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THE RED RUGS OF TARSUS
at the sky on a cloudy day in spring. Kick- ing aside the debris with my foot, I pulled out the vase by its uncovered handle. The other handle was safe. Rough lines, grooved by the potter's will, had dried into the lovely thing before it was polished, and the glaze added by the fire must have been weather-worn in this old courtyard for more years than I am old. There was a slight depression, left by the pot- ter's thumb, on the bottom of the vase. A po- lice magistrate could have made a thumb-print from it. I bought the vase for two cents. It is my most precious possession.
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