dwells in me, and what I wish to bring to light. It is the pen that

writes: no man doubts that; and, indeed, most people understand as

much about poetry as an old inkstand. " "You have had very

little experience, " replied the inkstand. "You have hardly been in

service a week, and are already half worn out. Do you imagine you

are a poet? You are only a servant, and before you came I had

many like you, some of the goose family, and others of English

manufacture. I know a quill pen as well as I know a steel one. I

have had both sorts in my service, and I shall have many more

when he comes the man who performs the mechanical part and

writes down what he obtains from me. I should like to know what

will be the next thing he gets out of me. " "Inkpot! "

exclaimed the pen contemptuously. 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 glide

across the strings so easily that it was as if any one could do it who

tried. Even the violin and the bow appeared to perform

independently of their master who guided them; it was as if soul

and spirit had been breathed into the instrument, so the audience

forgot the performer in the beautiful sounds he produced. Not so

the poet; he remembered him, and named him, and wrote down his

thoughts on the subject. "How foolish it would be for the violin

and the bow to boast of their performance, and yet we men often

commit that folly. The poet, the artist, the man of science in his

laboratory, the general, we all do it; and yet we are only the

instruments which the Almighty uses; to Him alone the honor is

due. We have nothing of ourselves of which we should be proud. "

Yes, this is what the poet wrote down. He wrote it in the form of a

parable, and called it "The Master and the Instruments. "

"That is what you have got, madam, " said the pen to the inkstand,

when the two were alone again. "Did you hear him read aloud what

I had written down? " "Yes, what I gave you to write, "

retorted the inkstand. "That was a cut at you because of your

conceit. 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. It is pleasing to be

convinced that you have settled a matter by your reply; it is

something to make you sleep well, and they both slept well upon it.

But the poet did not sleep. Thoughts rose up within him like the

tones of the violin, falling like pearls, or rushing like the strong

wind through the forest. He understood his own heart in these

thoughts; they were as a ray from the mind of the Great Master of

all minds. "To Him be all the honor. " THE END .

篇二：钢笔和墨水瓶

THE PEN AND THE INKSTAND. IN a poet's room, where his inkstand stood on the table, the remark was once made, "It is wonderful what can be brought out of an inkstand. What will come next? It is indeed wonderful. " "Yes, certainly, " said the inkstand to the pen, and to the other articles that stood on the table; "that's what I always say. It is wonderful and extraordinary what a number of things come out of me. It's quite incredible, and I really don't know what is coming next when that man dips his pen into me. One drop out of me is enough for half a page of paper, and what cannot half a page contain? From me, all the works of a poet are produced; all those imaginary characters whom people fancy they have known or met. All the deep feeling, the humor, and the vivid pictures of nature. I myself don't understand how it is, for I am not acquainted with nature, but it is certainly in me. From me have gone forth to the world those wonderful descriptions of troops of charming maidens, and of brave knights on prancing steeds; of the halt and the blind, and I know not what more, for I assure you I never think of these things. " "There you are right, " said the pen, "for you don't think at all; if you did, you would see that you can only provide the means. You give the fluid that I may place upon the paper what dwells in me, and what I wish to bring to light. It is the pen that writes: no man doubts that; and, indeed, most people understand as much about poetry as an old inkstand. " "You have had very little experience, " replied the inkstand. "You have hardly been in service a week, and are already half worn out. Do you imagine you are a poet? You are only a servant, and before you came I had many like you, some of the goose family, and others of English manufacture. I know a quill pen as well as I know a steel one. I have had both sorts in my service, and I shall have many more when he comes the man who performs the mechanical part and writes down what he obtains from me. I should like to know what will be the next thing he gets out of me. " "Inkpot! " exclaimed the pen contemptuously. 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 glide across the strings so easily that it was as if any one could do it who tried. Even the violin and the bow appeared to perform independently of their master who guided them; it was as if soul and spirit had been breathed into the instrument, so the audience forgot the performer in the beautiful sounds he produced. Not so the poet; he remembered him, and named him, and wrote down his thoughts on the subject. "How foolish it would be for the violin and the bow to boast of their

performance, and yet we men often commit that folly. The poet, the artist, the man of science in his laboratory, the general, we all do it; and yet we are only the instruments which the Almighty uses; to Him alone the honor is due. We have nothing of ourselves of which we should be proud. " Yes, this is what the poet wrote down. He wrote it in the form of a parable, and called it "The Master and the Instruments. " "That is what you have got, madam, " said the pen to the inkstand, when the two were alone again. "Did you hear him read aloud what I had written down? " "Yes, what I gave you to write, " retorted the inkstand. "That was a cut at you because of your conceit. 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. It is pleasing to be convinced that you have settled a matter by your reply; it is something to make you sleep well, and they both slept well upon it. But the poet did not sleep. Thoughts rose up within him like the tones of the violin, falling like pearls, or rushing like the strong wind through the forest. He understood his own heart in these thoughts; they were as a ray from the mind of the Great Master of all minds. "To Him be all the honor. "

