Waterbury evening Democrat., 1890-11-07
THE GRAZ OLD mlLL.

From the oozy acres of Hammock sadoW, Thro whitmore wood am. Weathsrby glen, A brook comes leaping in suN and shadow That sings old songs to my heart again; For its water out of the winding hollow That breaks and falls OCT the rocks beyond, Is the same my yo IEg fest uSel to follow To it's grassy prison in Chapr3an pond, And plungtnS sport with u sN !ll .lCrs thrill | In It's decps by the Hume of tn gray old mill. l It was old in the days I first remember, That building bare with its roof uncouth, | And the afternoons of blonde September, When fcI tho sheep at the Harrow Tooth, | Made 1t mellow and quaint as an Alpine chalet. In glcam of water aad rock and tree, | With charm that lured me into the valley Till hung OCT the bridge in joy tosee | The stream in the raceway splash and spill From the ''tub-wheel" under the gray old mill. Twas the haunt of my childish love and wonder
 . And throbbed with the throb of it's wooden wall | When heard the great stones whirling thur der
 | Or watched the arm of the gatebeam fall; | And never a Zc8t If play-day pleasure Felt youth or by to & kingdom born | Like mine tD rIio, in the autumn leisure, | On the rel farm .wE,, 2. with bags of corn, | That stopped by tac siage-road, under the hill, | And stood long rours at the gray old mill. | Down the hanl, tlc tcrrapirs slid and simmer Tho yeas, lIow'iyd in the brown stone dam, | q The s,lkcn IHil!;weed gossamcr swam; | Tie ulIer5 srnir. cd at their own green faces Mirrored below in the mimic lake, | WEerc la&ily out f the shady places Stole the reclaimed perch and the water snake.
 | While the killde" lfel thro' his sleepy bill | To the mufIled drum of the gray old mill.
 Lame and crooked with age and labor Was the miir', hut sound and sturdy of soul | With a nam tGa. n"aat to every neighbor | A faitlfui gli,t and an honest toll | He dabNlCd, too, in an art bclatcd, Chi3oliIg slabs for the churchyard's dead, | And stormy dAvH when the grinding waited | Tho chapter line and tine cherub's head | He cut and carved with a tinker's skill | All by himself in the gray old mill. Whitc,ha,r,d d"ncon. patient and pious The children lcvcd rim-he had no foes;
 And wc never thought, with the gooi man by us | Of t1c sCul tor lost in millcr's clothes,
 But we felt q g:owiHg-lf words can term it For the kindly face in n frame so grim;
 He seemed seer or d h ly hermit,
 And his rlace nnd work were a part of him And Q shriu9 10 raIh little pilgrim still Was tho dusty door Of the gray old mill. But over its ruins ramps the brier The Clcmatis climbs and missiles bloom. No mOrG forever will hand lift higher The Sunken gate in the crumbling Hume. Thro the dam all shattered and rent asunder The pond has lied like a host afraid, Ana the Kllluee ptpGS not there-aGu under One of the rude gravcStones he made | The miller at rest by Gods good will, | Lies far away from tho gray old mill. | So listen alone where the brooli comes leapin2 Thro' the hollow down from Weatherby glcp | To the one live voice of past long sleeping That sings old songs to my heart again. | Old playmates laugh in it's tuncful flowing, The sheep on Harrow Tooth hillside bleat, | The whetstone rings in the Turnpike Moving And all the melodies fanCy.Sweet Of boyhood dreams that never fulhl Come back to the grave of the gray old mill. Theron Brown, in Youths Companion.