THE SMITHY

Evening Star, Issue 22442, 12 September 1936, Page 28

THE SMITHY

AX UXROWAHTIC BLACKSMITH [Written by M.E.S., for the ‘ Evening Star.’] ,'A. recent number of ‘ The Times Weekly Edition ’ eontained 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 foot-note 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 the 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. 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, the blue smoke .oi endless blasphemous stories that issued hourly through the door. 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 “ Hording House,” 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 12 than in many licensed settlements twice its size. The driver of the mail coach did a regular and re-

munerative trade in sly grog; his method was simple; he bought mferipr draught whisky at 14s a bottle at the first notel “over the line ” and retailed it to the Maoris en route for 255; nor did the supply ever meet the demand. But the smithy also had its customers ; here the pakehas 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 1 carefully locked. It was amazing how ' many horses lost their shoes, especially ; round Christmas time, and how unsel- [ fishly the blacksmith would consent to i work even on holidays rather than let ' any horse go unshod or rider empty away. • Jock, I am afraid, was not a genial 1 blacksmith in the Longfellow tradition. 1 He was a surly fellow when sober, ■ black-browed 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 1 “ from foreign parts,” having killed a I 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 stiff- : ened 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 no't till later that ' the story of his attempts to enlist leaked out; meantime a foolish scandalmonger had dared in the 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 Jock 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 tail, strong woman, showing the remains of great beauty and with a splendid carriage and free- swinging stride. She kept herself to herself in the settlement and had no part in Jock’s slygrog 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 was that on such occa-

sion as his celebrations at the smithy had over-stepped all bounds, it was she who, appearing silent and implacable upon the doorstep, caused Jock immediately to empty the and stagger, surly, but a trifle cowed, toi bed. Towards his children he showed no particular parental affection, although he 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 unswervingly 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 fight any battle. Woebetide the 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, sus- , pected that the smoke that filled the air was not due to their pipes alone. Opening the door, ho glanced out, 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 Jack. “ 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. He saved them both. It was an heroic feat, made possible because even in their fear they knew 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 forever from our ken.