The blacksmith is another of a vanishing race. Victim of the automobile and the tractor, he has become a symbol of the past. His forge is cold and his sons have become garage mechanics. The old-time blacksmith, in addition to his specialty, was a mechanic of no mean ability. His chief skill was that of an iron-worker. He re-tired the wheels of buggies and farm wagons, repaired the metal parts of farm machinery, and in his spare time built sleds and an occasional wagon, painted buggies, repaired kitchen and barn utensils, and did odd jobs of welding and ironmongery. The blacksmith shop was the horse trading center of a community, the clearing house for farm gossip and farm labor. Empty nail kegs supplied the seats for the village patriarchs. There the community wag and the inevitable town bum had their hangout. Here the village fool paraded his ignorance, the village wits traded their lewd banter, and the young bloods boasted about the speed of their horses or their girls. Small boys sometimes earned money for marbles by switching flies from restless horses.
The blacksmith shop kept all senses alert. There was the sooty forge, the sparks that flew from glowing metal under the hammer, the ring of the anvil, the pungent odor of a burning hoof under the heat of a hot shoe. There was the hiss of steam from the tub of water used for cooling hot shoes, and the sharp, animal smell of a sweaty horse; the blacksmith him- self, with his bulging muscles, his hands so careless of the heat of a hot shoe; the pile of old iron, buggy wheel and wagon wheel rims, worn-out horseshoes, metal parts of this and that. Stomping at flies in the shade of a nearby tree were horses awaiting their turn.
The clientele of the blacksmith shop was strictly stag. To the men of the rural community, it was a truly masculine, comfortable, satisfying place.
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