"Could you make as durable pots without putting
in the burnt clay?"
"Pots made of raw clay alone would n't stand at
all; they would crack. We must put in the old burnt clay to temper
them. Now come up stairs."
As the gaffer threw open the door of an upper
room, Lawrence fancied that he was taking them to visit a small
menagerie. The loft appeared filled with monsters. They resembled
exceedingly chubby young elephant calves, as much as anything. But,
what was more extraordinary, they were standing about the room, a herd
of fifty or more, holding up short round necks, all with their heads
cut off! At a second glance he discovered that they were never designed
to have heads, or legs either; and that the great hole he found in each
pitifully uplifted headless neck was nothing more than the usual opening
into the-- melting-pot.
These were the finished pots. Others were
unfinished. There were two workmen in the room, one of whom was
cutting off slices of a thick clay loaf, and making them over into
rolls. He cut the slices by means of a wire furnished with a wooden
handle at each end; and he shaped the rolls with his hands. The rolls--
which looked like short, moist sausages, laid side by side on the table--
were taken by the second workman, and used in building up the pots.
Lawrence noticed that he worked but a few
minutes on one, then went to another, and he inquired the reason.
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