The first work William Richardson did in the shop was with the remnants of the kitchen shovel and tongs he had bought to repair his wife's tongs, and cutting a piece off the old crane, he repaired the andirons.
Sitting on the anvil, he now looked over the iron and steel spread in imposing array by the children over the shop, as a militia captain makes his company take open order on muster-day for the sake of show, reflecting in what way he should make the most of his treasures, when Clem, who had been examining the drills with great interest, striking one upon the other, and listening to the clear, sharp ring thus produced, so different from the dull sound emitted by the iron, said,—
"Father, what is steel?"
The parent, occupied with his reflections, neither heard nor heeded the question.
"Who don't know that, Clem?" replied Robert. "It's what makes father's axe and draw-shave cut: iron won't cut."
"I guess I know that as well as you do. But what makes steel cut any more'n iron? It looks just like it."
"'Cause it's steel."
"You know a great deal about it—don't you?"
"What is it, boys?" said the father, rousing up.