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T L. MITCHELL, Publish™.
Vol. 11.—No. 5.
For Woman’s Work.
K ©OHNTIRY MULL
AR AWAY, in the thicket of a dense wood, stands an old mill.
Its Ivy-clad walls and its weed-choked wheel give the place a
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melancholy air of desertion. The broken window panes cease to re
flect the towering oaks surrounding it, and the huge grey rocks where
once the rippling waters splashed and danced, stand high above the
stagnant pool.
Here is the abiding place of the night owl and the winged bat; the
hornet, too, has therein found a home, while creeping snails are un-
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molested on its damp and dingy walls. So picturesque and ghost-like
it stands, alone in its ruin, that the brush of an artist might be justi
fied in transforming to canvas its melancholy waste.
The onde busy wheel has ceased to grind; no more can be seen the
active workmen laboring o’er bags of grain, but the Solemn stillness of
the wheel of Time matches steadfastly k onward/leaving its black mark
EVERY SINCERE EFFORT IS Alt HONOR, AND MUST BEAR FRUIT SOMETIME, SOMEWHERE.
ATHENS, GEORGIA, MAY, 1898.
of decay; soon shall the night wind decline to whistle around the shell
like edifice, and the rushing storm torrents will sweep majestically
over the fallen timbers.
The sun, peeping through the leafy boughs o’erhead, seems to look
down with pity upon the little broken bridge leading to the mill. A
profusion of daisies covers the once well-trodden path, and many wild
flowers bestow grace upon a seeming tomb. Death-like in appearance,
there is only needed the funeral drumbeat —so close are the rolling
of the old time mill we see but ruins—worthless ruins, yet to the country
folks about, grander than the ruins of a Roman Mausoleum. •
Cast aside, unfit for use, the old mill stood on the damp and marshy
spot that was working its downfall, while on and on flew the wheels
of Time, heedless of the heart-rending cries of the shattered timbers
obeying the father of eternityj
tides of eternity.
Among the neighboring dwellers many
tales have been told about this spirit in
habited place; once in the season of its
decay some curious visitors had approach
ed, only to gaze upon the barred door with
its rusty iron hinges.
Alone in the leafy wood, with only the
twittering birds, the katydid, the crick
et and the water frog; a direful harmony
prevails in this cheerless spot, and there
seems a sympathy existing between the
old mill and its chirping companions.
The oaks are too proud to bend to the
dilapidated ruins, and throw their dark
shadows over the stagnant pool as if to
hide its shame —as they lift their tall
heads to the sky to kiss the joyful sun
beams. In their glory these giants of the
forest fear not the merciless Father of
Time, nor yet give heed to the woodman’s
axe.
The mill resembles an old decrepit man
waiting for the death summons, having
finished all earthly labor. No more will
the dusty miller stand within its enclos
ure, singing some weird ditty; no more
can the revolving wheel listen to its own
melody as when it was wont to turn
around in the flowing crystal waters: de
cay will be its only lay, and the murmur
of the creaking eaves, the song of its de
struction, though the giant oaks about it
may some day be modeled into a different
structure than the present mill, and the
now shut out sunlight may dance over a
scene more life-like and progressive. But
KATE GARLAND, Editress.
50 Cts. per Year.