The Iowa plain dealer. [volume] (New Oregon, Howard County, Iowa) 1867-1895, 1890-10-30
THE GRAY OLD MILL,

From the oozy acres OF Hammock meadow,
Thro' Whitmore wood and Weatherby glen,
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 Ger the rocks beyond,
Il the same nv young feet used TO follow
To its grassy prison In Chapman pond,
And plunging sport with swimmers thrill
In its deeps BY the fiume OF the gray old mill.
il was old in the days first remember.
That building bare with its roof uncouth,
And the afternoons OF blonde September,
When fed the sheep at the Harrow Tooth,
Made II mellow and quaint rs an Alpine chalet
In CLEAN OF water and rock and tree,
With charm that lured me into the valley
Till hung DER the bridge in JOY tos
The stream in the race way splash and spill
From the .rub-wheel" under the gray old MILL
Twas the haunt Of my childish love and wonder.
And throbbed with the fhrob Of its wooden
wall
When heard the great stones whirling thun
der
Or watched the arm Of the gate beam fall;
And never zest OF play-day pleasure
Felt youth or boy TO q kingdom born
Like mine to ride. In the autumn leisure,
On the red farm wagon, with bags OF corn,
That stopped by the stage road. under the hill,
And stood long hours at the gray old mill.
Down the bank the terrapins slid and simmer
The weasel prowled in the brown stone dam,
And over the pond in the golden gimmer
The silken milkweed gossamer swan:
The alders smirSed at their own green faces
Mirrorcd below in the mimic lake,
Where lazily out OF the shady places
Stole the red filmed perch and the water
snake.
While the killdee flied thro' his sleepy bill
To the muffied drum OF the gray old mill.
Lame and crooked with age and labor
Was the miller but sound and sturdy OF soul,
With name that meant to every neighbor
faithful grist and an honest toll
lie dabbled too, in an art belated,
Chiseling slabs for the churchyard's dead,
And stormy days when the grinding waited
The chapter line and the chernb's head
He cut and carved with tinker's skill
All by himself in the gray old mill.
Whi;e-halred deacon. patient and pious.
The children loved him-he hal no foes;
And we never thought. with the good man by Us.
OF the sculptor lost in q miller's clothes,
But We felt glowing-lf words can term it
For the kindly face In q frame SO grim;
He seemed a seer or q holy hermit.
And his place and work were part OF him.
And shrine TO each little pilgrim still
Was the dusty door OF the gray old mill.
But over its ruins ramps the brer,
The clenatis climbs and thistles bloom.
No more forever will hand lift higher
The sunken gate in the crumbling iume.
Tsro' the dam ali shattered and rent asunder
The pond has fed like a host afraid.
And the killdee pipes not there-and under
One Of tho rude grayestones he made
The miller at rest by Gods good will.
Lies far away from the gray old mill.
So listen alone where the brook comes leaping
Thro' the hollow down from Wcatherby glen
To the one live voice Of past long sleeping
That sin Is old songs to my heart again.
OLD playmates laugh In its funcful flowing,
The sheep on Harrow Tooth hillside blcat.
The milestone rings in the Turnpike Moving
And all the melodies fancy sweet
OF boyhood dreams that never fulfill
Come back to the grave OF the gray old mill.
Theron Brown, in Youths Companion.