Then, slowly, it would begin to
come clear, an' by an' by it would be clearer an' lovelier than a
drop o' dew at sunrise. Lo and behold! the clay has become a
sapphire. So, sor, in the waters o' time God washes the great
world. In every grain o' dust the law is written, an' I may read
the destiny o' the nobler part in the fate o' the meaner.
"'Imperious Forrest, dead an' turned to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep despair away.'"
"Delightful and happy man! I must know you better," said the great
tragedian. "May I ask, sir, what is your calling?"
"I, sor, am a tinker o' clocks."
"A tinker of clocks!" said the other, looking at him thoughtfully.
"I should think it poorly suited to your talents."
"Not so. I've only a talent for happiness an' good company."
"And you find good company here?"
"Yes; bards, prophets, an' honest men. They're everywhere."
"Tell me," said Forrest, "were you not some time a player?"
"Player of many parts, but all in God's drama--fool, servant of a
rich man, cobbler, clock tinker, all in the coat of a poor man. Me
health failed me, sor, an' I took to wandering in the open air.
Ten years ago in the city of New York me wife died, since when I
have been tinkering here in the edges o' the woodland, where I have
found health an' friendship an' good cheer.
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