THE SMITHY.

Auckland Star, Volume LXVII, Issue 205, 29 August 1936, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE SMITHY.

IN ROMANCE AND REALITY.

AN UNROMANTIC BLACKSMITH

(By M.E.S.)

A recent number of "The Times" Weekly Edition contained a very beautiful full-page photograph of a village smithy with the blacksmith actually shoeing a horse beneath a spreading chestnut tree in full bloom. The background showed all the serene beauty of the English countryside, but winding across the foreground was the inevitable bitumen road, and the footnote commented upon the rarity of such a picturesque survival as a forge.

Even in this young country the blacksmith is a vanishing figure. Lately I inquired at a smithy I used to know, and the proprietor of the garage that had replaced it told me with a pitying smile that I might find a Maori somewhere who "would stick on a set of shoes" for my hack. It is not very long since the metal came to that part of tlie world, and I can remember a day,- not many years ago, when a string of horses was tied daily to the fence outside that disreputable forge. Never Picturesque. Not that it was ever a picturesque spot. It sat in a swampy hollow, its background a ridge of bare hills covered with stunted tea-tree, its foreground one of those purposeless clay roads that appear seemingly from nowhere, wobble about uncertainly for a while, to make an apologetic exit into apparently, infinite space. No spreading chestnut tree shaded the ugly smithy; indeed, had any been planted it could scarcely have flourished, but must have shortly shrivelled away, exposed to the hot blast of furnace and language and the blue smoke of endless blasphemous stories that issued hourly through the doors. No old timbered houses with heavy eaves clustered round the smithy; its neighbours were a crude store built of corrugated-Iron and with a sagging, earth-floored verandah, and, upon the other side, a nondescript building labelled, "BordingHouse," whose proud boast was that you could procure a meal—luke-warm stew and strong tea, equally stewed—at any hour. Good Trade. There was no hotel, for theoretically this was a no-license area; actually more liquor was consumed therein during twelve months than in many licensed settlements twice its size. The driver of the mail coach did a r gular and remunerative trade in sly grog; his method was simple; l.e boTisht inferior draught whisky at 14/ a lioltle at the first hotel "over the line" and retailed it to the Maoris en route for 25/; nor did the supply ever meet the demand.

But the smithy also had its customers; here the pakelias of the district assembled discreetly, paid highly for the privilege of having a horse shod and of sitting during the process in the little back room, whose-door-was always kept carefufly locked. It was amazing how many horses lost their-shoes, especially round Christmas time, and how unselfishly the blacksmith, would consent to work even on holidays, rather than let any horse go unshod .or. rider empty away. Jock, I am afraid, was not a genial blacksmith in the Longfellow tradition. He was a surly fellow when sober, blackbrowed and powerful, with a brooding sullenness in his bloodshot eyes; when drunk he was quarrelsome and so ready to fight that none crossed his mood. Rumour had it that he came "from foreign parts," having killed a man in a drunken brawl' and fled from justice; whatever his past, he had undoubtedly Served gallantly in the Boer War and won various medals,, which he scorned to wear. Here also he had acquired the permanently stiffened leg that barred him from service in 1914. Because he was no jingoist, and in his cups had been heard to deride' the policy of a great nation that could fight so small a people as the Boers, lying gossip said that he was a pro-German, It was not till later that the story-of his attempts to enlist leaked out; meantime, a foolish scandal'monger had dared in'tlie courage of his cups to repeat the story to Jock; the result was a scathing.Volley of abuse that echoed round the desolate hills, and drove the whole ■ company of farmers hurriedly from the smithy. Within a few minutes eight horses .had cantered down the road and dock was gazing out with smouldering eyes upon; a scene of almost incredible peace. - . . . The Maori Wife. . He had a Maori wife,-who kept immaculate house and reared a tribe of 'black-eyed children in the tiny whare beyond the forge. She was' a tall, strong woman, showing the remains of great beauty aiid with , a splendid carriage and free,' swinging stride. She kept-herself; to herself in the settlement and had no part , in Jock's sly-grog industry, although she twice produced from nowhere enough money to pay his fine when he was caught. Although no one had ever heard . the strange couple exchange a word, it was rumoured that Maria was the only human . being of whom. Jock stood in. awe; certain it is that on such occasions as his celebrations at the smithy , hail overstepped all bounds, it was: she who, appearing silent and implacable upon the doorstep, caused Jock immediately to empty the premises and stagger, surly but a trifle cowed, to bed. Towards his children lie showed no particular parental affection, although lie treated them kindly, as he did all small and helpless creatures.

Not a pleasant, most certainly not an heroic figure, Jock the smith. Yet he had his redeeming virtue; he loved horses, was unswerviugly honest in his

work, and kind to them. Women he ignored, with the redoubtable exception of Maria; men he despised for the most part, and children he merely tolerated; but horses he loved, and in their cause would figlit any battle. Woe betide tlie man who brought a starved or limping kaiporka to the smithy door! "Look at his feet! How'd you like to be galloped up that road on your bare hands and knees? By , for two cents I'd ride you myself and show you how it feels." All this garnished with such horrible oaths that the victim would back nervously away, aware that, given the extra recklessness induced by a bottle of whisky, Jock was quite equal to his threat. A Tragic End. In the end he owed his downfall in equal degree to his sins and his only virtue. It was late one Christmas Eve and the smithy fire was burning merrily, its light flickering upon a couple of horses tethered and awaiting their turn. They' waited long that night, shifting patiently- from- one tired leg to the other, their ears twitching'forward at the noise of revelry that came from the little room at the back. It was nearly midnight when one of -the men, a trifle less fuddled than the rest, suspected that the smoke that filled the air was not due to their pipes alone. Opening the door, he glanced put, then slammed it hurriedly. "The place is afire. Too late to save the horses.- Get out of the window."

They smashed the glass, and one after the other crawled out to safety, but not Jock. "Come on, you fool; you'll be caught." - "He's too drunk to save himself." Jock was too drunk, perhaps, for that, but too sober to leave the horses to burn to death. Hj saved them both. It was an heroic feat, made possible because, even in their fear, they know and trusted him. But he was so badly burned that even many months in hospital failed to restore to him the strength necessary for his trade. He returned only to collect the Sphinx-like Maria, and her children; then silently, morosely, unloved, and regretted by none * save the horses of the district, he vanished for ever from our ken.