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the table of contents. “It’s called Kragy the Kootenay Ram ” he said. “It’s
about a mountain sheep, I guess.”
“Mountain
sheep,” repeated Tasman. “I used to like to be in the mountains. Wait, please.”
He
turned and shuffled back into the house. After a moment he returned, carrying
an old kitchen chair in each hand.
“Sit
down, you two,” he invited. “Start reading, while I work in here.”
Randy,
watching him return through the open door into the half-gloomy interior, saw
Tasman move confidently across the floor, put out a hand and find the back of a
chair. The blind man sat down before a sort of work bench and dipped his hand
into a metal pan.
Randy
began to read Ernest Thompson Seton’s absorbing story of the heroic ram of the Rocky Mountains .
CHAPTER SEVEN
TASMAN'S
STORY
Listening
to the adventures of Krag, Tasman took from his pan a lump of clay, gray and
dripping wet. He worked it furiously in his hands, dipped it into the water
several times, and finally brought it to the soft, workable consistency he
wanted. Then he slapped it down at the very center of his bench, on a round
wooden platform that was fixed there, like a primitive plate or dish. His feet
reached for a treadle like that of a sewing machine, set on a pivot under the
bench. He worked the treadle, faster and faster, and the platform began to turn
swiftly. While it spun around, Tasman’s hands made themselves busy with the
clay.
Randy glanced up between paragraphs,
watching briefly. Jebs, quiet in his own chair, became absorbed in Tasman’s
work. Tasman kept dipping one hand into the pan for palmfuls of water to
sprinkle on the clay, while the fingers of the other quested along the lump’s
outer edge. Those fingers acted like the blade of a lathe against a turning
block of wood. The clay gradually changed shape to a thick bunlike disk, still
spinning around and around. Then Tasman shifted his hand carefully toward the
center, and the boys could see the shape change again as it revolved.
The
inside dipped down and the outer rim rose until it resembled a heavy saucer.
Tasman’s thumb came into play, and as the saucer continued to turn it grew
narrower and higher, becoming a bowl, a cup. It assumed the shape of a large,
thick-walled drinking tumbler, while Tasman’s foot kept the treadle going and
the horizontal potter’s wheel turning.
And
he did all this almost as though he were not thinking about it at all. His ears
listened eagerly to the tale of a wild lamb that grew, its horns appearing and
curving nobly out, its little body growing into a big body. While Randy
sketched the growth of a lamb into a ram, Tasman’s skilful fingers seemed to
spin the lump of clay into a gracefully curved and flaring vase.
But
it was not to finish as a vase. At length, Tasman stopped his treading foot. As
the vase stood still, he explored its wet, plastic lip with his fingers. Then
he deftly pinched it at one point into a pitcher-mouth. Taking another bit of
clay from the pan, he rolled it between his palms into a little rod, and bent
this to join on as a handle, above and below. Randy paused in his reading, and
both he and Jebs looked on in admiring wonder.
“I
never saw the beat of that before,” confessed Jebs.
Tasman’s
slight, brief smile flashed at them. “It takes a little doing,” he said. “I
learned potterymaking when I was years younger than you two. My whole family
makes pottery—what the educated folks call ceramics—up in the western part of North Carolina .”
Carefully
he lifted the pitcher from the wheel, and set it aside to dry. “Are you
about a mountain sheep, I guess.”
“Mountain
sheep,” repeated Tasman. “I used to like to be in the mountains. Wait, please.”
He
turned and shuffled back into the house. After a moment he returned, carrying
an old kitchen chair in each hand.
“Sit
down, you two,” he invited. “Start reading, while I work in here.”
Randy,
watching him return through the open door into the half-gloomy interior, saw
Tasman move confidently across the floor, put out a hand and find the back of a
chair. The blind man sat down before a sort of work bench and dipped his hand
into a metal pan.
Randy
began to read Ernest Thompson Seton’s absorbing story of the heroic ram of the Rocky Mountains .
CHAPTER SEVEN
TASMAN'S
STORY
Listening
to the adventures of Krag, Tasman took from his pan a lump of clay, gray and
dripping wet. He worked it furiously in his hands, dipped it into the water
several times, and finally brought it to the soft, workable consistency he
wanted. Then he slapped it down at the very center of his bench, on a round
wooden platform that was fixed there, like a primitive plate or dish. His feet
reached for a treadle like that of a sewing machine, set on a pivot under the
bench. He worked the treadle, faster and faster, and the platform began to turn
swiftly. While it spun around, Tasman’s hands made themselves busy with the
clay.
Randy glanced up between paragraphs,
watching briefly. Jebs, quiet in his own chair, became absorbed in Tasman’s
work. Tasman kept dipping one hand into the pan for palmfuls of water to
sprinkle on the clay, while the fingers of the other quested along the lump’s
outer edge. Those fingers acted like the blade of a lathe against a turning
block of wood. The clay gradually changed shape to a thick bunlike disk, still
spinning around and around. Then Tasman shifted his hand carefully toward the
center, and the boys could see the shape change again as it revolved.
The
inside dipped down and the outer rim rose until it resembled a heavy saucer.
Tasman’s thumb came into play, and as the saucer continued to turn it grew
narrower and higher, becoming a bowl, a cup. It assumed the shape of a large,
thick-walled drinking tumbler, while Tasman’s foot kept the treadle going and
the horizontal potter’s wheel turning.
And
he did all this almost as though he were not thinking about it at all. His ears
listened eagerly to the tale of a wild lamb that grew, its horns appearing and
curving nobly out, its little body growing into a big body. While Randy
sketched the growth of a lamb into a ram, Tasman’s skilful fingers seemed to
spin the lump of clay into a gracefully curved and flaring vase.
But
it was not to finish as a vase. At length, Tasman stopped his treading foot. As
the vase stood still, he explored its wet, plastic lip with his fingers. Then
he deftly pinched it at one point into a pitcher-mouth. Taking another bit of
clay from the pan, he rolled it between his palms into a little rod, and bent
this to join on as a handle, above and below. Randy paused in his reading, and
both he and Jebs looked on in admiring wonder.
“I
never saw the beat of that before,” confessed Jebs.
Tasman’s
slight, brief smile flashed at them. “It takes a little doing,” he said. “I
learned potterymaking when I was years younger than you two. My whole family
makes pottery—what the educated folks call ceramics—up in the western part of North Carolina .”
Carefully
he lifted the pitcher from the wheel, and set it aside to dry. “Are you
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