There was a handful of clay in the bank of a river. It was only common clay, coarse and heavy, but it had high thoughts of its own value and wonderful dreams of the great place that is was to fill in the world when the time came for its virtues to be discovered.
Overhead, in the spring sunshine, the trees whispered together of the glory that descended upon them when the lovely blossoms and leaves began to appear, and the forest glowed with fair, clear colors. The river, glad of new strength and rejoicing in the unison of all its waters, murmured to the shores in music, telling of its release from icy fetters and the mighty work to which it was rushing: the wheels of mills to be turned and ships to be floated to the sea.
Waiting blindly in its bed, the clay comforted itself with high hopes. “My time will come.” It said “I was not made to be hidden forever.”
One day the clay felt itself taken from the place where it had waited so long. A flat blade of iron passed beneath it, and tossed it into a cart, and it was carried far away over a rough, rocky road. The clay was not afraid or discouraged, for it said to itself, “This is necessary. The path to glory is always rugged.”
But the hard journey was nothing compared with the suffering and distress that came after it. The clay was put into a trough and mixed and beaten and stirred. Then it was put upon a swiftly turning wheel and whirled around. A strange power pressed and molded it. Then it was put into an oven; fires were kindled under it. Through all, the clay held itself together and endured its trials, in the hope of a great future. “Surely,” it thought, “I am intended for something very fine. Perhaps I am being fashioned as the ornament of a temple or as a beautiful vase for the table of a king.”
At last the baking was finished. The clay was taken from the oven and set down upon aboard in the cool air under the blue sky. The suffering was past; the reward was at hand.
Close beside the board there was a pool of water, not very deep or very clear, but calm enough to reflect, with impartial truth, every image that fell upon it. There, as it was lifted from the board, for the first time the clay saw its new shape the reward of all its patience and pain a common flowerpot, straight and stiff, red and ugly. And then it felt that it was not meant for a king’s house or for a palace of art, because it was made without beauty or honor.
Mary days the clay passed in sullen discontent. Then it was filled with earth; something rough and brown and dead-looking was put into the middle of the earth and covered over. The clay rebelled at this new disgrace. “This is the worst of all that has happened to me, to be filled with dirt and rubbish. Surely I am a failure,” it said.
Presently the clay was set in a greenhouse. The sunlight fell warm upon it, and water was sprinkled over it. Day by day as it waited, a change began to come to it. Something was stirring within it a new hope.
One day the clay was lifted again from its place and carried into a great church. Its dream was coming true after all. It had a fine put to play in the world. Glorious music flowed over it. It was surrounded by flowers. Still, it could not understand. So it whispered to another pot of clay, like itself, close beside it, “Why have they set me here? Why do all the people look toward us?”
And the other pot answered, “Do you not know? You are carrying royal lilies. Their petals are white as snow, and the heart of them is like pure gold. The people look this way because the flower is the most wonderful in the world. And the root of it is in your heart.”
Then the clay was happy because, though a common earthen vessel, it held so great a treasure.
There was a handful of clay in the bank of a river. It was only common clay, coarse and heavy, but it had high thoughts of its own value and wonderful dreams of the great place that is was to fill in the world when the time came for its virtues to be discovered. Overhead, in the spring sunshine, the trees whispered together of the glory that descended upon them when the lovely blossoms and leaves began to appear, and the forest glowed with fair, clear colors. The river, glad of new strength and rejoicing in the unison of all its waters, murmured to the shores in music, telling of its release from icy fetters and the mighty work to which it was rushing: the wheels of mills to be turned and ships to be floated to the sea. Waiting blindly in its bed, the clay comforted itself with high hopes. “My time will come.” It said “I was not made to be hidden forever.” One day the clay felt itself taken from the place where it had waited so long. A flat blade of iron passed beneath it, and tossed it into a cart, and it was carried far away over a rough, rocky road. The clay was not afraid or discouraged, for it said to itself, “This is necessary. The path to glory is always rugged.” But the hard journey was nothing compared with the suffering and distress that came after it. The clay was put into a trough and mixed and beaten and stirred. Then it was put upon a swiftly turning wheel and whirled around. A strange power pressed and molded it. Then it was put into an oven; fires were kindled under it. Through all, the clay held itself together and endured its trials, in the hope of a great future. “Surely,” it thought, “I am intended for something very fine. Perhaps I am being fashioned as the ornament of a temple or as a beautiful vase for the table of a king.” At last the baking was finished. The clay was taken from the oven and set down upon aboard in the cool air under the blue sky. The suffering was past; the reward was at hand. Close beside the board there was a pool of water, not very deep or very clear, but calm enough to reflect, with impartial truth, every image that fell upon it. There, as it was lifted from the board, for the first time the clay saw its new shape the reward of all its patience and pain a common flowerpot, straight and stiff, red and ugly. And then it felt that it was not meant for a king’s house or for a palace of art, because it was made without beauty or honor. Mary days the clay passed in sullen discontent. Then it was filled with earth; something rough and brown and dead-looking was put into the middle of the earth and covered over. The clay rebelled at this new disgrace. “This is the worst of all that has happened to me, to be filled with dirt and rubbish. Surely I am a failure,” it said. Presently the clay was set in a greenhouse. The sunlight fell warm upon it, and water was sprinkled over it. Day by day as it waited, a change began to come to it. Something was stirring within it a new hope. One day the clay was lifted again from its place and carried into a great church. Its dream was coming true after all. It had a fine put to play in the world. Glorious music flowed over it. It was surrounded by flowers. Still, it could not understand. So it whispered to another pot of clay, like itself, close beside it, “Why have they set me here? Why do all the people look toward us?” And the other pot answered, “Do you not know? You are carrying royal lilies. Their petals are white as snow, and the heart of them is like pure gold. The people look this way because the flower is the most wonderful in the world. And the root of it is in your heart.” Then the clay was happy because, though a common earthen vessel, it held so great a treasure.
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