A SMALL cog-wheel in the upper part of a great printing-press came to the conclusion that it was not turned by the steam-engine, but turned of its own accord. Having taken up this notion, in a little while it brought itself to believe that it drove the whole press.

“It is easy to see,” it said, “that the other wheels keep time with my movements, going slow when I go slow, and fast when I run at greater speed. From this it is plain that I give motion to the whole, and that all the work of the press depends upon me.”

Then it began to boast about that work.

“Look,” it said, “at that great sheet of white paper.[383]
[384] It is laid on my feed-board blank and meaningless, but comes out from under my cylinder covered with the clearest print. It is a newspaper, which is distributed by tens of thousands over the land. At other times I print books. Some are learned ones, for scholars to read; some are children’s books filled with pictures, and of these last I assert that nothing made of paper and ink can be more beautiful. But it is all my work, neither could it possibly be done without me, as I will now prove by holding back for a moment the entire press.”

Saying which, the wheel turned a little on its side, thus hindering the one next to it. But just at that moment the pressman, stepping up and seeing some derangement in its movement, stopped the press. Then, calling to a boy, who was covered with printer’s ink from head to foot,

“Run quickly,” he said, “to the store-room and bring me another cog-wheel.”

No sooner had the boy brought it than the pressman, slipping off the old wheel, put the new one in its place.

“Take this,” he said, handing the old one to the boy, “and throw it on the scrap-heap.”

In another moment the press was running again at full speed.

Because some good work prospers in our hands we presently think ourselves the author of it, forgetting that we are only instruments appointed to carry it on, and that there are many others who are ready, if need be, to take our place.