"Gracious! how could you do it?" asked Bab, looking as if she thought there was magic about it.

"That's nothing; look here," and taking two plates Ben sent them spinning up into the air, catching and throwing so rapidly that Bab and Betty stood with their mouths open, as if to swallow the plates should they fall, while Mrs. Moss, with her dish-cloth suspended, watched the antics of her crockery with a housewife's anxiety.

"That does beat all!" was the only exclamation she had time to make, for, as if desirous of showing his gratitude in the only way he could, Ben took several clothes-pins from a basket near by, sent several saucers twirling up, caught them on the pins, balanced the pins on chin, nose, forehead, and went walking about with a new and peculiar sort of toad-stool ornamenting his countenance.

The children were immensely tickled, and Mrs. Moss was so amused she would have lent her best soup-tureen if he had expressed a wish for it. But Ben was too tired to show all his accomplishments at once, and he soon stopped, looking as if he almost regretted having betrayed that he possessed any.

"I guess you've been in the juggling business," said Mrs. Moss, with a wise nod, for she saw the same look on his face as when he said his name was Ben Brown,—the look of one who was not telling the whole truth.

"Yes, 'm. I used to help Senior Pedro, the Wizard of the World, and I learned some of his tricks," stammered Ben, trying to seem innocent.

"Now, look here, boy, you'd better tell me the whole story, and tell it true, or I shall have to send you up to Judge Allen. I wouldn't like to do that, for he is a harsh sort of a man; so, if you haven't done anything bad, you needn't be afraid to speak out, and I'll do what I can for you," said Mrs. Moss, rather sternly, as she went and sat down in her rocking-chair, as if about to open the court.

"I haven't done anything bad, and I aint afraid, only I don't want to go back; and if I tell, may be you'll let 'em know where I be," said Ben, much distressed between his longing to confide in his new friend and his fear of his old enemies.

"If they abused you, of course I wouldn't. Tell the truth and I'll stand by you. Girls, you go for the milk."

"Oh, Ma, do let us stay! We'll never tell, truly, truly!" cried Bab and Betty, full of dismay at being sent off when secrets were about to be divulged.

"I don't mind 'em," said Ben, handsomely.

"Very well, only hold your tongues. Now, boy, where did you come from?" said Mrs. Moss, as the little girls hastily sat down together on their private and particular bench opposite their mother, brimming with curiosity and beaming with satisfaction at the prospect before them.

"Why, I saw a thousand kinds at the Centennial," interrupted Al, with a wise look.

"That may be," said his uncle. "But then, too, you saw a thousand kinds of people, and yet all those people were either men or women; so all pottery comes under the two general classes of 'hard paste' and 'soft paste.'"

"Why, none of it was soft, Uncle Jack, was it? I thought it was all baked hard," said Will, looking incredulous.

"So all pottery is baked hard, for, until it is made hard by firing, it is only wet clay and sand,—in pretty shapes, perhaps, but not fit for any use or ornament,—and is not yet pottery."

"Then why is it called 'soft?'"

"You've seen pieces of stone that you could grind to powder under your heel? You'd call them 'soft.' Other pieces you couldn't crush, and you'd call them 'hard.' That is something like what is meant by 'hard' and 'soft' applied to pottery,—at least, 'soft' doesn't mean soft like putty."

"But if it's all baked, why isn't it all hard alike?" asked Will.

"Because different clays are used, and different degrees of heat applied. At one time we get a kind of pottery that can be scratched with a knife, at another a ware too hard to be so scratched; the one is called 'soft paste' and the other 'hard paste.'"

The boys seemed to be satisfied with this explanation.

"Uncle, didn't you see at the Centennial some funny little figures representing all sorts of London street-people?" asked Will.

"Yes, and I brought one with me, I think. Ah! here's one," he said, showing them a droll little man about four inches high, "and it looks very like a London cabman—or 'cabby,' as he is called."

"He's very homely," said Matie. "Where was he made, Uncle Jack?"

Her uncle turned the figure over, and, looking at a small round impression on the under side, answered: "At the Royal Worcester Works in England, where some of the best of modern porcelain has been made."

