hand.

Close beside the board there was a pool of water, not very deep, nor
very clear, but calm enough to reflect, with impartial truth, every
image that fell upon it. There, for the first time, as it was lifted
from the board, the clay saw its new shape, the reward of all its
patience and pain, the consummation of its hopes--a common flower-pot,
straight and stiff, red and ugly. And then it felt that it was not
destined for a king's house, nor for a palace of art, because it was
made without glory or beauty or honour; and it murmured against the
unknown maker, saying, "Why hast thou made me thus?"

Many days it passed in sullen discontent. Then it was filled with earth,
and something--it knew not what--but something rough and brown and
dead-looking, was thrust 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."

But presently it was set in a greenhouse, where the sunlight fell warm
upon it, and water was sprinkled over it, and day by day as it waited,
a change began to come to it. Something was stirring within it--a new
hope. Still it was ignorant, and knew not what the new hope meant.

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 part to
play in the world. Glorious music flowed over it. It was surrounded
with flowers. Still it could not understand. So it whispered to another
vessel of clay, like itself, close beside it, "Why have they set me
here? Why do all the people look toward us?" And the other vessel
answered, "Do you not know? You are carrying a royal sceptre of 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 content, and silently thanked its maker, because,
though an earthen vessel, it held so great a treasure.

THE LOST WORD

"Come down, Hermas, come down! The night is past. It is time to be
stirring. Christ is born today. Peace be with you in His name. Make
haste and come down!"

A little group of young men were standing in a street of
Antioch, in the dusk of early morning, fifteen hundred years ago--a
class of candidates who had nearly finished their years of training for
the Christian chu