Samael

I should've phrased that better, I didn't mean to say "now" as in the most recent books out. I am going through a few books at once so I don't recall off the top of my head exactly which one, but I distinctly remember reading to use sand as a flux when forge welding and thinking "huh, sand?"

Does boric acid react with the hydrous boride to remove the hydrogen in free solution? This makes perfect sense when dealing with an acid. What is your method? Do you heat first then apply the flux and acid or?? It seems to me on one level it would be simpler to synth a batch like I do when casting, which is cast two 100 troy oz ingots with morton's light then smash em up in my giant Costco mortar and pestle.

Thank you for this, for some dumb reason I hadn't even considered the material of sand and its melting point vs. borax. I will be welding in a gas forge when I weld, so it's something to take into consideration for sure. I know Frosty preaches a lot about how borax will cut through ceramic blanket like water through cotton candy, so I think I will use a coat of rigidizer, some satanite, then KOL and then some ITC for a heat surface. Overkill? Should I just use KOL or Satanite to resist the flux instead?

I find this very interesting, because multiple books I've read on smithing now recommend simple clean dry sand as a flux. I have borax but with the way things are right now (TRYING TO AVOID POLITICS) the local groceries and Wally Worlds are all bereft of borax. One thing where I came from, which is casting, I was always advised to take Morton's light salt, which is a mix of potassium chloride and sodium chloride and melt them in the furnace, form an ingot, then grind it up to form the best flux for aluminum. The reason being that the two compounds have different melting temps and thus bonding them together makes them melt together easier. I assume this is simply the same process, then? Melt the grocery/laundry grade borax in a crucible, form an ingot then go to pound town to form anhydrous?

Fantastic point. What does "historical" mean? It really is in the eye of the beholder. Where do you draw the line? If it uses electricity over water power is it "cheating"? What about steam power? Personally, I want to only hand hammer because I am also interested in stronger arms and want the skillset a "Real" blacksmith has with his arms and hand/eye coordination versus using a power hammer. If I could get one for free? Heck yes I'd use one for bigger projects but I'd still prefer hand hammering. IMO just go with your gut, do what you're comfortable with. Don't stress about "how authentic" you are, just do what you enjoy.

I've thought about this too as I buy more tools for the shop. I think it's more a balance between remembering what your ultimate aim is. If it's purely to enjoy the craft, then go as traditional as you want. If you love hammering but hate filing, eschew the power hammer and buy a grinder. There's a valid reason you won't find any industrial foundries using only old-timey methods and tools, because they aren't in it for the fun of it, but to churn out a product with maximum efficiency and speed for profit. You, on the other hand, might sell a product or two but you aren't going to rely on it for your livelihood (I hope).

Absolutely not, I was just wondering if there was any standardization that might give a clue as to what kind of steel it is, but based on my grinding it is high carbon. Thank you, IronDragon, that was helpful. I am almost certain I'm dealing with a very high carbon steel at this point because lol, this thing is a xxxxxx to hammer.

Hello all, Got a piece of leaf spring from a junkyard and I was setting out to make a hot set, so I figured I'd clean up the steel a little bit and suddenly under all the gunk I see these markings: Does this mean anything to anyone? Is it just a date of manufacture? Some kind of serial number? Or is there some way I can learn to tell what kind of steel it is right away before I go spark testing/file testing/etcetc? I'm just trying to learn so when I use leaf spring in the future I'll know what's up. Any assistance is appreciated.