"Is that hard paste or soft, Uncle Jack?" asked Willie, while Al, as if inclined to test the matter, began a search in his pockets for a knife.

"This is hard paste porcelain; it is 'translucent,'—that is, it shows the light through," and he held the little cabman before the lamp.

"Here's another piece from the same factory," continued he, selecting a second specimen from the cabinet. "This is a copy of the Chinese 'conventional dog,' made of blue 'crackle-ware.' You see, the glaze is cracked all over the surface," he added.

"Who ever saw a blue dog?" cried Matie.

"In life, no one, my dear; but there are many things in Chinese art that are not much like living objects."

"I suppose you have all heard of Dresden china," presently continued her uncle.

"Oh yes, sir!" cried Al. "Aunt Susie had a Dresden tea-pot that belonged to her grandmother, and she said the tea always tasted better out of it than from anything else."

"Well, here is an excellent French copy of an old Dresden figure. It is a pretty flower-girl. See how gracefully she reaches for a nosegay from her basket. I have seen bouquets of Dresden porcelain that you could hardly distinguish from real flowers," said Uncle Jack.

"You'd hardly think that such a beautiful thing was made from common earth," said Will.

"Nor is it," said his uncle. "This kind of china is made from a very fine and very rare clay that, for a long time, was found only in China and the Corean islands; but about a hundred and sixty years ago, a noted chemist of Meissen, in Saxony, named Böttcher, discovered a bed of it there, and manufactured the first true porcelain made in Europe," said Uncle Jack.

"Why couldn't they get the fine clay from China and make their porcelain anywhere?" asked Will.

"Because the Chinese jealously kept all their clay to themselves," answered Uncle Jack.

"How did that man come to discover where the clay was, and if it was of the right kind?" asked Al.

"By a strange chance. According to the fashion of the time, men powdered their hair, using wheat flour for that purpose. One day a neighbor of the chemist, in traveling an unfrequented part of the country, observed on his horse's hoofs some white sticky clay, and it occurred to him that this white clay, dried and powdered, would make an excellent and cheap substitute for wheat flour as a hair powder. So he carried a little home with him, and some of it finally reached Böttcher. The chemist found it extremely heavy, and, fearing the presence of some metal hurtful to the skin, he tested the clay in his laboratory. To his surprise and joy this white hair-powder proved itself possessed of the same qualities as the veritable Chinese kaolin, as their clay is called."

"Why, that sounds like a story," said Matie.

"Here now," said Uncle Jack, "is a vase; that might carry the mind back thousands of years, to the time when bodies were burned instead of buried, and the ashes kept in just such urns as this."

"Is that vase thousands of years old?" asked Matie.

"No, dear; this vase is only modeled after the ancient cinerary urns, as they were called, and was made a year or two ago by Ipsen, of Copenhagen."

"That isn't porcelain, is it, uncle?" asked Al.

"No, this is 'terra cotta,' which is Italian for 'earth cooked.' Those beautiful lines of color and gilding are painted on the surface."

"Did you ever see any real antique vases, uncle?" asked Willie.

"Why, certainly. There are some in the Cesnola collection at our Metropolitan Museum of Art in Fourteenth street that are known to have been made 1,400 years before the Christian era. They were found on the island of Cyprus, in the Mediterranean Sea, by General Di Cesnola, who dug up a great many articles,—statues, ornaments of gold, silver and bronze, beautiful glass bottles, and many domestic utensils. I saw a cullender made of such earthenware as we have in the kitchen at this day; it had been used as a milk-strainer, and particles of dried milk were still clinging to its sides, after lying buried more than three thousand years."

"Oh, we must go and see them!" cried Matie and the boys.

"Yes, you certainly should go," said their uncle. "You would see some very curious things there, and the elegant forms of many of the articles would show you that a love for beauty has existed almost as long as man has lived."

"You were thinking of ancient times when you said the history of pottery was almost that of the civilized world; weren't you, uncle?" asked Will.

"Yes," answered his uncle, taking from his cabinet a small jug covered with rich gilding, and glistening as if set with precious stones.

"Oh, isn't that lovely?" cried Matie.

"Well, yes; some people think that this jeweled porcelain, as it is called, is among the choicest of Copeland's works."

