But
this morning when I went to town and stopped at Carlstrom's shop I found
the gunsmith humming louder than ever.
"Well, Carlstrom, when are we to say good-by?" I asked.
"I'm not going," he said, and taking me by the sleeve he led me over to
his bench and showed me a saw he had mended. Now, a broken saw is one of
the high tests of the genius of the mender. To put the pieces together
so that the blade will be perfectly smooth, so that the teeth match
accurately, is an art which few workmen of to-day would even attempt.
"Charles Baxter brought it in," answered the old gunsmith, unable to
conceal his delight. "He thought I couldn't mend it!"
To the true artist there is nothing to equal the approbation of a rival.
It was Charles Baxter, I am convinced, who was the deciding factor.
Carlstrom couldn't leave with one of Baxter's saws unmended! But back of
it all, I know, is the hand and the heart of the Scotch Preacher.
The more I think of it the more I think that our gunsmith possesses many
of the qualities of true greatness. He has the serenity, and the humour,
and the humility of greatness. He has a real faith in God. He works, he
accepts what comes. He thinks there is no more honourable calling than
that of gunsmith, and that the town he lives in is the best of all
towns, and the people he knows the best people.
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