Hello all, I am quite sure there are more than a few of us who are aware of several old proverbs or mythical figures from blacksmithing. The historical importance of metalworking to man's survival and success cannot be overstated, and from ancient Rome to the Bible, the metalworker and smith has had a prominent role in nearly every culture in history. I stumbled across an outstanding book, Pagan Portals - Blacksmith Gods: Myths, Magicians & Folklore by one Pete Jennings (this is not a product recommendation, I am merely citing my source). I would like to quote a couple of the folktales included within that I found fascinating. So, enjoy! The Contest "King Alfred the Great is actually the focus of one story about blacksmiths, told originally by Sebillot.30 He is reported to have gathered seven of his main craftsmen and said he would make one of them the chief craftsman, so long as he was able to manage without the work of the others. They were all invited to attend a banquet with a sample of their work and the tools that made it. There was, of course, much excitement, because each privately thought that they were indispensable. The baker had the shovel he used with the oven, and on it a new loaf of bread. After all, we all have to eat. The blacksmith proudly flourished his hammer and a horseshoe; the shoemaker had his awl and a beautiful pair of shoes, the carpenter a finished plank of wood and his saw. Everyone smiled to see the butcher brandish his cleaver over a juicy cut of meat. Less exciting was the mason with a trowel and finished corner stone, but they had to agree that buildings were important. However, it was the tailor who was chosen to be the chief with his scissors and newly made clothes. Who could do without them? The blacksmith was, to say the least, not happy with their decision. Without a word he skulked off, closed down his smithy and said he would not work there any more for such ungrateful fellow craftsmen. It wasn’t long before King Alfred’s horse lost a shoe, but of course none of the other craftsmen could help him. The tailor soldiered on for as long as he could, but they all had to admit that they would have to try to do the blacksmith’s work. What a disaster! The tailor burnt his fingers, the baker got kicked by the horse and the butcher dropped a heavy bar of metal on his toe. None of them could do the job, and they all started blaming each other for the bad decision. The argument became a fight and in the disturbance the old anvil crashed over with a loud bang! At this point Saint Clement appeared, leading the blacksmith back. King Alfred greeted them warmly, and admitted that it had all been a mistake, and that he would now proclaim the blacksmith as chief craftsman. To show that there were no hard feelings, the blacksmith made them each a present: a baking tin for the baker, for the shoemaker a hammer, the carpenter got some nails, the mason a chisel, and there was even some new needles for the tailor. Finally he produced a shiny crown for King Alfred, who was so pleased that he commanded each to sing a song. The last to sing was the blacksmith, who sang a song so sweetly called The Blacksmith that it is still popular today." The Story of Wayland Smith "I have so far alluded several times to Wayland Smith, but now let me try to tell his story. Inevitably it draws upon individual elements of several contradictory versions of the tale. In Britain his father is credited as being the god Wade, but that is contradicted in Old Norse sources. Forgive the author if the tale omits some favourite feature of a version with which you are familiar, but there is no way they could all be satisfactorily be combined together and simultaneously make sense. The legend has taken a life of its own, although the earliest likely source is The Lay of Völundr from the 13th century Icelandic Poetic Edda. It was probably transmitted orally from one generation to the next for centuries before it was committed to writing. Wayland Smith was the greatest smith of his age. He could make anything in metal, from the nest golden jewellery to the sharpest sword. His reputation spread far and wide and he was never short of people wanting him to make them the nest of objects in gold, silver or iron. Inevitably his reputation reached the ears of King Nidud, an evil tyrant who ruled that land. He sent for Wayland to appear before him. “I hear that you make the best weapons in the world,” said Nidud, eyeing him suspiciously. “Is that true?” Being such a liar himself he never trusted anyone else. “Well your Majesty,” said Wayland modestly, “some kind people have said that.” “Good,” replied Nidud, “from now on you can make them for me – I am planning to invade our neighbouring kingdom!” “I will be pleased to work for you, but I must first finish the goods I have already promised to other people,” suggested Wayland. “How dare you!” shouted Nidud. “I am the king and you will do what I say, at once! Guards, take him away – you know what to do,” he added with a grim gesture. With that Wayland was taken away to a small island in a fast flowing river. They brought his tools and anvil and put them into a derelict, leaking hovel. Most cruelly of all, they bent Wayland over his own anvil and slashed his leg tendons so he could not run or swim away. Leaving him with some fuel and iron, as well as enough food for a week, he was instructed to make lots of good swords. If he did not have them ready when they returned in a week, he would get