THE EDGE OF TOWN — You'll hear the ring of the hammer from three streets off, steady as a heartbeat. The forge glows orange-red like the tail of a glow bug, sparks jump like fleas at a barn dance, and the whole place smells of coal smoke and hot iron. Children are forever pressing their noses to the doorway, and forever being shooed back a step.
At the Anvil
Mr. Mason — arms like fence posts, voice like graveled into dirt, gentle as a lamb with every horse he's ever shoed. He doesn't say much; the hammer does the talking for him. But get him going on ironwork and you'll be there till supper, and it will be well worth it!
Out of the Forge
- Horseshoes — the famous ones. Every farm horse in the valley has worn his work, and he remembers each one by name. The horses, mind you. Not always the owners.
- Hinges, latches, and nails by the pound
- Kettles, pot hooks, and fire irons
- Plow points and repairs before planting season
Current Special
The winter-ready visit: your horse shoed, your fire irons mended, and your latches tightened before the cold makes everything stubborn — including Mr. Mason.
On the Notice Board
