CHAPTER III.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

HE blacksmith's name was Andrew Anvil,

THE

and he had a good deal of the anvil in his nature too. He whistled as merrily over his hard work as his anvil clinked beneath the heavy hammers that came down on it. But Andrew's heart was anvil-hard for all that, and anvil-cold until it had been warmed, like an anvil, by a tremendous amount of hammering. He prided himself on being able to earn a good living by cheerful hard work, without help from any man, and so far, Hoity Toity did not find much fault with him. But Hoity Toity did not like the conceited way in which Andrew took all the credit of his pleasant position to himself, and looked down on those of his fellow-villagers who could get no work, or only

very poor work, or who whimpered over work they found too heavy for their strength. Andrew never thought of helping or cheering such people, he only despised them.

"My poor Andrew," said Hoity Toity to himself, "I shall have to lay you on your back before I can properly lift you up. I shall have to give you a deal of pain before I can make you see what a deal of pleasure you are losing by your present ways of going on. They won't do, Andrew, for other people's sake or your own either. You think yourself a very fine fellow, and fancy that other people think you a fine fellow too; but, outside your own family, I am afraid that there is not a soul in the village that really cares a button for you, so far as love goes. I must put a stop to this unnatural state of things, however you may have to smart, my poor Andrew.

That evening Hoity Toity was lurking in the village smithy; listening delighted to the musical roar of the ruddy forge, and the musical clankclink-clink of the hammers that bare-and-bulgyarmed, leathern-aproned Andrew and his journey

man brought down on the glowing iron, tongs-held on the anvil between them; listening, sometimes pleased, but oftener pained, to the gossip that was going on between the bright-faced, dark-backed, round-shouldered rustics who were lounging on the sills of the smithy's unglazed, flap - shuttered windows, and lolling as far in as they could get, without coming bodily inside.

"Widow Wasp's been at it agin," said Benjamin Bradawl.

"What's she been a-doin' of now?" asked Nicholas Notherpot.

"Stealin' as usual-that's all," answered Benjamin; "a couple o' turkey-poults, and Farmer Stubbs swears, he do, he 'on't stand it no longer."

"Well, most like, the poor 'ooman was hungry and she's a lot o' mouths to feed," said Nicholas, who was very charitable towards all offenders whose offences did not affect himself, and who considered himself such a model of character that he thought he had sufficiently justified any line of conduct when he had hinted that, under similar circumstances, he might have acted in the same way.

"I like a drop o' good beer, I do, and if I wanted a pot, and hadn't the money to pay for it, and Mother Wheatsheaf oodn't chalk it up to me, I can't say but what I might think o' helpin' myself to it if I got the chance. Farmer Stubbs is a rich man-what's a couple o' turkey-poults to the likes o' him?-and Widow Wasp's as poor as a church-mouse. He ought to be ashamed o' hisself, Farmer Stubbs ought. Ain't it a shame, Zeph, for a rich man like he to be hard on a poor widdy?

"Rich or poor," answered Zephaniah Shears, lifting up his lean, long neck, "I don't see as anybody's got a right to steal, and Farmer Stubbs 'oodn't be rich long, if everybody as was poor thought they'd got a right to take his things away, just because he'd got a lot of 'em."

"Ah, he's a customer o' yourn," retorted Nicholas; "that's why you talk like that. He ain't a customer o' mine. I never did a stroke o' work for him, and never want to; he'd skin a

hide and taller. I wonder at ye, Zeph.

flea for its

What you

git out o' Stubbs can't pay ye for your work, let

D

alone your speakin' up for him. I'm astonished at ye, Zeph, that I am, and I don't mind your hearin' me sayin' of it-you that make out that you've a soft heart for them as is sufferers. What I say is this, and that I'll stick to, and nobody can't deny -that them as has got a lot of a thing should be willin' to give a little of it to them as has got none of it."

Now, when a man is talking sense so as to make it nonsense, and is trying to get credit for being kinder than he is, Hoity Toity is very fond of making him look silly with a joke. So Hoity Toity put it into the head of young Bill Pearson, whom Nicholas Notherpot had crowded away from the smithy window, to say

"Well, Nicholas, you've got lots o' room, and I should like a little of it-I hain't got none."

It must have been Hoity Toity who put that into Bill Pearson's head-he couldn't have said it of himself, because poor Bill was half silly.

The other men began to laugh at Nicholas. He growled out "Git along" to Bill, and did not give Bill any more room until he slipped off to the