no more food, and would starve to death. What else could he do but obey? When they were gone he took a dreadful solemn oath on his ring before his gods, that no matter how long, or how hard, he would wreak a horrendous revenge on King Nidud for what he had done, even if he could see no way of achieving it at the moment. Oaths really meant something in those days, and people who intended to keep a good reputation kept to them. The weary weeks went by, and turned into long months. Wayland slaved away each week to produce the weapons, and a boat came with guards to take them away, leaving fuel, iron and meagre food that had to last him the week, washed down with dirty river water. Meanwhile, King Nidud sat in his castle, gloating over the great store of fine weapons he was amassing. He had his daughter Badhild for company, and two sons. Otwin, the future heir rode around the kingdom gathering extortionate taxes for his greedy father accompanied by his brother Olwin. One day Eigil, the brother of Wayland, visited while trying to nd him. The king entertained him without telling him what he had done. He thought by keeping him at court he may have another way to apply pressure for Wayland to stay working for him. The guards had reported that Wayland’s legs were healing and getting stronger. Word was sent to Wayland that his brother Eigil and his son may be in danger if he escaped. Wayland began gathering birds’ feathers from the many that landed on the island. One day when he was bored King Nidud summonsed Eigil before him. “I understand from my courtiers that you are a good archer. I would like to watch you perform with the bow – come!” He led Eigil to a courtyard where to his horror he found his young son with an apple balanced on his head. He performed as the king demanded, splitting the apple in two without harming his son. Noticing that he had two more arrows, the king queried whether he thought he may miss the target? “No,” retorted Eigil, “if I had hit my son the other two were for you!” “I doubt my guards would have allowed that to happen,” taunted the king. Meanwhile, the two princes having got bored with beating up peasants were looking for some other thing to divert them. Realising that they were near where the fabulous smith was kept, they bullied the boatman to take them to him. Wayland Smith spotted them sailing over the water, and in an instant seized his chance to full his chilling oath. It would take guile and skill, and he had both. As they strode up the beach he greeted them deferentially, dong his hat. “Oh your Royal Highnesses,” he flattered, “how honoured I am that such noble princes should visit the lowly Wayland at his work.” They sneered and looked in disdain at his dirty rags, calloused hands and work-weary face. Then pointing at the sword on Otwin’s belt scabbard, he begged a closer look. Warily, Otwin agreed. “Oh what shoddy workmanship,” cried Wayland. “You deserve the best of weapons to go with your positions, yet the king seems to have palmed you with second best!” The brothers were shocked, but not really surprised; they had been taught early in life to think the worst of everyone, including their father. “Come back tomorrow and I will have weapons much more suitable for you,” offered Wayland. “I dare not send them via the guards – they may not reach you. Please do not tell anyone, especially the king though, or you will get me into great trouble.” The princes agreed to keep the secret and return in a day with the boatman. When they returned the island the next day, they could not see Wayland. “I bet he is still asleep, the lazy peasant!” said Otwin. “Or giving the swords a last polish before handing them over – he wouldn’t dare to give us anything dirty,” suggested the younger brother. “Huh! You prattle on like an old washerwoman,” chided Otwin. “You must learn to be a man of action like me!” With that Otwin strode up to the hovel, kicked open the door and went inside. From behind the door Wayland struck with a very sharp axe he had made, and Otwin’s head lay on the floor. Pushing the head and corpse out of the way, Wayland resumed his position behind the door. “I bet my brother is choosing the best sword for himself,” thought Olwin. Taking his brother’s example, he too pushed through the door, and he too was soon decapitated. Working quickly, Wayland tossed the heads into a cauldron of boiling water heating on the forge re. They bubbled and hissed, losing the hair, skin and even the eyeballs. Weyland took them out with a pair of tongs, and as soon as they had cooled, sawed the tops off. He melted metal onto them, and made a stand for each, with beautiful decorations adorning them both. He had produced two goblets from the skulls. Going down to the boatman who had been commanded to wait for the princes, he offered him a great reward if he would complete a couple of tasks for him: deliver the goblets to King Nidud and say that Wayland was afraid to send them via the guards. Whilst he was looking at them, go give a note to Princess Badhild, and another to Eigil. The note to Eigil was to give him some instructions, as well as telling him to give the boatman some gold as a reward. The boatman readily agreed. He had no love for the brutish Nidud, and with gold could escape and make a better life for himself. He did as he was asked. King Nidud was very impressed with the stylish goblets the boatman brought him, and started boasting how he would show them off at a feast that night, and would make