i88 THE CAROLINA MOUNTAINS 
shape. The veins stand out like cords on Rich's 
sinewy arms, his long hands draw the flat clay loaf 
up, up, into the stately two-gallon jug with its nar- 
row mouth, or into the wide-mouthed butter crock, 
or the pug-nosed pitcher, big or little. Rich loves 
his work. He says he can make anything he wants 
to out of clay. Looking at him, you seem to see 
before you the original potter. His wheel, which 
looks as though he had made it himself, is in a little 
log hut, lighted by one tiny window. His outfit 
consists of the wheel, a tall stool, his clay, and a 
stick or two. He digs the clay from the bank of the 
Tiger River that runs near, — slate-colored, adhe- 
sive clay that Rich says is "powerful good" for jug- 
making. He grinds it in a wooden box by the help of 
a slow-footed mule that walks in a circle at the end 
of a long curved beam which turns an upright shaft 
fitted with wooden teeth at its lower end. Rich has a 
jug of water at his elbow, one of his own make, and 
there he sits all day, and every day, busy with his 
clay. 
You watch tall jugs rise as by magic under his 
hands, and when they are done he lifts them off the 
wheel, and on every jug are slight indentations caused 
by the pressure of his hands as he lifts them. There 
are queer hollows in them, sometimes, and lopsided- 
nesses, for Rich is not always in the best mood, and, 
while on some days jugs fly easily from under his 
hands, there are other days when they are contrary. 
Rich tells you that his glaze is made from ashes and 
clay, that he washes the jugs inside and outside with 
