Darts from her hiding-place,

While the cataracts leap in their haste to fill

The floats of the wheel at the Old Water Mill.

We sit by the dam of the placid stream

And watch the whirl and churn

Of the pouring floods that bubble and steam

And glitter and flash in the bright sunbeam,

While steadily rolls the dripping wheel

[Pg 21]

That slowly grinds the farmers' meal,

Who restless wait their turn;

But the lights in the miller's face reveal

Never the least concern,

Who takes his toll, and whistles until

The hopper is drained at the Old Water Mill.

To-day we passed where the Old Water Mill

Had stood in the long ago,

But the cataracts leap no more on the hill,

And the boom of the roaring dam is still,

For the gleaming stream in its grief went dry,

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