At that blacksmith shop next to the spreading mesquite bush, some children coming home from school looked in at the open door. They said that old coot was in there hammering out iron feathers. The kids love to see the flaming forge and hear the bellows roar, but they must be mistaken---nobody would make an iron feather. They’d be too heavy to fly.
One of the hyper little boys caught some burning sparks that fly like chaff from a threshing-floor and burned his hand. His parents are going to sue the blacksmith for leaving the door open. Now, he’ll really have to earn what e’re he can.
He’s out there right now, hammering with measured beat and slow. Surely he’s not trying to make iron feathers. ‘Course you can’t never tell---after all, it is Lubbock.
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| The Smith wears a straw hat to conceal his long, crisp, black locks |
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