to me in due season."

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 lifted it, and tossed it into a cart with other lumps of
clay, and it was carried far away, as it seemed, over a rough
and stony road. But it was not afraid, nor discouraged, for
it said to itself: "This is necessary. The path to glory is
always rugged. Now I am on my way to play a great part in the
world."

But the hard journey was nothing compared with the
tribulation and distress that came after it. The clay was put
into a trough and mixed and beaten and stirred and trampled.
It seemed almost unbearable. But there was consolation in the
thought that something very fine and noble was certainly
coming out of all this trouble. The clay felt sure that, if
it could only wait long enough, a wonderful reward was in
store for it.

Then it was put upon a swiftly turning wheel, and whirled
around until it seemed as if it must fly into a thousand
pieces. A strange power pressed it and moulded it, as it
revolved, and through all the dizziness and pain it felt that
it was taking a new form.

Then an unknown hand put it into an oven, and fires were
kindled about it--fierce and penetrating--hotter than all the
heats of summer that had ever brooded upon the bank of the
river. But through all, the clay held itself together and