He bought a lot and built a house to
rent; then he built another house; then he bought the land where his
shop stands and rebuilt the shop itself. It was an epic of homely work.
He took part in the work of the church and on election days he changed
his coat, and went to the town hall to vote.
[Illustration: "THE CHILDREN ... OFTEN RESTED IN THE DOORWAY OF HIS
SHOP"]
In the years since I have known the old gunsmith and something of the
town where he works, I have seen young men, born Americans, with every
opportunity and encouragement of a free country, growing up there and
going to waste. One day I heard one of them, sitting in front of a
store, grumbling about the foreigners who were coming in and taking up
the land. The young man thought it should be prevented by law. I said
nothing; but I listened and heard from the distance the steady clang,
clang, of Carlstrom's hammer upon the anvil.
Ketchell, the store-keeper, told me how Carlstrom had longed and planned
and saved to be able to go back once more to the old home he had left.
Again and again he had got almost enough money ahead to start, and then
there would be an interest payment due, or a death in the family, and
the money would all go to the banker, the doctor, or the undertaker.
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