ough, too, my fault;
and I am well aware that in that very thing is seen my humility, my
modesty. We all have faults, but then one also has a talent. The cups
get a handle, the sugar-bowl a lid; I get both, and one thing besides in
front which they never got,--I get a spout, and that makes me a queen on
the tea-table. The sugar-bowl and cream-pot are good-looking serving
maids; but I am the one who gives, yes, the one high in council. I
spread abroad a blessing among thirsty mankind. In my insides the
Chinese leaves are worked up in the boiling, tasteless water."

All this said the Teapot in its fresh young life. It stood on the table
that was spread for tea, it was lifted by a very delicate hand; but the
very delicate hand was awkward, the Teapot fell. The spout snapped off,
the handle snapped off; the lid was no worse to speak of--the worst had
been spoken of that. The Teapot lay in a swoon on the floor, while the
boiling water ran out of it. It was a horrid shame, but the worst was
that they jeered at it; they jeered at it, and not at the awkward hand.

"I never shall lose the memory of that!" said the Teapot, when it
afterward talked to itself of the course of its life. "I was called an
invalid, and placed in a corner, and the day after was given away to a
woman who begged victuals. I fell into poverty, and stood dumb both
outside and in; but there, as I stood, began my better life. One is one
thing and becomes quite another. Earth was placed in me: for a Teapot
that is the same as being buried, but in the earth was placed a flower
bulb. Who placed it there, who gave it, I know not; given it was, and it
took the place of the Chinese leaves and the boiling water, the broken
handle and spout. And the bulb lay in the earth, the bulb lay in me, it
became my heart, my living heart, such as I never before had. There was
life in me, power and might. My pulses beat, the bulb put forth sprouts,
it was the springing up of thoughts and feelings; they burst forth in
flower. I saw it, I bore it, I forgot myself in its delight. Blessed is
it to forget one's self in another. The bulb gave me no thanks, it did
not think of me--it was admired and praised. I was so glad at that: how
happy must it have been! One day I heard it said that it ought to have a
better pot. I was thumped on my back--that was rather hard to bear; but
the flower was put in a better pot--and I was thrown away in the yard,
where I lie as an old crock. But I have