THREE-ARCH ROCKS 17 



The mills must be turned; 

 Ships taken to sea; 

 And the news of the day 

 Must be carried by me.' ' 



The river is right, though the child can hardly 

 understand; and the child, too, is right, will 

 the river ever understand? The mills of men 

 must be turned, their ships must be taken to 

 sea, but the child, the eternal child, must be told 

 a story, must be sung a song. For what does a 

 child know of mills'? It cannot live by wheaten 

 bread alone. 



The river is turning my mill, for I (the mortal 

 part of me) and my children (the mortal part of 

 them) need bread; but the heart of me, the soul 

 of me, the immortal child of me and of my chil- 

 dren, craves something that the harnessed river 

 cannot grind for us, something that only the 

 wild, free river can tell to us as we lie beneath 

 the fir trees at its far-off head waters, can sing to 

 us as its clear cascades leap laughing down from 

 pool to boulder, in its distant mountain home. 



The river is turning my mill. I must grind 

 and the river must help me grind. But I must 

 play too, and I must be told a story and be sung 



