THE WORKSHOP 



109 



circles in its middle waters, and pujQ&ng away merrily- 

 just like real live ships. 



In the village near us was a large smithy, and 

 attached to it a small iron foundry. Here were 

 made the castings for the various portions of the 

 little engines, the wooden patterns being made at 

 home ; then the castings, coming rough from the 

 foundry, were worked up ready for fitting. Often 

 some of us would go and watch the tapping of the 

 molten metal, and well do I remember the feeling 

 of mixed fear and delight when the white-hot stream 

 came rushing out into the two-handled cauldron, that 

 was quickly carried away by two men, who poured 

 the terrible fluid into the black sand moulds. This 

 was for the heavier castings wanted in the smith's 

 business ; those for my father were of course very 

 small, and mostly of brass and gun-metal. 



I remember one day at the foundry, when I was 

 old enough to understand a joke — some of my father's 

 were worth remembering — Smith (his name was Smith 

 as well as his trade) had been telling him with some 

 pride about a rather complicated set of castings he had 

 lately turned out. My father, with the jolly twinkle 

 that I used to like to see in his face, said : " Do you 

 think you could cast a horoscope ? " Smith evidently 

 did not know what a horoscope was, but being un- 

 willing to make any confession of incompetence, he 

 gave the guarded answer : " I think I could, sir, if you 

 would provide me with a proper pattern." My father 



