heaving muscles. My palms and fingers, scorched by the heat,
became hardened like goat hoofs, while my skin took on a coat of
tan that it will wear forever.

What time I was not stoking the fire, I was stirring the charge
with a long iron rabble that weighed some twenty-five pounds.
Strap an Oregon boot of that weight to your arm and then do
calisthenics ten hours in a room so hot it melts your eyebrows
and you will know what it is like to be a puddler. But we
puddlers did not complain. There is men's work to be done in this
world, and we were the men to do it. We had come into a country
built of wood; we should change it to a country built of steel
and stone. There was grandeur for us to achieve, like the Roman
who said, "I found Rome a city of brick and left it a city of
marble."

The spirit of building was in our blood; we took pride in the
mill, and the mill owners were our captains. They honored us for
our strength and skill, they paid us and we were loyal to them.
We showed what bee men call "the spirit of the hive." On holidays
our ball team played against the team of a neighboring mill, and
the owners and bosses were on the sidelines coaching the men and
yelling like boys when a batter lifted a homer over the fence.
That was before the rattle heads and fanatics had poisoned the
well of good fellowship and made men fear and hate one another.
Sometimes the Welsh would play against the Irish or the English.
At one time most all the puddlers in America were English, Irish
or Welsh.

In these ball games, I am glad to say, I was always good enough