Read Online Flower by Irene N.Watts - Free Book Online

new shoe. When he picked up the hind foot, the horse shifted about. Horses do that because they can’t see what’s going on. The blacksmith talked to him quietly, slid his hand down the horse’s leg to the fetlock, picked up the foot and swung hisknee under the horse, holding the upturned hoof in his lap ready to shoe. The smith had positioned himself so that even if the horse did kick, he could step away without getting hurt.
    “‘When the horse was shod, the blacksmith straightened up. He watched the owner lead the mare away and looked at me, waiting patiently to see what I wanted. I had a feeling that I had found what I was looking for. This might be my only opportunity to speak up for myself, and my future in the New World.
    “‘ “My father worked with horses, and so did my grandfather,” I blurted. I hadn’t planned what I was going to say, but it all came pouring out: about the orphanage and leaving Frankie behind and being turned down by Mr. Mitchell and how this was the life I’d always wanted – to work around horses and one day to be a blacksmith like him.
    “‘He handed me a broom. I swept that forge as if my life were at stake, and in a way it was. I gathered the old horseshoes, adding them to a barrel already filled with other discarded shoes. I picked up bent nails, found some wood to chop, and stacked it near the furnace. When the forge was tidy, I stood the broom back in the corner.
    “You must keep that fire going, morning and night. Make sure it never goes out,” he said.
    “‘Yes, sir, I won’t. I promise.”
    “‘The blacksmith struck the anvil with his big hammer so that it rang out like a bell–the sign that work was ended for the day. He shifted the hammer to his left hand, and held out his right for me to shake.
    “I’m Joseph Armstrong,” he said.
    “‘ “My name is William Carr,” I answered.
    “‘Then he took me into the house for supper, and that’s how my five-year apprenticeship began. We worked twelve- or fourteen-hour days for six, sometimes seven, days a week. We fixed wagon wheels and cutting knives, made bolts and hinges, forged ax handles, and mended sled runners. Mr. Armstrong made his own nails because they lasted longer than the ones turned out by machines. But over half the work we did was shoeing.
    “‘A couple of months after I’d started working for Mr. Armstrong, Jack Mitchell brought his horse in to be shod. He looked at me, and said, “It’s you, is it? I heard Mr. Armstrong took you on. How’s the Home boy making out here? Giving you any trouble, Joe?”
    “‘“I’ll need you to walk the horse round, William, so I can see what’s required,” Mr.Armstrong told me. When he’d taken a good look at the horse, and I had brought him back into the forge, Mr. Armstrong said, “My new apprentice will shoe your horse, Jack.” Then he added, “The boy has good hands.” I must have grown at least half an inch taller when I heard that. Compliments were rare in my life.
    “‘It took me two hours to shoe the horse–a job Mr. Armstrong would have finished in half the time–but he never said a word, just grunted now and then to encourage me.
    “‘Bit by bit I became part of the rhythm of the forge. Mr. Armstrong taught not through words–there were few of those–but through example. By the time I was a striker, the second pair of hands at the anvil, we worked as one and the same person. I rarely missed when he pointed with his hammer to where I was to strike next.
    “‘At first I was given the worst jobs–that was how you learned. Apprentices were expected to handle the kickers, the nervous bad-tempered horses who kicked out when they were shod. Mr. Armstrong told me I had a way of talking to them that calmed them down, that I had the right way with troublesome animals. “A horse is like a human; he needs kindness,” he said.
    “‘When I was fourteen, I was paid my first wage of a dollar a month. I’ve never felt richer in my life.