ilently shakes his head, and only replies to all these railleries by
a kindly smile.

He is good to animals, and he shares his dry bread with the poor.

It is true that he eats scarcely anything, but he does not suffer in
consequence. He is very thin, but his flesh is all the more sound and
wholesome. Under the arch of his eyebrows his old eyes, heedful of the
world, continue to sparkle with the clearness of the spring which reflects
the light.

IV

One bright morning, upon his wheel, which turns to the rhythmic motion of
his foot, Jean sets himself to model a vase, the vase which he has long
seen with his mind's eye.

The horizontal wheel turns like a sun to the rhythmic beating of his foot.
The wheel turns. The clay vase rises, falls, swells, becomes crushed into
a shapeless mass, to be born again under Jean's hand. At last, with one
single burst, it springs forth like an unlooked-for flower from an
invisible stem.

It blooms triumphantly, and the old man bears it in his trembling hands to
the carefully prepared furnace where fire must add to its beauty of form
the illusive, decisive beauty of color.

All through the night Jean has kept up and carefully regulated the
furnace-fire, that artisan of delicate gradations of color.

At dawn the work must be finished.

And the potter, old and dying, in his deserted field, raises toward the
light of the rising sun the dainty form, born of himself, in which he
longs to find, in perfect harmony, the dream of his long life.

In the form and tint of the frail little vase he has wished to fix for all
time the ephemeral forms and colors of all the most beautiful things.

Oh, god of day! The miracle is accomplished. The sun lights the round and
slender curves, the colorations infinitely refined, which blend
harmoniously, and bring back to the soul of the aged man, by the pathway
of his eyes, the sweetest joys of his youth, the skies of daybreak and the
mournful violet waves of the sea beneath the setting sun.

Oh, miracle of art, in which life is thus epitomized to make joy eternal!

* * * * *

The humble artist raises toward the sun his fragile masterpiece, the
flower of his simple heart; he raises it in his trembling hands as though
to offer it to the unknown divinities who created primeval beauty.

But his hands, too weak and trembling, let it escape from them suddenly,
even as his tottering body lets his soul escape--and the pott