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Albert I. McClaskey Obit.

Posted by Peggy Rowe <pegrowe@image2000.com> on Tue, 06 Mar 2001

Surname: McClaskey, Clapp

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 this 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, and week out, from morn til night,

You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton riding the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;
The 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 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.
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.

(Editor's Note: We are not going to write the usual obituary notice of A.I. McClaskey's death, but republish this beautiful little poem from Longfellow which we believe is much more appropriate and which Albert would have liked (had he been on earth) much better than the usual notice.

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