All this, you
may say--the disorder of old iron, the cinders which cover part of the
yard but do not keep out the tangle of goldenrod and catnip and boneset
which at this time of the year grows thick along the neighbouring
fences--all this, you say, makes no inviting picture. You are wrong.
Where honest work is, there is always that which invites the eye.
I know of few things more inviting than to step up to the wide-open
doors and look into the shop. The floor, half of hard worn boards half
of cinders, the smoky rafters of the roof, the confusion of implements
on the benches, the guns in the corners--how all of these things form
the subdued background for the flaming forge and the square chimney
above it.
At one side of the forge you will see the great dusty bellows and you
will hear its stertorous breathing. In front stands the old brown anvil
set upon a gnarly maple block. A long sweep made of peeled hickory wood
controls the bellows, and as you look in upon this lively and pleasant
scene you will see that the grimy hand of Carlstrom himself is upon the
hickory sweep. As he draws it down and lets it up again with the
peculiar rhythmic swing of long experience--heaping up his fire with a
little iron paddle held in the other hand--he hums to himself in a high
curious old voice, no words at all, just a tune of contented employment
in consonance with the breathing of the bellows and the mounting flames
of the forge.
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