The Black Swans 



charging their deluges of liquid ore 

 under roofs that seemed acres in ex- 

 tent, with ingots, blooms and billets, 

 rails and beams traveling around great 

 mills where men seemed to have little 

 to do with anything save to work the 

 levers or press electric buttons. And 

 yet there was that about the little old 

 shop that fascinated boyish fancies 

 even more than all the prodigies of 

 Schwab or Carnegie. 



There was a wagon-maker's shop 

 next door, and when the wood was 

 ready for the irons or steel the good 

 smith took his turn. There may be 

 wagons just as good — or, for all I 

 know, infinitely better ones — turned 

 out by modern labor-saving works, 

 but when those which I recall received 

 their coats of vivid green and flaming 

 vermillion paint they were certainly 

 the pride of all the village streets and 

 country roads over which they rolled. 

 And they stood a world of wear and 

 tear. 



[40] 