"Whose, sir?"

"Copeland, of Stoke-upon-Trent, where are some of the largest potteries in England."

"But don't you like it, uncle?" asked Matie.

"I do admire it very much, Matie; but not so much as some more simple objects that I have. Here is something that will explain my meaning," he added, taking from the cabinet a little vase of grayish-brown with darker indented lines drawn in the form of small animals, flowers and foliage.

"Oh, I've seen ever so many pieces like that, and I thought they were common stone-ware, the same as the kitchen dishes," said Al.

"They are of common clay, it is true, but look at the drawing of the figures," said his uncle, pointing to the tracery upon the surface of the vase.

"Why, yes; it almost seems as if that little rabbit would run away, it is so life-like," said Willie.

"It was not only for its beauty that I valued this vase, but for the story that it tells," said Uncle Jack. "In the first place it tells that the simple earth we walk upon can be made by man into works of enduring beauty."

"Where was that vase made, uncle?" asked Willie.

"At the Doulton Works, Lambeth, England."

"What is the rest of the story about it?" inquired Al.

"For many years, common drain-pipes and building-tiles were the only things made at the Doulton works; but some of the pottery people went to an art school, and they thought it would be a good idea to ornament some of the common things they made with the designs they had learned to draw at school. So, with a bit of pointed stick, they made some of their favorite pictures on the soft clay objects; and when these were fired, the glaze flowed into the lines, making them darker than the other parts, and thus the drawings showed plainly."

"And since they found that out, have they given up making common pipes and tiles?" asked Willie, with a look of interest.

"They still make quantities of those things at the Doulton works, but the young men and women who had received drawing lessons and applied their knowledge so well are the authors, I might almost say, of a new style of artistic pottery," said Uncle Jack, in reply.

"Why, that was splendid, wasn't it?" cried Matie.

"Indeed it was a triumph not only for them, but for art itself, and it shows what a good influence art has on even the humblest people," said Uncle Jack. "Now can you see why I did not value my little vase most for its beauty?"

"Oh yes, sir! for when you see it, you think of the potters who became artists," said Will.

"Yes, and I never see any work of art or of patient industry without trying to understand the meaning its maker meant it to carry, and to remember the toils that were perhaps endured in its production," replied his uncle. Then, turning to Matie, he said: "I brought this little 'English pug-dog' for you, Matie. He doesn't bite, and you'll not need to give him any food," and he put upon the table a comical little porcelain dog with a wry nose.

"Oh! isn't it funny? What an ugly black nose it has!" cried Matie. "Will the black come off?"

"Oh, no!"

"Why not?" asked Al.

"Because it's fired; that is, after having been painted, the dog was placed in a furnace and heated so as to melt the coloring matter, which had been mixed with other ingredients, so that it flowed on the surface, and cooled hard like glass."

"Are the colors like those I have in my paint-box?" asked Willie.

"No. They put the color on, worked up with what is called a flux, and the mixture has the appearance of thin mud, showing no color at all; the different tints are seen only after 'firing.'"

"How can they tell what it's going to look like, if they don't see the color?"

"That is one of the nice points of the 'ceramic art,' and much skill and fine imagination are required to produce some of the wonderful combinations of color seen upon Italian majolica."

"Why do they call it majolica?" asked Al.

"The name is derived from the Spanish island of Majorca in the Mediterranean Sea, one of the places in Europe where glazed pottery was first made. About the twelfth century, some Moorish potters had settled there and carried their art with them."

"Did you ever see any of the old Italian majolica, uncle?" asked Al.

"Yes; in the splendid Castellani collection there are some of the very best specimens of the finest majolica ever made,—that produced in the fifteenth century by Giorgio Andreoli of Gubbio, and others who followed him."

"Where is Gubbio?" asked Al.

"In Italy."

"Is the Castellani collection in Italy?"

"No, it's at the Metropolitan Museum, too; but only on loan at present, though an effort is being made to purchase and keep it in this country forever. I hope it will be successful, for it is a grand collection. But I must tell you that when the French came to manufacture majolica, most of which by that time was made in the little Italian town of Faenza, they called the ware faience, after it. This name is applied to most soft paste glazed pottery, while majolica is a ware that has a peculiar luster, and in different lights displays all the colors of the rainbow. Much ordinary glazed, unlustered pottery is incorrectly called majolica, however."

