"Will it come into shape if you just throw it?" said Charley.

Mr. Sands laughed heartily at this, and answered, "come and see;" and taking up one of the softened "loaves," to use Charley's word for them, he led the way to the next room. The young man who had been "wedging" now followed and placed himself at a large wheel which was connected by a strap or belt with a table at which Mr. Sands seated himself.

[Ill.u.s.tration: HOW POTS AND PANS ARE MADE.]

Upon the table was another little table, round and low, and upon this Mr. Sands placed his "loaf." Then the young man began to turn the wheel and the loaf began to spin round very rapidly. Mr. Sands next pressed his finger right through the middle of the clay, so farming the hole which we always see at the bottom of flower-pots. Then, as it spun round, he worked the clay gradually upwards and sloped it outwards, using both hands, and holding the edges with his fingers and thumbs.

Before Charley could express his surprise, the little roll of clay was changed into a flower-pot. With a square iron tool called a _rib_ it was smoothed outside, and then the pot was lifted on a board. One after another followed till a long row was ready and they were carried off to be dried.

"How do you know when to leave off stretching it?" asked Mary of the potter.

He laughed, and pointed to a small iron gauge on the table. As soon as the pot reached this he knew he must leave off stretching it out. This iron is of course put higher or lower according to the size required.

"Now I'll make you a pitcher, missie," said the good-natured man, and with the same kind of clay, just rounding it a bit and giving a cunning little pinch to form the spout, he made quite a pretty jug.

"Where's the handle?" asked Charley.

"Oh, that can't go on yet, sir! We must wait till the jug is dry, for we could not press it tight enough to make it stick."

Bread-pans and washing-pans are made in exactly the same way as flower-pots, being moulded by the hand into different forms. When the pots and pans leave the potter's wheel they are taken, as we saw, to dry, and great care is required to keep them at a certain heat, for if the frost gets to them now they crack and are useless.

"Here's a comical little pot!" exclaimed Charley, holding up a wee one.

"We call them _long Toms_," said Mr. Sands. "They are mostly used by nursery-gardeners, because they take so little room."

"How long do they take to dry?" asked Mary, looking longingly at her little jug.

"About a day; so we will leave your jug with the others, and go to the kiln to see how they will be burnt to-morrow."

The kiln was round, with a big doorway, called a wicket.

The pots and pans are put inside, great care being taken that they should not touch each other, or they would stick like loaves of bread.

Pans are first glazed with a mixture of blue or red lead. The fire is burning below, and there are holes to allow the flames to pa.s.s upwards amongst the pottery. When the kiln is full the wicket is bricked up and daubed over with road-mud.

"Fancy using such dirty stuff!" said Mary.

"The manure in it makes it stick, just as hair does in mortar. Clay would crack with the heat. So you see, dear, there's nothing so dirty or so common that it may not be of some use in the world."

"How do you know when they are cooked enough?" asked Charley.

"I'll show you," said Mr. Sands, and he immediately led us to a small door, which opened some way up the kiln.

"This is called the crown," said Mr. Sands.

It was a flat surface, with four holes which showed the red heat below, and looked like little volcanoes in a good temper.

"Do you see those iron rods hanging like walking-sticks in the furnace?" asked our guide. "Well, those are called _trials_, and at the end of each is a lump of clay and glaze. If the glaze is burnt enough we suppose that the whole batch is done, but we sometimes make a mistake and spoil a lot."

"What is done next?" asked Charley.

"If they are properly burnt, they are allowed to cool gradually, and are then ready for sale."

By this time all were pretty well tired, and so they said good morning to Mr. Sands and went home.

"Mother," said Charley, as they sat down to dinner, "I shall ask how it's done oftener than ever, now, for I like going over factories.

What's to be the next one, I wonder."

"Bread," exclaimed Mary, as she cut a big slice for herself. "Shall it be bread, mother?"

"Yes, if you like, but I propose we go to see the flour made first. So the next place we explore will be a flour-mill."

E. M. W.

BIRDIE'S BREAKFAST.

MRS. S. J. BRIGHAM.

Take your breakfast, little birdie,-- Cracker-crumbs, and seeds so yellow, Bits of sponge-cake, sweet and mellow; Come quite near me; Do not fear me.

I can hear your happy twitter, Although winter winds are bitter; Take your breakfast, little birdie.

Come! Oh, come and tell me birdie!

All night long the snow was falling; Long ago, I heard you calling; Tell me, dearie, Are you weary?

Can you sleep, when winds are blowing?

Frosts are biting, clouds are snowing?

Come! Oh, come and tell me, birdie!

Take your food, and trust me, birdie; Daily food the Father giveth; Bread to every thing that liveth.

Come quite near me; Do not fear me.

Come each day, and bring your fellow, For your bread, so sweet and mellow; Take your food, and trust me, birdie.

A BATTLE.

Do you like accounts of battles? Here is one for you. I shall have to tell of a well-disciplined army, and some hard fighting, as well as of a victory.

The scene is a quiet country district, with fields and hedge-rows, not looking a bit like war and bloodshed, and the time is a summer afternoon, hot, for it is July, and a haze is over the mountains, which rise a little way behind, as silent witnesses of the fray. The sun begins to decline, and as the air grows cooler the army has orders to start. There is a short delay of preparations, and then the warriors pour forth; not in confusion, but in a compact, unbroken column, each keeping to the ranks in perfect order, and never diverging from them. At first the army follows the high road, but ere long it pa.s.ses through an opening in the hedge, and crosses the field on the other side. Still the soldiers march on, never hindered, never straggling out of place. It must have been a clever commander-in-chief to have trained them into such admirable obedience.

Presently a fortress rises before them--_that_ is the object of their expedition; rather, it is something within the citadel that they are sent to get, and have it they _will_. Not without a struggle, though, for the enemy is on guard, and when he sees the hostile army approaching, he sallies out to battle. He has no idea of surrendering without a fight for it.

The invaders gather up their forces and charge bravely up the hill, and in an instant, hand to hand, or something very like it, the foes are locked together in desperate conflict. Neither have they any guns, but they carry sharp weapons with them, and soon the field is strewn with the dead and dying.