everyone envious. Taking his chance, the boatman slipped the note into Badhild’s private chamber, and went to find Eigil, who true to Wayland Smith’s word rewarded him when he had read the instructions his brother had sent to him. The note to the Princess invited her to go to the island secretly: the craftsman had made her some beautiful jewellery, but wanted to make sure it fitted and that it went directly to her. Always keen to adorn herself better than the other ladies of the court, she secretly slipped away. When she reached the island with the boatman, she told him to wait by the shore, and walked to the smithy with eager anticipation of what she may receive, as she had seen the quality of the goblets given to her father. Instead, as she stepped inside she was grabbed and raped by Wayland Smith. As she cried afterwards, Wayland Smith told her why he had done it: to gain revenge on her father who had treated him so cruelly. “The boatman will drop you off on land, and when you see the king you can tell him that last night he drunk from the skulls of his two sons. Their bodies have now washed away by the tide. The only heir that he will have is the bastard son I have left in you, who will eventually usurp and kill his grandfather, meaning that my blood relation will rule in his place!” “He will catch you, torture you and kill you for this!” yelled Badhild. “I don’t think he will,” replied Wayland Smith. With that he put on the wings he had made from birds’ feathers and thin strips of metal, and flew up into the sky to Nidud’s castle. Of course, everyone came out to see the incredible sight of him hovering in the wind above the walls, including Nidud plus Eigil and his son. “Last night you drunk from the skulls of your sons I killed!” cried Wayland, “and I have made your daughter pregnant as well. That is what you get for your treatment of me.” “Quick Eigil!” barked the King. “If you value the life of your son, shoot him with this arrow.” A single arrow was given to Eigil, who aimed carefully before loosing it into the sky. It hit Wayland Smith beneath his outstretched arm, and blood fell in great drops and splashed to the ground as he flew away. “Well done,” said Nidud to Eigil. He will not get far bleeding like that, and will soon die. You may leave with your son as your reward.” Without a word Eigil left with his boy, before Nidud could change his mind. It was much later when he met up with his brother, and they both laughed about the skin bag of animal blood that Wayland Smith had concealed beneath his arm." Arthurian Legend King Arthur The original kingdom of Wales (which went as far north as the Wirral on Merseyside) is the geographic base for many of the Arthurian legends. Enough has been written about their origins and meanings elsewhere to fill a library of books, but I would remind you that the future King Arthur pulls the sword from the stone to prove his worthiness. There are at least two swords connected with King Arthur: Excalibur, which is pulled from the stone, and the Welsh named Caledfwich, which is possibly the one given by the Lady of the Lake and eventually returned to her. Some writers appear to muddle the two together, and no definite maker is suggested for either of them. There is another sword taken from a stone floating down the river by Sir Galahad when he arrives at Camelot. Whether the sword in the stone story is an allegory for extracting metal from rocks and working with it to produce a weapon is for you to decide. There is a similarity between this action and that of the Germanic Sigmund who pulls a sword called Gram from Barnstokki (a great wooden pillar) that had been placed there by Odin." The Craig-Y-Don Blacksmith "Here is a brief version of a Welsh fairytale that demonstrates the blacksmith’s confidence in dealing with the supernatural: A blacksmith who lived at Craig-Y-Don was a man with a marvellous thirst to him, which could only be quenched with fine Welsh ale. He must have been especially thirsty one night, because as he staggered home from the pub he saw a lot of tiny little men jump out of the rocks around him. Rubbing his eyes and shaking his head, he could still see them. What’s worse, he could hear one talking to him! As he slowly focussed, he heard the little chap say, “If you do not stop living this reckless life, you will soon die! But if you make amends and stay sober, it will be all the better for you.” The blacksmith wanted to ask him what he meant, but as soon as he said it all the little men were gone, disappeared back into the good grey Welsh rocks. Well, much as he liked fine Welsh ale, he took heed of the fairy’s warning, worked hard and no longer visited the pub. A few months later, a stranger to the area brought a horse to be shod. Because he wasn’t familiar with the horse and it seemed a little frisky, he tied its halter to the ring of a quenching pot he had fixed to the wall. It was usually full of water to quench hot iron. As soon as he went around the back of the horse to shoe it, it panicked, reared and pulled its halter, still tied to the pot, off the wall and galloped off. What is more, its rider seemed to have disappeared too. Shaking his head ruefully at the damage, he looked at the hole in the wall where some bricks had been pulled away by the quenching pot. He caught a glint, and when he looked nearer found three brass kettles full of golden coins." The Horse Riding Witch of Yarrow "Two apprentice blacksmiths who were brothers reportedly had a