篇三：钢笔和墨水

钢笔和墨水

小主人以前的钢笔和墨水用完了，所以小主人就到超市里买了一只新的钢笔和一瓶新的墨水。

小主人用了几天钢笔，写出了一手的好字，小主人就得意地跟他的同学说：“多亏了这只好钢笔，才能让我写出一手好字。”钢笔听了，心里一阵高兴。 晚上，钢笔等小主人睡觉以后，它就向文具们炫耀：“小主人说，多亏我的质量好，才能让小主人写出一手好字。”这时墨水听了不服气了，它说：“要是没有我给你补充墨水，你怎么能写出这一手好字呢？”钢笔听了很不高兴，它嘟着嘴说：“本来我的身体里面是干干净净的，现在让你给我补充墨水，把我的身体弄得脏兮兮的，有的时候小主人还说我把他的手弄脏了呢！”墨水听了，气得说不出话来了。它心想：好啊，我给你补充墨水，你还这样说我，看你明天怎么写字。

第二天，小主人在写字的时候，钢笔没墨水了，于是小主人就拿起钢笔吸墨水，可不管怎么吸，都吸不进，弄得小主人作业都没做好。小主人火冒三丈把钢笔扔到地上，钢笔的头被摔坏了。墨水见了，哈哈大笑。在课后扫地的时候，钢笔被无情地扫进了垃圾桶，小主人从这以后就只买水性笔。后来，他把墨水也给扔了。

篇四：钢笔和墨水

钢笔和墨水 从前，有一位著名的作家，在他的书桌上有一支钢笔和一盒墨水。一天，它俩吵了起来，它俩原来在比赛谁最有用。 “嘿嘿，小钢笔，如果没有我，你怎么办？如果没有我，你什么用也没有！”墨水抬着头大声说。 “哼，没有你又怎样，大块头！如果没有我，你不照样没处使！”钢笔大声喊，它可不愿意被别人笑呢。

“住口”，墨水大叫道。“你有什么资格这样对我大声说话，等着瞧吧！如果没有我，你休想得到主人的宠爱！”

“你……你敢这么说我，你这个大块头，你肯定没我有用，光有你，你也是无用！”钢笔也恼怒了，它都急得跳起来了。

“怎么样？认输吧，主人不会喜欢你的。”墨水笑了起来。 “哼，我走了，你也没法用！你就等着被主人丢吧。再说，主人的文章不也离不了我！”钢笔真的很生气，它又踢又跳，碰得桌子一摇一摇的。

墨水生气了，对着钢笔大声骂。钢笔也喋喋不休地说起了自己的优点。就这样，它们吵了一个上午。

这时，坐在旁边的书爷爷看不下去了，说：“你们各有自己的长处。不能只看自己的长处，也要看到别人的长处。只有互相合作，你们才能使用啊！你们要互相帮助，才能发挥作用。”

书爷爷说完，钢笔和墨水惭愧地低下了头。

桌子的哭泣（桌子和椅子） 一天，睡得正香的尺子弟弟见了“呜呜”的声音，他感到很奇怪，睁眼一看，原来是桌子哥哥在伤心地哭泣。

尺子弟弟关心地问：“桌子哥哥，你为什么哭呀？” “唉！尺子老弟，小主人一点也不爱惜我。”桌子伤心地哭着，“他做计算题时连草纸都不用，经常在我身上乱写乱面。弄得我全身脏兮兮的，当他不开心时，就拿我出气——使劲地打我，你看，我这条腿都骨折了??”

