ave you ever peeped into a forge and seen a blacksmith at work? It is quite exciting, I assure you, to see the flames being fanned by the bellows, and myriads of sparks flying upwards and outwards on all sides, while the blacksmith hammers the red-hot metal on the anvil and shapes it into horseshoes and other useful things made of iron.

But there is one particular blacksmith whose acquaintance I want you to make. He lives in a little village and his forge stands beneath the shade of an immense chestnut tree with wide out-spreading branches. The smith is a mighty man, and well he needs to be, for his work requires great strength. His hands are large and sinewy and his muscles like iron; his face is bronzed by the sun and his black hair is long and curls crisply. He does not make a great deal of money in spite of all his hard work, but he earns quite sufficient for his own modest wants and to provide his only daughter with all the necessaries of life, and even a pretty gown to wear in church on Sundays. His one modest boast is that he is able to look every one honestly in the face, for he is not in debt for a single farthing.

The village blacksmith works hard from morning till night; at any time in the day you pass by the forge you can hear the bellows being blown by one of his boys, while he himself swings his heavy sledge-hammer, keeping such regular time with his strokes that it calls to mind the tolling of the village bell—a custom which the old sexton never omits as the day draws to its close. On their way home from school, all the village children love to peep in at the open door of the smithy to see the flaming forge and hear the roar of the bellows. They have a fine game at pretending to catch the sparks, which fly about as the chaff does when the corn is being threshed in the barns at harvest time.

But on Sunday the blacksmith puts aside all his labor and goes with the other villagers to church, where he takes his usual seat among his boys. He listens attentively to the praying and preaching, and above all to the singing, for his daughter is in the village choir and the sound of her sweet voice brings joy into his heart. His thoughts go back to the time when his young wife sang in tones as clear and pure as these, but God thought fit to call her from him years ago to sing in the heavenly choir. As he thinks of her lonely grave in the churchyard close by tears rise in the blacksmith's eyes, but he wipes them away with his hard rough hand and resolves to be grateful for the many blessings still left to him.

When the service is over and the congregation leaves the church, after greeting his friends, the blacksmith turns aside and, standing by his wife's grave, reads once more the simple inscription on the stone which he has put up to her memory. But you may be sure that the blacksmith's pretty daughter knows where he is to be found, and, taking him gently by the arm, leads him homeward, beguiling the way with cheerful words.

This is how the busy blacksmith spends his life—toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing. Every morning he begins some fresh task and he works so hard that by evening he has finished it. He has attempted something and he has completed something—surely he has well earned his night's rest.

We may all learn a useful lesson from the life of the village blacksmith. Let us try to live as honestly, as uprightly, and as laboriously as he, so that one day we may deserve to hear the words, "Well done, My good and faithful servants!" Let us try so to live that each action of our lives shall be a good and shapely thing, a help and a benefit to others, like the horseshoes made by the honest blacksmith are to our four-footed friends.