frightening experience back in the 17th century. One complained that at night a witch would come and put a bridle on him and ride him, transformed into a horse. (Sounds like some erotically kinky dream there!) Anyway, his brother bravely offered to swap beds with him, and the same happened to him. After riding him, the witch tethered him to a tree. Once she had walked away, he struggled and managed to get out of the bridle, and turned back into a young man. Hiding behind the tree with the bridle, he jumped out and surprised the witch on her return by flinging the bridle onto her. Of course, she turned into a horse, so now he jumped upon her back and rode furiously back to the forge. Being sure to keep the halter on, the two young smiths shoed the horse, and the next morning the witch was found in agony, screaming at the pain of horseshoes nailed into her feet. Needless to say she never returned." The Smith and the Fairies "In this old fairytale, the smith has some very unusual visitors. The tale was originally collected by the Rev. Thomas Pattieson of Islay in the late 19th century. MacEachern the smith of Crossbrig sorrowfully struck his hammer against the piece of metal he working on, but his heart was not in it, and he hit it in the wrong place. Cursing he threw it in the spoil heap. “It is a big spoil heap you are a-getting there!” came a voice from the doorway. “What ails you Blacksmith MacEachern?” it asked. The smith turned to the door and recognised the wise old man who stood there. He was seldom seen unless he was needed, and had not visited the village for some time. “It is not so me that ails, but my son,” he explained. The old man had a piercing eye and a way of getting you to say directly what was in your heart. “He was as fit as any 13-year-old one day, running about, getting into mischief and eating me out of house and home. Yet these last months he has took to his bed, wastes away, sleeps most of the day, and starts to look old beyond his years. There seems nothing I can do to make him better, and I fear he may die.” The old man looked gravely into the forge fire as he listened, and paused before replying. “It would be a shame to deprive the good folk hereabouts of a good blacksmith and his apprentice,” he pronounced slowly. “The trouble is, I do not think the one in the bed is your son. I think your son has been taken by Daoine Sith, and they have left a Sibhreach, a changeling, in place of him. There is one way to know for sure – save up all the eggshells you can from you and your good neighbours. Spread them out on the floor where he can see them, and then pour water from a jug into them, two at a time. Carry the full eggshells in pairs as if they were of great weight around the fire.” The smith was mystified, but in desperation was willing to try anything to get his son back in full health again. He went to thank the old man, but he had disappeared as silently as he came. The next day he did all that he had been told, watched by the figure in the bed. He had not got halfway through filling and carrying the eggshells when there was a great guffaw of laughter from the bed as the supposedly sick boy exclaimed, “In eight hundred years of life I have never seen anything so silly before.” When he retreated downstairs to the forge, the old man was already standing there. He told him what had occurred. “Aha!” said the old fellow. “Wasn’t I right all along? Now you get rid of that lout and I’ll bet that your son is in Brorracheill in a digh, a well-known hill of the wee folk. Go back upstairs and bank the fire up until it is roaring hot. You’ll know how to do that with your trade. When he asks you why, toss him into it. If it is your son (which I very much doubt) he will call out to be saved, but I’m thinking that it is more likely that this thing will y up out of the roof.” Once again the blacksmith mounted the stairs, bearing lots of extra fuel for the fire, which he piled on. “What is the use of a fire like that?” asked the invalid. “You’ll see soon,” came the smith’s grim reply, as he blew it with his bellows until the whole hearth was red hot. “What an earth are you doing – what is the use of that roaring fire in a small bedroom like this?” was the question. Without another word the smith’s brawn arms had grabbed him from the bed and thrown him in the fire. With a dreadful, piercing shriek, the sibhreach shot up through the smoke hole and was gone. Stunned, the smith returned down stairs to find that the old man had been watching the results of his work from out in the yard, and had witnessed the fiend fly out of the chimney. Giving him a chance to catch his breath, the old man gave him his final instructions, as matter of fact as if he was telling him to chop wood. As a result, the smith went to the round green hill just outside the village, which most sensible folk gave a wide berth to. With him as instructed for this particular special night he took three items: a Bible (to guard against the wee folk), a dirk of iron they abhorred in shape and metal, and a sleeping cock. As he trod near to the mound he heard tinkling, unearthly music and strange laughter. As he got nearer he could see an opening. Plunging the dirk into the threshold to stop it closing in on him, (since the fae folk hated it) he advanced with his Bible thrust out in front of him like a weapon. Inside, to his surprise he could see his son working away at a forge, under the malevolent gaze of dark, crafty creatures who asked harshly