"How do they make the luster, uncle?"

"By coating the ware with certain metallic oxides, which, at the last of the many necessary firings, diffuses a glaze over the surface."

"You said the painting was one of the 'nice points of the ceramic art,' uncle. What does 'ceramic' mean?" asked Willie.

"It is sometimes spelled K-e-r-a-m-i-c, keramic, and comes from the Greek word χεραμος, signifying 'potters' clay,' and hence, in a general sense, pottery of every kind and methods of producing it."

Here Matie, who had been hugging her little pug for some time, began to grow very sleepy, so Uncle Jack dismissed the children with a "good-night" all around.

The door closed softly, and the little ones ran off to their beds, while Uncle Jack leaned back in his easy chair in a pleasant reverie, which we will leave him to enjoy.

There were always patches of sweet marjoram planted on purpose for the very little babies to play in on the great day. They must be poor, indeed, these people said, if they could not raise sweet marjoram for their own needs and for exportation, and yet have enough left for the babies to play in.

So, all this day the little youngsters rolled, and tumbled, and kicked and crowed in the soft green and white beds of the fragrant herb, and pulled it up by the roots, and laughed and chuckled, and went to sleep in it, and were the happiest babies in the world.

They needed no care, except at dinner-time, so the rest of the people gave all their time to gathering in the crop and having fun. There was always lots of fun on this great harvest day, for everybody worked so hard that the whole crop was generally in the sweet marjoram barns before breakfast, so that they had nearly the whole day for games and jollity.

In this country, where little Corette lived, there were fairies. Not very many of them, it is true, for the people had never seen but two. These were sisters, and there were never fairies more generally liked than these two little creatures, neither of them over four inches high. They were very fond of the company of human beings, and were just as full of fun as anybody. They often used to come to spend an hour or two, and sometimes a whole day, with the good folks, and they seemed always glad to see and to talk to everybody.

These sisters lived near the top of a mountain in a fairy cottage. This cottage had never been seen by any of the people, but the sisters had often told them all about it. It must have been a charming place.

The house was not much bigger than a bandbox, and it had two stories and a garret, with a little portico running all around it. Inside was the dearest little furniture of all kinds,—beds, tables, chairs, and everything that could possibly be needed.

Everything about the house and grounds was on the same small scale. There was a little stable and a little barn, with a little old man to work the little garden and attend to the two little cows. Around the house were garden-beds ever so small, and little graveled paths; and a kitchen-garden, where the peas climbed up little sticks no bigger than pins, and where the little chickens, about the size of flies, sometimes got in and scratched up the little vegetables. There was a little meadow for pasture, and a grove of little trees; and there was also a small field of sweet marjoram, where the blossoms were so tiny that you could hardly have seen them without a magnifying glass.

It was not very far from this cottage to the sweet marjoram country, and the fairy sisters had no trouble at all in running down there whenever they felt like it, but none of the people had ever seen this little home. They had looked for it, but could not find it, and the fairies would never take any of them to it. They said it was no place for human beings. Even the smallest boy, if he were to trip his toe, might fall against their house and knock it over; and as to any of them coming into the fairy grounds, that would be impossible, for there was no spot large enough for even a common-sized baby to creep about in.

On Sweet Marjoram Day the fairies never failed to come. Every year they taught the people new games, and all sorts of new ways of having fun. People would never have even thought of having such good times if it had not been for these fairies.

One delightful afternoon, about a month before Sweet Marjoram Day, Corette, who was a little girl just old enough, and not a day too old (which is exactly the age all little girls ought to be), was talking about the fairy cottage to some of her companions.

"We never can see it," said Corette, sorrowfully.

"No," said one of the other girls, "we are too big. If we were little enough, we might go."

"Are you sure the sisters would be glad to see us, then?" asked Corette.

"Yes, I heard them say so. But it doesn't matter at all, as we are not little enough."

"No," said Corette, and she went off to take a walk by herself.

