The
light was fading from the sky; but the glow of the forge lit up the
dusty road before it, and accented the blackness of the rocky ledge
beyond. A small curly-headed boy, bearing a singular likeness to a
smudged and blackened crayon drawing of Minty, was mechanically
blowing the bellows and obviously intent upon something else; while her
father--a powerfully built man, with a quaintly dissatisfied expression
of countenance--was with equal want of interest mechanically hammering
at a horseshoe. Without noticing Minty's advent, he lazily broke into a
querulous drawling chant of some vague religious character:
"O tur-ren, sinner; tur-ren.
For the Lord bids you turn--ah!
O tur-ren, sinner; tur-ren.
Why will you die?"
The musical accent adapted itself to the monotonous fall of the
sledge-hammer; and at every repetition of the word "turn" he suited the
action to the word by turning the horseshoe with the iron in his left
hand. A slight grunt at the end of every stroke, and the simultaneous
repetition of "turn" seemed to offer him amusement and relief. Minty,
without speaking, crossed the shop, and administered a sound box on her
brother's ear. "Take that, and let me ketch you agen layin' low when my
back's turned, to put on your store pants.
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