what he wanted there. “I have come for my son, and will not leave without him,” said the smith in a voice that he hoped sounded fiercer and stronger than he felt at that moment. His words seemed to have little worth to the company of furious fairies who faced, but dare not approach him. They cackled with horrible laughter in derision. That dreadful sound woke the sleeping cock in the smith’s tool bag, which crowed loudly and repeatedly, thinking it had missed the dawn. As a race that lives purely by night it was a hateful sound to the fairies, and in horror they pushed the son and his father, the cock and Bible out of their world. The smith remembered to pick up the dirk as they stumbled out, so that the hill closed and they could not be followed. The father was overjoyed to have his son back, but the lad was clearly shocked and confused at what had happened to him. Gradually, he started to eat a little more heartily, the colour did return to his white cheeks, and he started to take an interest on what was going on around him again. Yet he hardly said a word, as if the horror of what had happened was a thing he did not want to describe. His father (and the old man occasionally) watched him patiently, letting him take his own time to recover. That took place a whole year and a day later when the smith was working on a sword on for a local chieftain. Suddenly the son, who had been watching said, “That is not the best way to do it, here let me!” The smith was so stunned that he stood back and let the young man take up his tools and go to work in a way that he would never have thought possible. The sword was a masterpiece of the metalworkers’ craft, much admired for its balance, cutting ability and decoration, and became known as Claidheamh Ceann-Ileach. Nothing like it had been seen before, and soon there was a stream of good customers to the forge wanting similar weapons, not just to fight with, but to be displayed as fine ornaments to their best costumes. Father and son worked steadily together in harmony, earning good money and happy in their chosen craft. They never saw the old man again at the forge, but maybe you might. Caonis gall is close to the church at Kilchoman, Islay." Gypsies "Romanian male gypsies often act as smiths, with their wives being famed for divination and interpreting dreams and omens. They are thought to be able to work together to invoke spirits of the air and wind. The Roma people have, like many of their fellow gypsy races, been badly victimised to this day; one of their own stories explains why this is: When the Roman soldiers were going to crucify Jesus, they ordered four nails from a blacksmith. Knowing what they would be used for he refused and was killed on the spot. A second blacksmith was called, but as he was making the second of the nails he heard a voice telling not to, because the intended victim was innocent. He was also killed when he refused to finish the job, so only two nails were completed. The soldiers then found a gypsy blacksmith who had recently arrived in Jerusalem. He was told to make the remaining two nails, but the voices of the two dead blacksmiths came to him, imploring him not to do it. The soldiers were returning, and the spirits left. He tried to quench the last nail with water, but it stayed burning blood red for a long time. Frightened, he took down his tent and fled, condemned for his action with his descendants to wander forever. The soldiers found the one nail he had finished, so only had three for the crucifixion. The custom of smiths not working on Good Friday in memory of the use of nails on that day has been recorded in some countries, including England, at Skegness." The Blacksmith and the Demon Churches used to be a lot more colourful than they are today with coloured pictures on the walls to illustrate the stories the priests told, for people who very often could not read for themselves. A good blacksmith went to such a church with his smart six-yearold son, and was very impressed with a picture of a demon at the Last Judgement. It was black and red with a pointed tail, horns and hooves and looked very frightening. As he walked home, an idea came to him to have a similar picture painted on the door of his smithy, so he found the same artist who had painted at the church and paid him to make a similar picture for him. Then each morning when he entered to start work he would greet the picture with, “Good morning fellow countryman,” or, “How are you today sir?” and hoped that this would keep him on the right side of the real demon if he was about. This carried on for about ten years until he died, and his son took over. He did not think much of greeting the demon each morning. Why his father should have such an ugly picture he did not know, but people were used to it now, so he couldn’t really do away with it. He thought if he gradually wore it away, that would give him a good excuse, so he started each morning by showing his contempt for the demon by hitting the picture sharply three times with his hammer. When he went to church he would gladly light a tapering candle for a saint’s day, but he would spit in the face of the demon of the wall painting when no one was looking. This went on for three long years, and the real demon (who felt the hurt done to the pictures) was rubbing his sore head and thought that he would have to do something to stop it. The demon changed himself into the form of a strong young man, and went to the forge to offer his