说着说着，桌子哭得更伤心了。“你别哭了，你要再哭，小主人的房间就要变成一片‘汪洋’了！”尺子弟，可慰道。 又过了一段时间，尺子又听到了桌子的哭泣，哭得比上次更伤心了。

“桌子哥哥，你怎么又哭了？”尺子满脸疑惑地问。“尺子老弟，你不知道，这是我最后一次与你谈话了！”小主人嫌弃我，说我满身伤痕累累，破烂不堪，又脏又旧，明天就要把我扔掉了，要换一个崭新的。桌子悲痛欲绝地诉说着。尺子也流下同样而又无奈的泪水。

最终，桌子还是没能幸运地留下来，被小主人扔进了垃圾场。

临行前，桌子多么想亲口向小主人诉说一下自己的内心感受啊！多么渴望能亲口告诉小主人：只有爱护桌子的孩子，才是一个好孩子：只有爱护桌子，桌子才能更好地为你服务，成为你的好朋友。遗憾的是，桌子的泪水早已流干，嗓子也早已哭哑不能再说说话。这一善良美好的心愿也无法实现了。 小朋友，千万别再让你的桌子伤心地哭泣了！好吗？

铅笔盒里的争吵

很久很久以前，一座古老的房子里面有一个铅笔盒，里边有许多文具：铅笔、橡皮、尺子、钢笔，它们是要好的朋友。

一天，尺子得意洋洋地说：“咱们在这里多年了，应该评一评地位，谁的功劳大谁就当领头羊。”

文具们一致同意，首先发言的是尺子，它自豪地说：“我的功劳大，要想把线画的笔直，必须得用我，所以我的功劳最大。”“打住！”尺子还没说完，弱小地铅笔打断了尺子的话，“哼，你们不要看我小，就来欺负我，看我多有用呀，每次主人写字都得用我，说明我该当领头羊，”铅笔小声嘟囔着。这时候，橡皮没有抢着回答，而是傲慢地说：“你看看你们几个，多没用呀，瞧我，不仅胖胖的，而且还是铅笔的克星呢，我多厉害！”这时钢笔不耐烦了，大声说道：“臭橡皮，你以为我怕你！你能擦掉我吗？不怕弄脏你那身雪白地衣裳就来吧！”橡皮气的脸都红了。

沉默了一会，它们不再争吵了，谁都不理谁。过了一会儿开门声响了，文具们都警惕起来了，它们屏息凝视着门口，心想难道小偷来了？咔嚓咔嚓，嗨，原来是主人回来了。可是，主人看见它们并不高兴，因为他看见文具们脸上一丝笑容也没有，突然，一阵细小地声音传出来了，原来是尺子，尺子后悔地

说：”主人，我错了，我不该让同伴们争老大，我们应该和平共处，团结一致，为主人服务。”主人听了，高兴地说：“你能好好反省，真不错！让大家和平相处吧！”

过了很久，文具们都认识到了自己的错误，并且有了悔改，它们又过起了愉快的日子。

铅笔盒里的争吵

很久很久以前，一座古老的房子里面有一个铅笔盒，里边有许多文具：铅笔、橡皮、尺子、钢笔，它们是要好的朋友。

一天，尺子得意洋洋地说：“咱们在这里多年了，应该评一评地位，谁的功劳大谁就当领头羊。”

文具们一致同意，首先发言的是尺子，它自豪地说：“我的功劳大，要想把线画的笔直，必须得用我，所以我的功劳最大。”“打住！”尺子还没说完，弱小地铅笔打断了尺子的话，“哼，你们不要看我小，就来欺负我，看我多有用呀，每次主人写字都得用我，说明我该当领头羊，”铅笔小声嘟囔着。这时候，橡皮没有抢着回答，而是傲慢地说：“你看看你们几个，多没用呀，瞧我，不仅胖胖的，而且还是铅笔的克星呢，我多厉害！”这时钢笔不耐烦了，大声说道：“臭橡皮，你以为我怕你！你能擦掉我吗？不怕弄脏你那身雪白地衣裳就来吧！”橡皮气的脸都红了。

沉默了一会，它们不再争吵了，谁都不理谁。过了一会儿开门声响了，文具们都警惕起来了，它们屏息凝视着门口，心想难道小偷来了？咔嚓咔嚓，嗨，原来是主人回来了。可是，主人看见它们并不高兴，因为他看见文具们脸上一丝笑容也没有，突然，一阵细小地声音传出来了，原来是尺子，尺子后悔地说：”主人，我错了，我不该让同伴们争老大，我们应该和平共处，团结一致，为主人服务。”主人听了，高兴地说：“你能好好反省，真不错！让大家和平相处吧！”

过了很久，文具们都认识到了自己的错误，并且有了悔改，它们又过起了愉快的日子。

铅笔盒里的争吵

很久很久以前，一座古老的房子里面有一个铅笔盒，里边有许多文具：铅笔、橡皮、尺子、钢笔，它们是要好的朋友。

一天，尺子得意洋洋地说：“咱们在这里多年了，应该评一评地位，谁的功劳大谁就当领头羊。”

