There was a proud Teapot, proud of being porcelain, proud of its long
spout, proud of its broad handle. It had something before and
behind--the spout before, the handle behind--and that was what it talked
about. But it did not talk of its lid--that was cracked, it was riveted,
it had faults; and one does not talk about one's faults--there are
plenty of others to do that. The cups, the cream-pot, the sugar-bowl,
the whole tea-service would be reminded much more of the lid's weakness,
and talk about that, than of the sound handle and the remarkable spout.
The Teapot knew it.

"I know you," it said within itself, "I know well enough, too, my fault;
and I am well aware that in that very thing is seen my humility, my
modesty. We all have faults, but then one also has a talent. The cups
get a handle, the sugar-bowl a lid; I get both, and one thing besides in
front which they never got,--I get a spout, and that makes me a queen on
the tea-table. The sugar-bowl and cream-pot are good-looking serving
maids; but I am the one who gives, yes, the one high in council. I
spread abroad a blessing among thirsty mankind. In my insides the
Chinese leaves are worked up in the boiling, tasteless water."

All this said the Teapot in its fresh young life. It stood on the table
that was spread for tea, it was lifted by a very delicate hand; but the
very delicate hand was awkward, the Teapot fell. The spout snapped off,
the handle snapped off; the lid was no worse to speak of--the worst had
been spoken of that. The Teapot lay in a swoon on the floor, while the
boiling water ran out of it. It was a horrid shame, but the worst was
that they jeered at it; they jeered at it, and not at the awkward hand.

"I never shall lose the memory of that!" said the Teapot, when it