The Broad Highway

"Strike! ding! ding!

Strike! ding! ding!

The iron glows,

And loveth good blows

As fire doth bellows.

Strike! ding! ding!"

Out beyond the smithy door a solitary star twinkles low down in

the night sky, like some great jewel; but we have no time for

star-gazing, Black George and I, for to-night we are at work on

the old church screen, which must be finished to-morrow.

And so the bellows roar hoarsely, the hammers clang, and the

sparks fly, while the sooty face of Black George, now in shadow,

now illumed by the fire, seems like the face of some Fire-god or

Salamander. In the corner, perched securely out of reach of

stray sparks, sits the Ancient, snuff-box in hand as usual.

To my mind, a forge is at its best by night, for, in the red,

fiery glow, the blackened walls, the shining anvil, and the smith

himself, bare-armed and bare of chest, are all magically

transfigured, while, in the hush of night, the drone of the

bellows sounds more impressive, the stroke of the hammers more

sonorous and musical, and the flying sparks mark plainly their

individual courses, ere they vanish.

I stand, feet well apart, and swing the great "sledge" to whose

diapason George's hand-hammer beats a tinkling melody, coming in

after each stroke with a ring and clash exact and true, as is,

and has been, the way of masters of the smithing craft all the

world over from time immemorial.

"George," said I, during a momentary lull, leaning my hands upon

the long hammer-shaft, "you don't sing."

"No, No, Peter."

"And why not?"

"I think, Peter."

"But surely you can both think and sing, George?"

"Not always, Peter."

"What's your trouble, George?"

"No trouble, Peter," said he, above the roar of the bellows.

"Then sing, George."

"Ay, Jarge, sing," nodded the Ancient; "'tis a poor 'eart as

never rejices, an' that's in the Scripters--so, sing, Jarge."

George did not answer, but, with a turn of his mighty wrist, drew

the glowing iron from the fire. And once more the sparks fly,

the air is full of the clink of hammers, and the deep-throated

Song of the Anvil, in which even the Ancient joins, in a voice

somewhat quavery, and generally a note or two behind, but with

great gusto and goodwill notwithstanding: "Strike! ding! ding!

Strike! ding! ding!"

in the middle of which I was aware of one entering to us, and

presently, turning round, espied Prudence with a great basket on

her arm. Hereupon hammers were thrown aside, and we straightened

our backs, for in that basket was our supper.