Another Old Chestnut

Still June, I'm still on a tree kick. And I've got another old chestnut for you. I wish I had more, but the fact is, there aren't many old chestnuts around these days. Haven't been for quite some time. As a matter of fact, I was thrilled to discover, researching for today, that there are, in fact, American Chestnuts still standing somewhere in Wisconsin. And a couple of beauties in Tennessee. All of them still in danger from the blight which wiped out the queen of the great Eastern Forest, that once stretched from Illinois to the Alleghenies.

Longfellow's poem, however, is not about chestnuts. His chestnut tree is taken for granted. Tall, strong, and valuable for who and what it is. It's about a blacksmith, a species just as rare today as the American Chestnut. It's one of those pesky 19th Century poems that old curmudgeonly me wishes they would make children memorize today. Because, I tell myself, the world would be so much better if they had this old chestnut rattling around in their dear little heads.

Except maybe the part about the dead mother. I haven't gotten that mean yet.

The Village Blacksmith

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 whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And watch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 1807–1882

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