Outside Dorlcote Mill
A wide plain, where the broadening Floss hurries on
between its green banks to the sea, and the loving
tide, rushing to meet it, checks its passage with
an impetuous embrace. On this mighty tide the
black ships—laden with the fresh-scented
fir-planks, with rounded sacks of oil-bearing seed,
or with the dark glitter of coal—are borne
along to the town of St. Ogg’s, which shows
its aged, fluted red roofs and the broad gables of
its wharves between the low wooded hill and the river-brink,
tingeing the water with a soft purple hue under the
transient glance of this February sun. Far away
on each hand stretch the rich pastures, and the patches
of dark earth made ready for the seed of broad-leaved
green crops, or touched already with the tint of the
tender-bladed autumn-sown corn. There is a remnant
still of last year’s golden clusters of beehive-ricks
rising at intervals beyond the hedgerows; and everywhere
the hedgerows are studded with trees; the distant
ships seem to be lifting their masts and stretching
their red-brown sails close among the branches of
the spreading ash. Just by the red-roofed town
the tributary Ripple flows with a lively current into
the Floss. How lovely the little river is, with
its dark changing wavelets! It seems to me like
a living companion while I wander along the bank,
and listen to its low, placid voice, as to the voice
of one who is deaf and loving. I remember those
large dipping willows. I remember the stone bridge.
And this is Dorlcote Mill. I must stand a minute
or two here on the bridge and look at it, though the
clouds are threatening, and it is far on in the afternoon.
Even in this leafless time of departing February it
is pleasant to look at,—perhaps the chill,
damp season adds a charm to the trimly kept, comfortable
dwelling-house, as old as the elms and chestnuts that
shelter it from the northern blast. The stream
is brimful now, and lies high in this little withy
plantation, and half drowns the grassy fringe of the
croft in front of the house. As I look at the
full stream, the vivid grass, the delicate bright-green
powder softening the outline of the great trunks and
branches that gleam from under the bare purple boughs,
I am in love with moistness, and envy the white ducks
that are dipping their heads far into the water here
among the withes, unmindful of the awkward appearance
they make in the drier world above.
The rush of the water and the booming of the mill
bring a dreamy deafness, which seems to heighten the
peacefulness of the scene. They are like a great
curtain of sound, shutting one out from the world
beyond. And now there is the thunder of the huge
covered wagon coming home with sacks of grain.
That honest wagoner is thinking of his dinner, getting
sadly dry in the oven at this late hour; but he will
not touch it till he has fed his horses,—the
strong, submissive, meek-eyed beasts, who, I fancy,
