ere is a creaking of
stiff leather as the bellows rise and fall, and the roar of the blast as
it is forced up through the glowing coals.

A ceaseless hum of wheels in motion comes from the rear, and the peculiar
crackling sound of a band in rapid revolution round the drum of the engine
and the shaft. Then the grinding scrape of sharp steel on iron as the edge
of the tool cuts shavings from the solid metal rotating swiftly in the
lathe. As blow follows blow the red-hot 'scale,' driven from the surface
of the iron on the anvil by the heavy sledge, flies rattling against the
window in a spray of fire. The ring of metal, the clatter, the roaring,
and hissing of steam, fill the air, and through it rises now and then the
shrill quick calls of men in command.

Outside, and as it seems but a stone's throw distant, stands the old grey
church, and about it the still, silent, green-grown mounds over those who
once followed the quiet plough.

Bound the corner of the village street comes a man with a grimy red flag,
and over the roofs of the cottages rises a cloud of smoke, and behind it
yet another. Two steam ploughing engines are returning from their work to
their place beside the shed to wait fresh orders. The broad wheels of the
engines block up the entire width of the street, and but just escape
overthrowing the feeble palings in front of the cottage doors. Within
those palings the children at play scarcely turn to look; the very infants
that can hardly toddle are so accustomed to the ponderous wonder that they
calmly gnaw the crusts that keep them contented. It requires a full hour
to get the unwieldy engines up the incline and round the sharp turns on to
the open space by the workshop. The driver has to 'back,' and go-a-head,
and 'back' again, a dozen times before he can reach the place, for that
narrow bye-way was not planned out for such traffic. A mere path leading
to some cottages in the rear, it was rarely used even by carts before the
machinist came, and it is a feat of skill to get the engines in without,
like a conqueror, entering by a breach battered in the walls. When, at
last, they have been piloted into position, the steam is blown off, and
the rushing hiss sounds all over the village. The white vapour covers the
ground like a cloud, and the noise re-echoes against the old grey church,
but the jackdaws do not even rise from the battlements.

These engines and their corresponding tackle are the chief stock-in-tra