services. “In exchange for being your apprentice I can carry water from the well, blow the bellows, clean up and carry goods for your customers,” he offered smilingly. The blacksmith liked the sound of that, so the deal was agreed, and the demon set to learning all he could about being a blacksmith. He was such a fast learner that in a month the smith could trust him to do anything that he could do, and started to take the occasional time off and let him get on with it. It was on such a day when the young man was left by himself at the smithy, and the blacksmith off for a lunchtime drink at the tavern, when an old lady came riding along in her carriage. Running alongside he shouted, “We can do you a service madam. We can change old folks into young!” The lady commanded her coachman to stop and got out. She was not convinced, but was willing to see what was being offered. “Can you really do it?” she asked. “Oh yes,” was the confident reply. “If we did not know how to do it we would be fools for offering it. The fee is 500 roubles.” She gave him the money, and he took some of it outside to the coachman and said, “You are to go into the village and buy two buckets of milk, and bring them back here carefully, not spilling a drop.” The coachman obeyed. With him out of the way, for a long while hopefully, he grabbed the old lady’s feet with his tongs and dropped her into the furnace fire. She screamed a bit, but was quickly burnt up until only her bones were left. When the coachman returned with the two buckets of milk, he emptied them into a tub and tossed the bones in too. There was a bubbling, then after a minute or two the lady emerged from the milk alive, young, beautiful and new. She hardly noticed that her clothes were gone until her embarrassed coachman flung his cloak around her and took her straight home to her husband. The lord hardly recognised his wife until she spoke. He stood there with his mouth open. “You had better go and get yourself made young at the forge like me,” his wife commanded. “Now I am young and beautiful I do not want to be seen with an old man like you! Go now and give the man 500 roubles.” By the time her husband had got over his shock and got to the forge, the blacksmith had got back from the tavern. His apprentice was nowhere to be seen, so he had started work by himself by the time the lord got there. “You must make a new man of me,” said the lord, “at once!” “How on earth could I manage to do that?” asked the blacksmith, thinking the lord was going silly in his old age. “You know perfectly well how – you did it for her ladyship,” came the indignant reply. “She wants nothing to do with me unless I become young as well.” “But I haven’t seen her ladyship today, so how could I have made her young? I have no idea how to do it.” The coachman whispered deferentially into his lord’s ear, who coughed then carried on: “He says it was your apprentice, but that is just the same. If the apprentice knows how to do it he must have learnt it off you, so get on with it man or you’ll feel the birch across your back!” The frightened blacksmith had no doubt that the lord meant what he said. He was the law in these parts, with a lot of power. In desperation he conferred with the coachman to see what he knew about what had happened to her ladyship. “Alright, I will do the same as my apprentice, and hope it works. If not no doubt I will suffer for it anyway,” complained the smith, once more looking in vain for his apprentice out through the doorway. He repeated the process just as the coachman told him, with some added clues from what the lady had told the lord. He sent the coachman off for more milk from the village. He stripped the lord naked, picked him up with his tongs and dropped him in the fire. As he blew on the bellows the lord was quickly burnt to a cinder. Quickly raking out the bones, he dropped them into a tub of milk and waited. And waited. And waited some more, but after an hour nothing had happened. The smith was beside himself and then the lady sent a messenger to the smithy to see that all was going well. He had to admit that all he had was the lord’s bones in a tub of milk. Word soon got back to her, and in a fury she sent her men to seize the unhappy blacksmith and hang him, since he had admitted killing her lord. As they bound his hands to take him to the gallows, the young apprentice re-appeared. “What’s going on?” he asked so innocently. “Where are they taking you?” “To the gallows!” cried his master. Crying, he described all that had happened. “If you promise not to hurt the picture anymore, and treat it nice like your father, then the lord will be alive once more, and younger too in the bargain.” “Yes, yes, I swear by my anvil and all the saints I will do as you say,” promised the blacksmith. “Wait there a moment,” commanded the young man to the servants, going into the smithy. In moments he had returned with the lord, looking no more than 20 years old (although he had mercifully put his old clothes back on). “Look! Here is your master,” proclaimed the young man, “now let that blacksmith free.” They did as he said, and the blacksmith kept his promise, never neglecting to wish a good morning to the demon picture. The young man was not seen again, but I hear that the lord and lady had three more children in the next few years, and looked very well on it." If there is interest, I will edit and post a few more. There are some good ones left. Hope you guys enjoyed these as much as I did!

