Then, there's the village blacksmith.

I call him 'The gentle giant.' He is a tremendous fellow in height, and size, and sinew; but such a kind, sweet-tempered chap.

He could knock down an ox, yet he wouldn't harm a fly.

I am his idol: I sauntered in to his smithy, and forged him one or two knives; and of course he had never seen the hammer used with that nicety; but instead of hating me, as the bad forgers in Hillsborough do, he regularly worships me, and comes blushing up to the farm-house after hours, to ask after me and get a word with me.

He is the best whistler in the parish, and sometimes we march down the village at night, arm-in-arm, whistling a duet.