Toby, the old blacksmith on Seventh Street, believed in three things in his life: the weight of the anvil, the temperature of the coal fire, and the honey bread baked by Martha, the widow across the door. But ever since the tall, thin man in blue robes threw a hot black stone to him for repair, life was in chaos. First, the iron pliers jumped up and knocked him on the head, and then a wisecracking frog emerged from the well in the backyard. Even the crazy old beggar at the end of the street came over and said that he smelled of "magic."
Toby wanted to throw this evil thing into the Thames River, but the aristocratic men in the city began to show off their power on flying dragons, and shadows in black robes always hovered on the church steeples. What's even more terrible is that Martha's cat suddenly grew wings and held a note in its mouth, which read crookedly "Ask Toby to trim its claws."
I'm afraid the door of this blacksmith shop will never be closed again.
