THE DARYL IN MAY. 255 



Spencer tells us that the rook discusses poor and 

 rough melodies, but that we are reconciled and 

 indeed attached to his uncouth tones, because 

 we hear them in pleasant seasons and pleasant 

 places. There is, I think, besides, a homely, 

 honest ring in the strains of the clergyman- 

 dressed bird which is effective independent of 

 the interest of association. Above the rookery 

 is a mill and a forge. The forge is asleep as 

 yet. The fire is out, the door is open, and if 

 anybody cared to go in and steal the large bel- 

 lows and a waggon wheel there is apparently 

 nothing to prevent them. The mill, however, 

 is at work. It churns, and grinds, and sobs 

 a laborious giant groaning over a heavy task. 

 The good miller, himself, is enjoying a morn- 

 ing pipe on a plank which crosses the 

 stream. He sits with his legs dangling over 

 the water, and his arms folded, while the to- 

 bacco curls in blue wreaths around his battered 

 straw hat. He gets up, and (we are old friends, 

 this miller and I) proposes to bring out his own 

 rod, and join me for a mile or two. 



Although the miller fishes the water after 

 me, I confess he picks up in a short space of 



