East Liverpool seems to be about the size of Haverhill, and it is built in the wildest fashion - up and down the sides of hills that no prudent Massachusetts auto would dream of attempting in a city, and with potteries stuck in around among the downtown houses in a chummy sort of way. Near the potteries, the gutters run with bits of broken dishes - there is a special name for these, but I've forgotten what it is. All the potteries have brick beehives standing up all over their roofs - these are called kilns, and I made a big mistake when I said excitedly, 'Oh look, there's a pottery with only one pot!' Stew says I will never live it down. Katharine Brush