Grant County herald. [volume] (Lancaster, Wis.) 1850-1968, 1891-05-21
THE GRAY OLD MILL


From the oozy acres Of Hammock meadow
ThrO WhitmOre wood and Weatherby glen,
A brook comes leapiug In sun and shadow
That sings old songs 70 my heart again;
For its water out Of the winding hollow
That breaks and falls DER the rocks beyonA
Is the same my young feet used to follow
To its grassy prison in Chapman pond,
And plunging sport with swimmers thrill
In its deeps BY the hune Of the gray old mill
II was old IN the days I first remember.
That building bare with its roof uncouth,
And the afternoons Of blonde September,
When fed the sheep az the Harrow Tooth,
Made # mellow and quaint as an Alpine chalet.
In CLEAN OF water ana rock and tree,
With 9 charm that lured me into the valley
TIL hung DER the bridge in Joy 10 see
The stream in the race-way splash and spin
From the '-tub-wheel" under the gray old mill.
Twas the haunt Of my childish love and wonder
And throbbed with the throb Of its wooden
wall
When heard the great stones whirling thun
der
Or watched the arm Of the gate-beam fall;
And never a zest Of play-day pleasure
Felt youth or boy to a 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 10 the brown stone dam,
And over the pond in the golden glimmer
The silken mtikweed gossamer swan;
The alders smirked at their own green faces
Mirrored below IN the mimic lake
Where lazily out Of the shady places
Stole the red-anned perch and the water
snake,
While the killdee flied thro' his sleepy bill
To the mufIied drum OF the gray old mill.
Lame and crooked with age and labor
Was the miller, but sound and sturdy OF soul,
With q name that meant 20 every neighbor
A faithful grist and an honest toll.
He dabhled, too, in an art belated
Chiseling slabs for the churchyards dead
And stormy days when the grinding waited
The chapter line and the eherub's head
He cut and carved with tinker's skill
All by himself in the gray old mill.
White haired deacon, patient and pious,
The children loved him-he had no foes;
And we never thought, with the good man by as,
OF the sculptor lost in a miller's clothes
But We felt a glowing II words can term it,
For the kil.4iy face in q frame so grim;
He seemed a seer or holy hermit,
And his place and work were part Of him
And a shrine 10 each little pilgrim still.
Was the dusty door OF the gray old mill
But over its ruins ramps the brier,
The clematis climbs and thistles bloom.
No more forever viii hand lift higher
The sunken gate in the crumbling fiume.
Thro' the dam all shattered and rent asundeT
The pond has fed like a host afraid.
And the k1lldee pipes not there-and under
One Of the rude gravestones he made
The miller, at rest by Gods good will,
Lies far away from the gray old mill.
Co 1is.er alone vwtara +t. tr,t, - 80 ,,.rs.
ThrO the hollow down from Weatherby glen
To the one live voice Of past long sleeping
That sings old songs 70 my heart again.
Old playmates langh in its tuneful flowing,
The sheep on Harrow Tooth hillside bleat,
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.