The landlord visited today while I was working on some bolt jaw tongs. When he saw me blacksmithing, he told me that he used to turn the crank blower for a blacksmith when he was a boy and recited the following poem:
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Continue reading “The Village Blacksmith”