She had not walked far before she reached a small house which stood by the sea-shore. This house belonged to a Reformed Pirate who lived there all by himself. He had entirely given up a sea-faring life so as to avoid all temptation, and he employed his time in the mildest pursuits he could think of.

When Corette came to his house, she saw him sitting in an easy-chair in front of his door near the edge of a small bluff which overhung the sea, busily engaged in knitting a tidy.

When he saw Corette, he greeted her kindly, and put aside his knitting, which he was very glad to do, for he hated knitting tidies, though he thought it was his duty to make them.

"Well, my little maid," he said, in a sort of a muffled voice, which sounded as if he were speaking under water, for he tried to be as gentle in every way as he could, "how do you do? You don't look quite as gay as usual. Has anything run afoul of you?"

"Oh no!" said Corette, and she came and stood by him, and taking up his tidy, she looked it over carefully and showed him where he had dropped a lot of stitches and where he had made some too tight and others a great deal too loose. He did not know how to knit very well.

When she had shown him as well as she could how he ought to do it, she sat down on the grass by his side, and after a while she began to talk to him about the fairy cottage, and what a great pity it was that it was impossible for her ever to see it.

"It is a pity," said the Reformed Pirate. "I've heard of that cottage and I'd like to see it myself. In fact, I'd like to go to see almost anything that was proper and quiet, so as to get rid of the sight of this everlasting knitting."

"There are other things you might do besides knit," said Corette.

"Nothing so depressing and suitable," said he, with a sigh.

"It would be of no use for you to think of going there," said Corette. "Even I am too large, and you are ever and ever so much too big. You couldn't get one foot into one of their paths."

"I've no doubt that's true," he replied; "but the thing might be done. Almost anything can be done if you set about it in the right way. But you see, little maid, that you and I don't know enough. Now, years ago, when I was in a different line of business, I often used to get puzzled about one thing or another, and then I went to somebody who knew more than myself."

"Were there many such persons?" asked Corette.

"Well, no. I always went to one old fellow who was a Practicing Wizard. He lived, and still lives, I reckon, on an island about fifty miles from here, right off there to the sou'-sou'-west. I've no doubt that if we were to go to him he'd tell us just how to do this thing."

"But how could we get there?" asked Corette.

"Oh! I'd manage that," said the Reformed Pirate, his eyes flashing with animation. "I've an old sail-boat back there in the creek that's as good as ever she was, I could fix her up, and get everything all ship-shape in a couple of days, and then you and I could scud over there in no time. What do you say? Wouldn't you like to go?"

"Oh, I'd like to go ever so much!" cried Corette, clapping her hands, "if they'd let me."

"Well, run and ask them," said he, rolling up his knitting and stuffing it under the cushion of his chair, "and I'll go and look at that boat right away."

So Corette ran home to her father and mother and told them all about the matter. They listened with great interest, and her father said:

"Well now, our little girl is not looking quite as well as usual. I have noticed that she is a little pale. A sea-trip might be the very thing for her."

"I think it would do her a great deal of good," said her mother, "and as to that Reformed Pirate, she'd be just as safe with him as if she was on dry land."

So it was agreed that Corette should go. Her father and mother were always remarkably kind.

The Reformed Pirate was perfectly delighted when he heard this, and he went hard to work to get his little vessel ready. To sail again on the ocean seemed to him the greatest of earthly joys, and as he was to do it for the benefit of a good little girl, it was all perfectly right and proper.

When they started off, the next day but one, all the people who lived near enough, came down to see them off. Just as they were about to start, the Reformed Pirate said:

"Hello! I wonder if I hadn't better run back to the house and get my sword! I only wear the empty scabbard now, but it might be safer, on a trip like this, to take the sword along."

So he ran back and got it, and then he pushed off amid the shouts of all the good people on the beach.

The boat was quite a good-sized one, and it had a cabin and everything neat and comfortable. The Reformed Pirate managed it beautifully, all by himself, and Corette sat in the stern and watched the waves, and the sky, and the sea-birds, and was very happy indeed.

As for her companion, he was in a state of ecstasy. As the breeze freshened, the sails filled, and the vessel went dashing over the waves, he laughed and joked, and sang snatches of old sea-songs, and was the jolliest man afloat.