"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.