72 MEMORIES 



may not be bound ; man's master and man's servant, 

 his blessing and his curse. 



It is still August, and the days are intolerably hot. 

 Not a breath moves in the pitiless, shelterless streets. 

 Hot air, hot pavement, hotter dust that makes the in- 

 frequent water-cart a sound from heaven. Opposite 

 my window there is a forge. I have scarcely noticed 

 it before to-day. There it is, with its open doorway 

 all red inside like a wizard's cave, with the hammers 

 ringing on the anvil and the sparks showering out of 

 the big flue. And sure enough — as if there were no 

 heat outside — there are children crowding round the 

 doorway — the little old-faced children I pass so often 

 in the streets, but coloured and transfigured by the 

 glow. 



And now I notice that a mighty oak-tree hangs its 

 branches over the forge. Something about this tree 

 makes it seem strangely familiar. I fancy it must be 

 that long black scar, curiously shaped and jagged, 

 \" that shows where lightning has been at work. That 

 indeed it is. I am standing opposite the forge of my 

 childhood. It is four o'clock on a summer afternoon, 

 and the children are coming down the hill from 

 school. 



The forge was thatched when first I knew it. The 



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