At midnight a long time ago an honest hard-working blacksmith heard
someone in his shop hammering, hammering, hammering, for all the world
like another blacksmith making a shoe. But the sound was very quick and
light, more like tapping, tapping, tapping. And all the time, whoever it
was was whistling the prettiest tune you ever heard, and singing between
times:
“I’m a cunning blacksmith,
I can make a shoe,
Heat the iron,
Bend the iron,
Hammer it true—
Il y ho, il y hoo,
Il y ho, il y hoo—
I’m a cunning blacksmith,
I can make a shoe.”
The blacksmith listened and thought, and listened and thought, and
listened and thought. Then he sprang out of bed on tiptoe, crying softly,
“I have it! I have it! It’s one of the wee small people. I’ll catch him
if I can for good luck.” The blacksmith needed some good luck. His work
was to shoe the horse and shoe the colt and shoe the wild mare; and he
did it well. But he hadn’t enough to do, and so he was very poor.
Well, to go back, the blacksmith sprang out of bed on tiptoe. Then
without making the least bit of noise in the world that ever was heard,
he opened the door of his bedroom and looked all about the shop. He
couldn’t see sight nor light of anybody, but he heard the hammering, and
whistling, and the singing between times:
“I’m a cunning blacksmith,
I can make a shoe,
Heat the iron,
Bend the iron,
Hammer it true—
Il y ho, il y hoo,
Il y ho, il y hoo—
I’m a cunning blacksmith,
I can make a shoe.”
“It’s very odd,” said he, under his breath; “where can the wee small
thing be!” All of a sudden, as he peered about more sharply, he spied
it stuck in the girth of a white mare standing in the stall nearest the
forge. The elfin smith was wearing a bit of an apron before him, and
a tid of a nightcap on his head, and hammering away at a speck of a
horseshoe.
“He’ll bring me good luck, if I can only catch him,” said the blacksmith
so softly that his own ears could scarcely hear. And without making the
least bit of noise in the world that ever was heard, he tiptoed up behind
the wee small body, opened his hand, and—snatched him up, crying, “Ha,
ha, I have you.” With that he opened two fingers to take a look, when—out
jumped the elf, crying, “Ho, ho, see me go,” and away he did go like a
streak of lightning.
But he left the wee bit horseshoe in the blacksmith’s hand. And it did
bring him good luck, so that ever after he had plenty to do. So many
horses and colts and wild mares came to be shod that he had to build a
larger shop with nine-and-seven stalls.
When the blacksmith died, he left the good luck fairy horseshoe to his
sons, and they left it to their sons, and they left it to their sons; so
that if they haven’t lost it the blacksmith’s great, great, great, great,
great, great, great grandchildren have it yet.
—ANGELA M. KEYES