1 1 



Beverly and stand by the potter's wheel there, as he takes 

 a piece of soft, shapeless clay and places it on his wheel* 

 and watch the process, how, under the magic touch of his 

 hand and fingers and the correctness of his eye, and the 

 genius within him, it will begin to grow out of its un- 

 comeliness and to take on new and changing forms until, 

 ere you know it, it has become a marvel, almost the per- 

 fection, of beauty. Our best farmer — hard and prosaic 

 as some superficial, blatant prater about the beauties of 

 nature may think him to be, sees a process constantly 

 going on of which the potter's work is only a semblance, 

 a suggestion. He sees, and is not forever talking about 

 it either, forms of beauty springing up and developing at 

 his very feet and all about him, filling his eyes — the work 

 of the Divine Potter. He is not the stolid, stupid wight 

 many a man who ought to know better, or who puts on a 

 patronizing air for what he thinks he can make out of it, 

 takes him to be. He says, or if he does not say, he feels, 

 with Bryant, 



•' My heart is awed within me when I think 



Of the great miracle that still goes on, 



In silence, round me — the perpetual work 



Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed 



Forever." 

 He may not go into rhapsodies over bleating Hocks, and 

 lowing herds and the breath of kine, but he does know 

 a good cow when he sees her, and can see every line of 

 beauty in her too — in her head and her horns, in her 

 neck and body, milk veins and udder, especially if she 

 fills a ten-quart pail night and morning. He knows 

 some things about cows better even than a former Judge 

 of one of our higher courts. The Judge was holding a 

 court in one of the western counties (say Berkshire), and 

 after the adjournment for the day, taking a walk, he met 



