Horse Sense (by Laura Orem)

Under the 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.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, from "The Village Blacksmith"

The farrier came this week to trim and balance Black Jack's feet. For horse-owners, feet loom large, and the farrier is an important person. Horses can die if their feet aren't properly cared for. They are susceptible to infections, both fungal and bacterial, and horse-lovers have nightmares about hearing the dreaded word "laminitis," an inflammation/infection of the hoof wall that can and does kill horses (this is what did in poor Barbaro). So the farrier, the person who comes periodically to trim, balance, and sometimes shoe horses, is a vital ally in keeping a horse in good health.

A clarification:  "blacksmith" and "farrier" are related, but not interchangeable, terms. A blacksmith is a person who forges all manner of iron implements, including horseshoes; a farrier is an expert in hoof-care, who also fits, fabricates, and puts shoes on a horse. In Longfellow's day, when everyone had horses, these duties almost always overlapped, so the blacksmith and the farrier were the same person. Nowadays, while a farrier is always a blacksmith, a blacksmith isn't always a farrier.

A farrier balancing a hoof as the hoof's owner looks on. I don't
have a picture of Black Jack's session because I was assisting.

Becoming a farrier is not an easy process. Horses, while no longer necessary for transportation and labor, are expensive creatures, and the horse-racing industry is a multi-billon dollar, multi-national industry. Farriers need to know more than how to whack an anvil with a hammer. They must be familiar with horse physiology and psychology, as well as keep up with all the technological advances in veterinary medicine. The good ones are extensively trained and certified, at schools like The Mission Farrier School  in Snohomish, WA; most are members of the American Farrier's Association, the industry's national professional organization.

A video from the Mission Farrier School on hoof balance, demonstrating the depth of knowledge a farrier must possess:

Chris, our farrier, has more initials after his name than our dentist. He also knows more about horses than almost anyone I've ever met. Unlike Longfellow's blacksmith, he is a thin, wiry guy with a buzz cut. A veteran of the Iraq War, he has been around horses all his life and handles Black Jack with no-nonsense patience. He is an invaluable resource for us, not just about hoof care, but about horse training, behavior, and health. He's just terrific, and the first person I would call if I had any questions or concerns about Black Jack. So, while the farrier may not be as integrated into daily life as the one in the poem, for anyone with a horse, he's worth his weight in horseshoes.

Since you probably haven't read the whole thing since elementary school, here's the entire Longfellow piece. I know, I know - it's everything wrong about Victorian poetry: soppy, didactic, over-rhymed and metricked into terminal mediocrity. But it's worth looking at, I think, if only because Longfellow's blacksmith was a real person, an important and beloved member of the village community. Even the chestnut tree was real, and years later, when it was chopped down, the village children raised the money to have a chair made out of its wood to present to the poet.  Here's another link, to - I'm not kidding -  the National Museum of Horse Shoeing Tools , which gives some historical background to the poem, as well as providing you with any information you could possibly want about shoeing and blacksmithing.

The Village Blacksmith

Under the spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles on 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 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 the 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 has taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

Comments

[Stacey]

Thanks Laura, Another lovely post reminding us about real people doing real work. These are the poems that made me love poetry as a girl and I'm sure it's because the rhyme and metrics made them fun to read aloud. At one point, my sister and I memorized most of "When the Frost is on the Punkin'."

[Laura Orem]

When Longfellow is good, he's really good. You can't get more effective in opening a poem than "This is the forest primeval." I also really like "Haunted Houses," which I posted last week for Halloween, and "Hiawatha." Talk about form following function! The problem, I think, is that we get beaten over the head with his work in school so much that we can't hear it anymore.