Book One - Chapter 32 In Which The First Book Begins to Draw to a Close

"Strike! ding! ding!
Strike! ding! ding!
The iron glows,
And loveth good blows
As fire doth bellows.
Strike! ding! ding!"

Out beyond the smithy door a solitary star twinkles low down in
the night sky, like some great jewel; but we have no time for
star-gazing, Black George and I, for to-night we are at work on
the old church screen, which must be finished to-morrow.

And so the bellows roar hoarsely, the hammers clang, and the
sparks fly, while the sooty face of Black George, now in shadow,
now illumed by the fire, seems like the face of some Fire-god or
Salamander. In the corner, perched securely out of reach of
stray sparks, sits the Ancient, snuff-box in hand as usual.

To my mind, a forge is at its best by night, for, in the red,
fiery glow, the blackened walls, the shining anvil, and the smith
himself, bare-armed and bare of chest, are all magically
transfigured, while, in the hush of night, the drone of the
bellows sounds more impressive, the stroke of the hammers more
sonorous and musical, and the flying sparks mark plainly their
individual courses, ere they vanish.

I stand, feet well apart, and swing the great "sledge" to whose
diapason George's hand-hammer beats a tinkling melody, coming in
after each stroke with a ring and clash exact and true, as is,
and has been, the way of masters of the smithing craft all the
world over from time immemorial.