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The Story Behind: A Series of Campus Images

Under a spreading chestnut-tree...

What is the story behind the nice looking fellow working with the Warren Wilson Blacksmith Crew, while they proudly install some new handrails? The fellow is Dale Morse, an especially dedicated Warren Wilson Alumnus who graduated from the College in 1989. Dale started blacksmithing when he was nine years old. His family participated in the Living History in Williamsburg, Virginia and Dale volunteered for ten summers at Booker T. Washington National Monument before coming to Warren Wilson.

When he came, Dale brought his expertise and his love of blacksmithing with him and started a shop on campus. His shop ran until a couple of years after he graduated, but there just wasn't enough interest to keep blacksmithing going at that time. Then came Karen Rudolph '02, who opened the shop we have today as part of a final graduation requirement for her for Outdoor Leadership major. "She realized a dream that I had when I was here as a student," Dale explained. Dale hopes to expand the Warren Wilson shop on campus.

Though he has spent a great deal of time after graduation perfecting his craft in Europe, Dale currently lives in Charlottesville, Virginia. There he operates a successful shop of his own and is married to Susan Holland '91, who went on to earn her master of counseling from UVA and now serves on the Community Service Board as a case manager.

This is Dale's third year of volunteering his time to give a weeklong intensive workshop to Warren Wilson students on the blacksmithing crew. The College and the Blacksmithing Crew is so appreciative for all he has done and continues to do.

With respect to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow:

The Village Blacksmith
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,---rejoicing,---sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought."

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