THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

Evening Star, Issue 22032, 18 May 1935, Page 2

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH

A PASSING TRADE (Written by M.E.S. for the ' Evening Star ’). A suggestion has been made that a model of a blacksmith’s forge should be erected in one of the suburbs or Auckland as a memento of an almost forgotten trade. The casual announcement comes as something of a surprise. Is it really true that the blacksmith has vanished from our midst, is so completely a back number that it is necessary, actually to erect a shrine to his memory?. The vicinity chosen is appropriate, for it was down the Great South road that the English regiments marched to give battle during the Maori Wars. Labour such as that performed by those farriers we shall not see again; yet the work of the more humble blacksmith must surely be necessary even to-day. Certainly we cannot do without him in the backblocks, and, if the rumours of the revived popularity of the horse be correct, he may yet flourish in many a side street of the city. But, where clay roads still remain, where the horse still reigns supreme, there the blacksmith’s forgo is yet to be found, with its glowing fire, its earthern floor, its rows upon ''rows of iron shoes, its curious smell of hot iron mingling with horses’ sweat, its friendly atmosphere of a meeting-place whore all men are equal, where hardships grow lighter for being cheerily shared. . In many backblocks settlements, indeed, the forge takes the place of ft men’s club. This is the spot where the men foregather. Into the blacksmith’s shop, as into the sale yards, only the hardiest of women ever penetrate. They leave their horses modestly at the door, returning for them in the fullness of time, noting uncomfortably that at their approach an almost holy silence steals over the group. Stories that promised well peter out sadly, and proceedings are frankly suspended until the blushing woman takes her no less embarrassed horse and retires. The forge is no place for a woman—and even her horse knows it. GAY DOINGS. There were days in the King Country, for example, when the blacksmith’s shop had other points in common with a men’s club. It was rumoured that the constant attention required by certain horses was not unconnected with the thirst of their owners. Certainly the very atmosphere of the place had a certain magical balm. Men would enter it bowed down with care, harassed by relentless mortgagees and pressing overdrafts, and leave it strangely soothed, smiling readily, if a trifle vaguely, upon a world grown suddenly rosy, small wonder, then that the blacksmith was a popular person and his trade wondrously lucrative. In those days the typical backblocks settlement consisted of a store, whose proprietor acted also as postmaster, and a blacksmith’s forge. To-day, a hideously painted petrol pump has obtruded its presence, and there is a notice tacked upon the door of the forge to say that the blacksmith “ attends ” only upon one day a week: Thus is passing the true flavour of backblocks life. But not everywhere. There are parts of New Zealand where a forge will always be a necessity. The big stations, for example, must still employ a blacksmith, or at least a man who is competent to act as smithy on certain days in the we-ds at the forge that is still part of the station’s equipment. For, despite theories to the contrary, the majority of station horses are kept shod, certainly the shepherd's ponies and the pack horses. This is particularly the case in the high bush country, or where there are many stony creeks to ford, for nothing is worse for a horse’s hooves that those hidden roots that are the pit-falls of bush tracks, unless it be the constant crossing of stony flats. A horse finds it hard to stand up to steep country if habitually ; unshod, for the only method of descent on a precipitous track is to slide, and this takes sad toll of the soft back portion of the foot. STATION HORSES. The shepherd’s livelihood, often his very life, depends upon the efficiency of his team of horses and dogs. He would as soon keep the latter underfed as neglect the feet of the former. Therefore, where no blacksmith is employed upon a station, the shepherds must needs learn to do their own shoeing. In the regular forge which is to be found on most largo stations, this is not a very difficult work, provided always that the wily shepherd leaves the first shoeing of a nervous youngster to a professional. But, failing time or ability to shoe their own horses, the shepherds must needs take them to the nearest forge, and it is no unusual sight upon n, backblocks road to meet a couple cf men driving a herd of fifteen or twenty limping horses to first aid at the hands of the blacksmith. Slow and painful as the trip out may prove, the job is not unwelcome; it provides a break in the monotony of station life, occasionally the first conviviality for many months, at least contact with fresh faces. In fact, so efficacious is the treatment that the gloomy party of the outward journey are scarcely recognisable upon the hilarious return. A CHEERFUL SOUL. It is a curious fact that most blacksmiths seem to have followed in the pleasant tradition of the gentleman who worked beneath the spreading chestnut tree. As a rule, they are amiable, cheerful souls. I only remember to have met with one morose smith, and he early showed the bar sinister by forsaking horses for cars as soon as they penetrated to his district. Evidently from the beginning he had mistaken his vocation and belonged exclusively to the machine age. Your true blacksmith is penally a genial person, large and strong, with a slow voice and gentle, powerful hand. He understands horses and “ has a way with them;” very often he is the recognised veterinary surgeon of the district. His is a pleasant trade, a more attractive figure as he stands with the trusting horses's hoof in his hand than his brother who must needs lie on his back in a hideously cramped position to gaze into the intricate interior of engines, diagnose “ murmurs ” like a heart specialist, toil all day long with inanimate inventions. “ Better,” you will say, “ than tho animation of a kicking horse.” It all depends on the individual taste; per-

sonally, I would far rather hold a horses’s hoof than crank a car—at least you can see the kick coming. But it is after all, a question of heredity and inclination. Those who love the backblocks and live in them will always prefer to deal with horses, partly because they themselves belong to the horse age. Naturally they will drop a sentimental tear to find their forges turned into garages' and will make sentimental pilgrimage some, day to the model forge erected in memory of an almost forgotten trade.