>From "Nuestro Pueblo - Los Angeles, City of Romance" Copyright 1940, by Charles H. Owens and Joseph F. Seewerker A BLACKSMITH WHO SCORNS HORSES John Pitts, blacksmith, looks up disdainfully from his forge if the visitor mentions horses. 'Haven't got time for horses!' he says curtly. 'They went out when cars came in. One time, quite a while ago, a peddler brought his horse in. I didn't want to shoe the horse, and when I saw that the horse didn't want me to shoe him I told that peddler to take him somewhere else. Hasn't been a horse in here since!' Pitts's shop, at 413 Garey Street, is called the Blacksmithing Service Company. From its wide door the white, imposing tower of City Hall shows above lower buildings, monument of the modern present. But from the forge rises the ancient odor of hot iron. 'Boys from small towns never do forget that smell,' says Pitts. 'They start sniffing a few blocks away, begin to twist and turn, then finally come sticking their noses in at the door.' Pitts is happy at his work of shaping iron. He sharpens tools and forges jobs for near-by shops, finding variety enough to make life interesting for a master mechanic. He has been a blacksmith for years and is proud of it. But he has no time for horses!