by Terry Thornton
email: hillcountrymonroecounty@gmail.com
email: hillcountrymonroecounty@gmail.com
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, born in Maine 1807 and died in Massachusetts 1882, is considered to be one of the best of America's poets. One of his poems, The Village Blacksmith, is a favorite for memorization and for reading aloud --- its listening qualities are sublime. Longfellow paid great attention to his melody/meter/music/rhythm; that care is evident in Village Blacksmith.
On this Labor Day Weekend, I can think of no more fitting poem to honor the workers of America than Longfellow's Blacksmith. Perhaps you remember your favorite local blacksmith --- watching the forge --- hearing the sledge striking the red hot iron against the anvil producing clear bell-tones of work and music --- hearing and smelling the almost molten metal scream with contractions when plunged into the tub of water to cool --- watching the sparks fly from the grinding wheel --- and being amazed that such a man could take iron and make it do his will.
My favorite blacksmith was my father's friend, Arnie Forrister (1915 - 1995) of Monroe County. Arnie was a joy to behold in his blacksmith shop --- he was a joy to know and to be with. Arnie Forrister was my "village blacksmith."
The Village Blacksmith
by
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach;
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, --- rejoicing, --- sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
SOURCES:
"Henry Wadsworth Longfellow," Wikipedia. Accessed August 20, 2008.
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. The Village Blacksmith. As cited by William Iler Crane and William Henry Wheeler, Wheeler's Graded Literary Readers with Interpretations: A Sixth Reader. Chicago: W.H. Wheeler and Company, 1919, pages 397 - 99. Available on Google Fullview Books. Accessed August 20, 2008.
"The Village Blacksmith," Wikipedia. Accessed August 20, 2008.
Image from
Crane, William Iler and William Henry Wheeler. Wheeler's Graded Literary Readers with Interpretations: A Sixth Reader. Chicago: W.H. Wheeler and Company, 1919, page 396. Available on Google Fullview Books. Accessed August 20, 2008.
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6 comments:
Thanks for sharing this poem.
I have never seen a blacksmith at work except at a museum. During a recent tour of Grey Roots' Moreston Pioneer Village with the Grey County Historical Society, we visited the blacksmith's shop.
The interpreter told us that a "blacksmith was a 'good catch' as he had money in his pocket and steady work." The blacksmith was an important person in the pioneer villages as they made the tools for the pioneers. It was hard work and the blacksmith would have young apprentices learning the trade.
Terry, thank you for opening the door that allows me to "brag" about my maternal grandfather, Arthur Griffin Dyer, born in 1874 - 1943, a farmer, carpenter and more importantly for this Labor Day week-end of recollections, he was a village blacksmith! I do have memories of the one he built near the home he built on one of the old Cody family farms he bought in 1904 in southwest Marion County. He also built a huge blacksmith shop on property he owned in Hamilton, Marion, AL in ca 1937-38, I also think he was involved in this business in the Detroit, AL area as either an owner or an employee about the turn of the century (1900). I wasn't allowed near the furnace area; however, that side of the "shop" wasn't an enclosed area ( a great place for standing and watching!) and I have memories of those big disc (I thought of them as "dirt diggers" the way they opened and turned the soil in breaking the soil for planting) as he flung them out of the furnace fire onto a cushion of sand and immediately with a better grip on them, lifted them into the "whiskey barrel" - these were much larger in diameter than those used in the distilleries! - filled with water for the cooling that once again hardened the iron. I know that the process required at least two trips to the furnace - the first to heat to red hot for the pounding that was the sharpening process, then back into the furnace to reheat to the brilliant glow that made them almost transparent - and it was after this that they were lifted from the fire onto the pile of sand to get a better hold before dipping into the cooling water because he had to stand and hold it until it cooled sufficiently.
I think I have told you before of the time my little brother who was about 3 at the time, sneaked out of his nap time bed and managed to get out of the house and made a dash for Daddy Dyer and the shop! he walked into the open side just as the plow was dropped into the sand - he stepped on that with his barefoot - yes, this small boy lifted that heavy plow off the ground and screamed in pain that could be heard all over the county! I know after this, never again did I attempt to walk inside the blacksmith shops!
If you are ever passing through Ft. Worth, there is a Log Cabin Village (actual cabins occupied by early settlers)on the west side of University Drive immediately south of the Zoo. This area can be reached via Interstate 30, taking the Univeristy Dr. So. exit. I know that they still had a carding and spinning wheel demonstration, gristmill and a tallow (candle) making demonstration when we last visited the historic village. I don't think they have 98 year old women still driving their '47 Chevy's down to sit in a cabin! She and the car were an attraction by herself!!
I'm probably one of the last generation of middle schoolers (early 70's) to read that poem in school. Thanks for bringing back memories of my adolescence.
Not.
:)
Cheers.
JANET, BETTYE, RANDALL,
Thanks for your comments. Have a great Labor Day!
TERRY
Terry,
Mr. Clabe Murphy was our Blacksmith at Splunge. His son Max was my best friend. He had a son Homer who lived in Amory. He had a daughter who married Elvin Faulkner. The old Murphy house is/was within sight of the old Splunge School.
Ed Middleton
Thanks ED. Mr. Homer Murphy lived next door to us when we lived in the May House in Amory. The old Murphy home at Splunge is standing but in sad shape.
TERRY
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