The Black Swans 



cold rain that now beat upon the 

 window panes outside, were soon for- 

 gotten. And the clock ticked on as if 

 in mockery not only of the big, but 

 of all the little, griefs and worries of a 

 foolish world. 



And presently, looking at the and- 

 irons and the fire, I seemed to see a 

 portrait of a dear old-fashioned village 

 blacksmith, beloved by all who knew 

 him, whose shop was once upon a time 

 to me a place of a thousand mysteries, 

 as well as the unpretentious industrial 

 center of an appreciative farming com- 

 munity. He stands there as in days of 

 yore, one hand resting upon his hip, 

 the other working the bellows, a cheery 

 smile upon his honest face; big-chested, 

 big-hearted, gentle as any child. How 

 we all loved to watch him at his work. 

 He usually wore a red flannel shirt, 

 with sleeves rolled up, and the in- 

 evitable leather apron to protect his 

 clothing from the sparks. Now he 

 draws the white-hot rod or bar of iron 

 [38] 



