A Farmer’s Life 
girl, she perhaps ’d hear, and get up and come 
along and sit singin’—half the night.” 
No doubt it was hymns that the girl sang. 
But anyhow, “ I’ve always thought highly of her 
ever since,’ John Smith said. 
After he had got into bed and wished me 
‘““Good-night; God bless you,’’— words he 
uttered with deep fervour,—he gave a sort of 
sob and added, “‘I’m so thankful that we’ve 
been spared, the two of us, for this. And it’s 
doin’ so much good.” He named his 
daughter. 
The next night a little earthen basin—a penny 
thing I had brought from Caudebec—was put 
on the table for cigarette ashes. My uncle 
fingered it appreciatively, but wondered how it 
could have been taken off the potter’s wheel ; 
for it had no flat bottom, like the flower-pots he 
was used to, but stood on a raised rim. It was 
puzzling to know how that could have been 
done. Leaving that, however, Mr. Smith sur- 
mised that the potter must have had a delicate 
“ribber,” and, after several technical explana- 
tions, remarked, “ Now I’m got so old I feel 
ashamed I didn’t learn more” about the potting. 
His father put him to it; but he told his father, 
‘“‘T’ll learn any other trade you put me to, but 
if I’m set to the potting I’ll never follow it.” 
150 