文具们一致同意，首先发言的是尺子，它自豪地说：“我的功劳大，要想把线画的笔直，必须得用我，所以我的功劳最大。”“打住！”尺子还没说完，弱小地铅笔打断了尺子的话，“哼，你们不要看我小，就来欺负我，看我多有用呀，每次主人写字都得用我，说明我该当领头羊，”铅笔小声嘟囔着。这时候，橡皮没有抢着回答，而是傲慢地说：“你看看你们几个，多没用呀，瞧我，不仅胖胖的，而且还是铅笔的克星呢，我多厉害！”这时钢笔不耐烦了，大声说道：“臭橡皮，你以为我怕你！你能擦掉我吗？不怕弄脏你那身雪白地衣裳就来吧！”橡皮气的脸都红了。

沉默了一会，它们不再争吵了，谁都不理谁。过了一会儿开门声响了，文具们都警惕起来了，它们屏息凝视着门口，心想难道小偷来了？咔嚓咔嚓，嗨，原来是主人回来了。可是，主人看见它们并不高兴，因为他看见文具们脸上一丝笑容也没有，突然，一阵细小地声音传出来了，原来是尺子，尺子后悔地说：”主人，我错了，我不该让同伴们争老大，我们应该和平共处，团结一致，为主人服务。”主人听了，高兴地说：“你能好好反省，真不错！让大家和平相处吧！”

过了很久，文具们都认识到了自己的错误，并且有了悔改，它们又过起了愉快的日子。

篇五：安徒生童话：墨水笔和墨水瓶(英)

安徒生童话：墨水笔和墨水瓶(英)

The Pen and the Inkstand

by Hans Christian Andersen（1860）

IN a poet's room， where his inkstand stood on the table， the remark was once made， “It is wonderful what can be brought out of an inkstand. What will come next？ It is indeed wonderful.”

“Yes， certainly，” said the inkstand to the pen， and to the other articles that stood on the table； “that's what I always say. It is wonderful and extraordinary what a number of things come out of me. It's quite incredible， and I really don't know what is coming next when that man dips his pen into me. One drop out of me is enough for half a page of paper， and what cannot half a page contain？ From me， all the works of a poet are produced； all those imaginary characters whom people fancy they have known or met. All the deep feeling， the humor， and the vivid pictures of nature. I myself don't understand how it is， for I am not acquainted with nature， but it is certainly in me. From me have gone forth to the world those wonderful descriptions of troops of charming maidens， and of brave knights on prancing steeds； of the halt and the blind， and I know not what more， for I assure you I never think of these things.”

“There you are right，” said the pen， “for you don't think at all； if you did， you would see that you can only provide the means. You give the fluid that I may place upon the paper what dwells in me， and what I wish to bring to light. It is the pen that writes： no man doubts that； and， indeed， most people understand as much about poetry as an old inkstand.”

“You have had very little experience，” replied the inkstand. “You have hardly been in service a week， and are already half worn out. Do you imagine you are a poet？ You are only a servant， and before you came I had many like you， some of the goose family， and others of English manufacture. I know a quill pen as well as I know a steel one. I have had both sorts in my service， and I shall have many more when he comes—the man who performs the mechanical part—and writes down what he obtains from me. I should like to know what will be the next thing he gets out of me.”

“Inkpot！” exclaimed the pen contemptuously.

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 glide across the strings

so easily that it was as if any one could do it who tried. Even the violin and the bow appeared to perform independently of their master who guided them； it was as if soul and spirit had been breathed into the instrument， so the audience forgot the performer in the beautiful sounds he produced. Not so the poet； he remembered him， and named him， and wrote down his thoughts on the subject. “How foolish it would be for the violin and the bow to boast of their performance， and yet we men often commit that folly. The poet， the artist， the man of science in his laboratory， the general，—we all do it； and yet we are only the instruments which the Almighty uses； to Him alone the honor is due. We have nothing of ourselves of which we should be proud.” Yes， this is what the poet wrote down. He wrote it in the form of a parable， and called it “The Master and the Instruments.”

“That is what you have got， madam，” said the pen to the inkstand， when the two were alone again. “Did you hear him read aloud what I had written down？”

“Yes， what I gave you to write，” retorted the inkstand. “That was a cut at you because of your conceit. 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. It is pleasing to be convinced that you have settled a matter by your reply； it is something to make you sleep well， and they both slept well upon it. But the poet did not sleep. Thoughts rose up within him like the tones of the violin， falling like pearls， or rushing like the strong wind through the forest. He understood his own heart in these thoughts； they were as a ray from the mind of the Great Master of all minds.

“To Him be all the honor.”

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