A HANDFUL OF CLAY

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
which it 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 which descended upon them when the
delicate blossoms and leaves began to expand, and the forest
glowed with fair, clear colours, as if the dust of thousands
of rubies and emeralds were hanging, in soft clouds, above the
earth.

The flowers, surprised with the joy of beauty, bent their
heads to one another, as the wind caressed them, and said:
"Sisters, how lovely you have become. You make the day
bright."

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, its swift flight from
the snow-clad mountains, and the mighty work to which it was
hurrying--the wheels of many mills to be turned, and great ships
to be floated to the sea.

Waiting blindly in its bed, the clay comforted itself with
lofty hopes. "My time will come," it said. "I was not made
to be hidden forever. Glory and beauty and honour are coming