Their lords and masters have ere this gone to their work, and, with the inevitable short pipe in their mouths, are tramping along best pace to keep up a circulation and keep out the chill of the early morn. But there is another sound which mingles itself with the chiming clock and the Babel of female voices; it is the measured "clang, clang" of iron to iron, and as one wends ones way towards that part of the village from whence it comes, the dull roar of the furnace and the sparks flying upwards tell us that we are approaching "t' smithy," and that Joe Billings and his mate are hard at work. Presently, three of the Squires horses are seen coming up the road in their clothing, and Joe, having nearly completed the shoeing of the farm nags that had been there since half-past six, turns his attention to the wants of their more noble companions. "Two shod all round and one removed," says the groom as he comes up; "and look here, old man, don't keep us waiting no longer than you can help; it's a bit chilly this morning." "First come first served," replies Joe; and turning to his mate: "'Ere, Bill, look out them 'unting shoes for t' Squire's 'osses. Who-ho, mare, 'old up;" and the rasp of the file again plays an accompaniment to the tune that Joe whistles as he works. "Now then, mayster," says he to the Squire's groom as he finishes; and the hunters being brought up to the forge the anvil chorus strikes up, and the lads clap their hands as the sparks fly from the red-hot iron. More horses arrive, and grooms grumble among themselves at having to wait their turn. Some try and persuade Joe by soft words to give them precedence, others say they wish they had gone to some rival shop; but Joe pays no attention to them, merely giving vent to his favourite maxim: "First come first served." At last one impatient youngster who does not know the Lappington Blacksmith, having only come down from London a few days before, commences to bully, and says: "Look 'ere, I ain't going to 'ave my 'osses catch their deaths of cold while you tinkers that moke," pointing to a rough pony belonging to a small market-gardener. "I'll just speak to my governor about it. I'm d----d if I'll come here again. Gemmen's 'osses first's what I say--do'e hear, slow coach?" Never a word answers Joe, and the bystanders smile; but the young groom loses his temper, and tries to take the "moke," as he calls it, away, and substitute his own horses. Then Joe does look up, and dropping the foot on which he was at work, says: "My lad, you'll get yourself into trouble in a minute." "How's that?" asks the groom.