Haha, this is dead on, at first I was like "dang this is taking forever to pound out" then I kinda just got lost in a hammertrance and all of a sudden I was like "dang how did this get this thin that fast"

That is stunning work man, I hope someday I can be this skilled

My first ever knife, a kukri-ish lookin thing i made from an old rifle barrel and it is totally xxxx I am sure but I love this so much already I cannot stop hammering someone help I need a real forge because I've been using my casting furnace as a makeshift forge to heat it and it ain't cutting it E: lol my hands are covered in blisters and my forearms are so xxxx sore but I just put gloves on and kept going

Steve, there is indeed an hourglass shaped depression on the bottom and a number, "8 2" stamped underneath the horn! Wow, good call! So I guess this is actually a Hay-Budden, then? Poppop was a cabinetmaker by trade, but he was also a handyman and that kind of guy who could do or make almost anything. I asked him what he did with it and he said something like "banging on metal", lol

Oh absolutely, I gave it a brush off with the wire brush but I am absolutely not touching it with anything else for now, the top is polishing nicely because I have an old gun barrel I've been pounding on all day (DANG this is a hard metal) but no, I will do some testing too!

So I went over to see my grandfather for his 91st bday, and the topic of casting/blacksmithing came up. Up till now I only cast and melt metal, but the convo went something like: poppop: yes I see you're getting better at casting me: yeah haha I'm pretty addicted to the fire and furnace now poppop: do you have an anvil me: Uh no they're pretty expensive and hard to find poppop: well I have one if you want it it's 150 pounds me: wat. I'm GUESSING it's a Mankel based on the fact the only writing/stamp I can make out says "Man-"something, but if anyone else has any idea I'd appreciate it I've been using my furnace as a makeshift forge until I get a real one. I love this xxxx, I'm already addicted. I'm ambidextrous, mainly left handed but mostly ambidextrous, so I switch hands when one gets tired. Both are numb after I went to Harbor Freight and picked up some pein hammers and a 2 lb flat hammer.

I ended up doing something similar to what you mention with spanking it with a trowel. Thanks for the jargon clarification. I fired the furnace to full after heat cycling it on low a few times to remove moisture, and it appears to have set quite well. It turned a brighter color of white/gray afterwards but no cracking or deforming. I am going to apply IR reflector and start melting tonight. I appreciate the knowledge! I'm learning quite a bit here.

May I ask why not? I am eager to learn more. Why is a coating of mortar over the rigidizer not appropriate? It seems to be hardening quite well from what I can tell? Or is just painting over it with Satanite a better option? I was using a heat lamp because the instructions state "The best results are achieved at curing temperatures of 90-110F." It also states "Typical dryout schedule for a single layer, 9" (229 mm) thick or less: ambient to use temperature 100F (56C) per hour" Am I misinterpreting this or are the instructions just overly cautious?

I applied Kastolite last night after drying the rigidizer, man it was more difficult to work with than I expected. I don't even know what I expected, but it was more like, well, an actual castable mortar than a "paint like consistency". I got it all in though, and it set quite rapidly. I made a little "tent" out of wet towels to keep it damp (this is central FL as it is, so not much chance of it being too dry anyways) and left it open at the top with a heat lamp shining on it. Checked it this morning, seems to be hardening quite well. I'm going to leave it drying another day or so and then fire it up tomorrow, then apply the ITC and hopefully should be good to go after that.

I looked around quite a bit about the best way to line my Devil Forge furnace, I settled on using the rigidizer that came with it, then tonight after I cure it, I'm going to do a layer or two of Kast-o-lite 30 and then after curing that I'm going to finish with a layer of ITC-100HT as the flame face. Everyone says the ITC is nutso expensive and from what I can tell, they're right, but I did find this on Amazon for 25$ a pint which is by far the cheapest I've ever seen it. As far as I can tell, yes it's the real thing: (Remove commercial link) Good luck and let us know what you end up doing!

Fair!

I ended up making some tongs out of three pieces of flat bar stock and some stainless (not zinc/galvanized) hardware. They're not particularly pretty but I am very pleased with how they turned out for my first attempt. They support my #8 crucible very well with zero give, fit in the furnace perfectly and are very sturdy. Thanks for the advice!

Thank you for the welcome and advice, Frosty! Would you recommend that style of lifting tong over the "traditional" clamping tongs, even if there is adequate support from the bottom?

Hello everyone, First post here, just getting into the furnace/melting/casting hobby and I'm excited to start. I've been doing a ton of research on the correct PPE, refractory coating practices, etc. Baby steps. I'm learning a ton already just lurking and reading around, and I have a question: I already purchased a couple tongs from ProCast, specifically some charging tongs and vertical lift tongs. The vertical tongs are this style: After using them a few times I'm growing concerned that they are not going to be adequate for use in my top loading Devil Forge because of how wide you have to open them in order to slide the larger end under the crucible to support them, which bumps against the refractory and scrapes. Unless I simply need to use smaller crucibles, but I still would like to use my bigger #6 and #8 from time to time and I am definitely not comfortable using lip gripping tongs on those. I want to make a pair of tongs this weekend but as I don't have access to a welder, I will need to bolt the grip ends on. Are there any precautions or advice I should take as to type of bolt (ie don't use galvanized) or materials to avoid? The last thing I want is for tongs to fail on me sticking them into the furnace. (side anecdote, in the zinc safety forum I read an offhand comment from someone about plastic bottles of HCl slowly leaking gas. I happen to have a bottle of HCl that I store near some steel cans of other materials in the garage, and I started noticing them rusting quickly. As I live in Florida where it is extremely humid, I initially wrote it off to the humidity and cleaned off the rust and oiled them as I have to with all my tools down here. It still bothered me for some reason that it seemed to be getting a little too rusty too quickly, and after reading that comment I was thunderstruck. Moved it somewhere safer out of exposure. You learn something new every day!)