|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 what'er he can,
And looks the whole world-in the
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
And children coming home from school
He goes on Sunday to the church,
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
Laugh and the world laughs with you * Where There's A Will * Reading And Writing * Death of Socrates * What is Good? * A Fool's Prayer * We Must Be Equal * There Is No Place Like Home * The Village Blacksmith * Intimations of Immortality *
Some would ask in a sneer upon coming here, "How much wisdom can one learn from a fool, or a blacksmith?" I would respond softly, speaking only from experience that: "I've learned more from a fool working on his knees than from a haughty professor's chilling breeze.
"I tell you, and it is true: There is no simple work, only those that will never recognize genius. You would laugh and think that ANYONE can dig a ditch, and yes, anyone can, but will it stand for centuries like those of the ohokum?
"I watched a simple soul for days and weeks before I understood it all and I treasure still that glorious skill that brought us precious water from spring until fall."
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