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Puck Binself.
—
HE clock in the church-tower was striking
midnight, and the lights had been put out in
most of the houses; only from a few windows small
lights still flickered, and those that were burning
in the garrets could, at a distance, scarcely be dis-
tinguished from the stars on the dark horizon.
A lamp burned also in the poet’s study, for his
pen had worked briskly that night, and strange
figures had risen one after another out of the ink-
bottle and insisted on getting abroad in the world.
“Write about the little lady-bird,” a voice was
heard calling from the inkbottle, and the ink ap-
peared a mixture of black and red.
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