I expect many of you will identify this, but does anyone know when the Chestnut tree went? It used to be a fine sight & was almost certainly planted to acknowledge Longfellow's poem, which happens to be one of my favourites.
Scratching my recall here, looks so familar, but been a long time since I was around there. Is that place near 'The Cheshire Cat'? Is is called Ma's something? Or am I dazed and confused here?
I know it's the Thornton Hough blacksmiths but i have no idea when the tree went. I'm guessing old photos would be the best chance of narrowing it down.
The Village Blacksmith Under a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong 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 whate'er 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 bell, When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly Like chaff 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 daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's 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; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
God help us, Come yourself, Don't send Jesus, This is no place for children.
Thomas Macaulay,(1800-1859). His poem "Horatius" tells the story of how Horatius, with two companions, held a bridge against an army.
Then out spake Spurius Lartius; A Ramnian proud was he: "Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee." And out spake strong Herminius; Of Titian blood was he: "I will abide on thy left side, And keep the bridge with thee."
Well, Ruth, the older we get, the more useless information we accumulate. Although I learned "The Village Blacksmith" by heart & can still recite it (except I don't: it makes me cry), I never did learn "Horatious". It's nearly 600 lines long, as oppose to 48 for the "Blacksmith".
