the working life

The Working Life

Week 4 Readings

Agrarian Life and Craftspeople / Makers

· “The Village Blacksmith” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1840)

· “Needlework” by Hazel Hall (1920)

· “Hay for the Horses” by Gary Snyder (1958)

· “Hoeing” by John Updike (1963)

“The Village Blacksmith” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1840)

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.

“Needlework” by Hazel Hall (1920)

I LENGTHS of lawn, and dimities,
Dainty, smooth and cool—
In their possibilities
Beautiful—
Stretch beneath my hand in sheets,	5
Fragrant from the loom,
Like a field of marguerites
All in bloom.
Where my scissors’ footsteps pass
Fluttering furrows break,	10
As the scythe trails through the grass
Its deep wake.
All my stitches, running fleet,
Cannot match the tread
Of my thoughts whose wingèd feet	15
Race ahead.
They are gathering imagery
Out of time and space,
That a needle’s artistry
May embrace.	20
Hints of dawn and thin blue sky,
Breaths the breezes bear,
Wispy-waspy things that fly
In warm air.
Bolts of dimity I take,	25
Muslin smooth and cool;
These my fingers love to make
Beautiful.
II Crowds are passing on the street—
Tuck on tuck and pleat on pleat	30
Of people hurrying along,
Homeward bound—throng on throng.
Their work is finished, mine undone;
Still my stitches run.
I cannot watch the people go—	35
Fold on fold and row on row;
But I know each pulsing tread
Is spinning out a life’s fine thread;
I know the stars, like needle-gleams,
Are pricking through the sky’s wide seams;	40
And soon the moon must show its face,
Like a pearl button stitched in place.
All the long hours of the day
Are finished now and folded away;
Yet the hem is still undone	45
Where my stitches run.

“Hay for the Horses” by Gary Snyder (1958)

He had driven half the night

From far down San Joaquin

Through Mariposa, up the

Dangerous Mountain roads,

And pulled in at eight a.m.

With his big truckload of hay

behind the barn.

With winch and ropes and hooks

We stacked the bales up clean

To splintery redwood rafters

High in the dark, flecks of alfalfa

Whirling through shingle-cracks of light,

Itch of haydust in the

sweaty shirt and shoes.

At lunchtime under Black oak

Out in the hot corral,

---The old mare nosing lunchpails,

Grasshoppers crackling in the weeds---

"I'm sixty-eight" he said,

"I first bucked hay when I was seventeen.

I thought, that day I started,

I sure would hate to do this all my life.

And dammit, that's just what

I've gone and done."

“Hoeing” by John Updike (1963)

I sometimes fear the younger generation

will be deprived

of the pleasures of hoeing;

there is no knowing

how many souls have been formed by this

simple exercise.

The dry earth like a great scab breaks,

revealing

moist-dark loam --

the pea-root's home,

a fertile wound perpetually healing.

How neatly the great weeds go under!

The blade chops the earth new.

Ignorant the wise boy who

has never rendered thus the world

fecunder.

College of Online Education ILS2090(16WK)

Johnson & Wales University