The Old Chestnut Tree

On Wednesday, Marash Girl woke up remembering the big old chestnut tree that stood proudly on the corner of Otis Street and Kimball Terrace, in the corner of Mr. Parker's yard.  (Mr. Parker was the orchestra leader in the elementary schools of Newton, Massachusetts, when Marash Girl was in elementary school.  For 7 years, Marash Girl had walked home from the Old Claflin School in Newtonville Square, walking up Otis Street, past that big old chestnut tree.  She loved to pause in the fall and fill her pockets with the beautiful, shiny smooth (though inedible) brightly brown chestnuts that the tree offered to the world around it. This tree was even more significant in Marash Girl's life because of the the poem that Marash Girl's father had her memorize  in third grade (scroll down to see the full text of THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH).  So first thing Wednesday afternoon, Marash Boy and Marash Girl drove over to Newtonville Square, to see if the tree was still there, and as they took a right onto Otis Street, Marash Girl held her breath.  Where was that old chestnut tree?  Marash Girl can't even type the answer, she's so sad about its loss!!!!  A piece of her childhood has gone missing.

The Village Blacksmith by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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.