. A century of American literature and the lives and portraits of our favorite authors . NDER a spreading chestnut treeThe village smithy stands ;The smith, a mighty man is he. With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strun; as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long; His face is like the tan ;His brow is wet with honest sweat; He earns whateer he can,And looks the whole world in the face,For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night,You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,With measured beat and slow, Like a
. A century of American literature and the lives and portraits of our favorite authors . NDER a spreading chestnut treeThe village smithy stands ;The smith, a mighty man is he. With large and sinewy hands;And the muscles of his brawny armsAre strun; as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long; His face is like the tan ;His brow is wet with honest sweat; He earns whateer he can,And looks the whole world in the face,For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night,You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bellWhen the evening; sun is They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chaff from the threshing floor. And children coming home from schoolLook in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge,And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that flyLike chafi from a threshing-floor. He goes on Sunday to the church,And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach,He hears his daughters voice. Singing in the village choir. And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mothers voice, Singing in Paradise !He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies ;And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling—rejoicing—sorrowing—Onward through life he goes : Each morning sees some task begin,Each evening sees it close ; HENRY WADS W (Jin II LONGFELLOW. 65 Something attempted—something done,Has earned a nights repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friendFor the lesson thou hast
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1900, booksubjectamerica, bookyear1901
