by Joyce Sutphen There was a window filtering the sunlight, dusty as it came, and boxes of nails, long and dark, tin-colored and squat, boxes of silver bolts, washers and screws, tacks, inch-long staples. The vice that could crush a finger hung open jawed on the edge of the workbench; the welding mask tilted its flat and mouthless face towards the rafters. The old harnesses hung in the back corner, their work-lathered leather soft as the reins of memory, guiding him through the tangle of one year into another. Photo Credit: Blacksmith Shop. A sketch by William O. Stevens from his book "Discovering Long Island".