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Title: A Handful Of Clay
Author: Henry Van Dyke [
Titles by Van Dyke]
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
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
endured its trials, in the confidence of a great future.
"Surely," it thought, "I am intended for something very
splendid, since such pains are taken with me. Perhaps I am
fashioned for the ornament of a temple, or a precious vase for
the table of a king."
At last the baking was finished. The clay was taken from
the furnace and set down upon a board, in the cool air, under the
blue sky. The tribulation was passed. The reward was at hand.
Close beside the board there was a pool of water, not very
deep, nor very clear, but calm enough to reflect, with
impartial truth, every image that fell upon it. There, for
the first time, as it was lifted from the board, the clay saw
its new shape, the reward of all its patience and pain, the
consummation of its hopes--a common flower-pot, straight and
stiff, red and ugly. And then it felt that it was not
destined for a king's house, nor for a palace of art, because
it was made without glory or beauty or honour; and it murmured
against the unknown maker, saying, "Why hast thou made me
thus?"
Many days it passed in sullen discontent. Then it was
filled with earth, and something--it knew not what--but
something rough and brown and dead-looking, was thrust into
the middle of the earth and covered over. The clay rebelled
at this new disgrace. "This is the worst of all that has
happened to me, to be filled with dirt and rubbish. Surely I
am a failure."
But presently it was set in a greenhouse, where the
sunlight fell warm upon it, and water was sprinkled over it,
and day by day as it waited, a change began to come to it.
Something was stirring within it--a new hope. Still it was
ignorant, and knew not what the new hope meant.
One day the clay was lifted again from its place, and
carried into a great church. Its dream was coming true after
all. It had a fine part to play in the world. Glorious music
flowed over it. It was surrounded with flowers. Still it
could not understand. So it whispered to another vessel of
clay, like itself, close beside it, "Why have they set me
here? Why do all the people look toward us?" And the other
vessel answered, "Do you not know? You are carrying a royal
sceptre of lilies. Their petals are white as snow, and the
heart of them is like pure gold. The people look this way
because the flower is the most wonderful in the world. And
the root of it is in your heart."
Then the clay was content, and silently thanked its maker,
because, though an earthen vessel, it held so great a
treasure.
-THE END-
Henry Van Dyke's short story: A Handful Of Clay
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