The Mill on the Floss

Chapter 1

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, are looking mild reproach at him from

between their blinkers, that he should crack his whip at them in that

awful manner as if they needed that hint! See how they stretch their

shoulders up the slope toward the bridge, with all the more energy

because they are so near home. Look at their grand shaggy feet that

seem to grasp the firm earth, at the patient strength of their necks,

bowed under the heavy collar, at the mighty muscles of their

struggling haunches! I should like well to hear them neigh over their

hardly earned feed of corn, and see them, with their moist necks freed

from the harness, dipping their eager nostrils into the muddy pond.

Now they are on the bridge, and down they go again at a swifter pace,

and the arch of the covered wagon disappears at the turning behind the

trees.

Now I can turn my eyes toward the mill again, and watch the unresting

wheel sending out its diamond jets of water. That little girl is

watching it too; she has been standing on just the same spot at the

edge of the water ever since I paused on the bridge. And that queer

white cur with the brown ear seems to be leaping and barking in

ineffectual remonstrance with the wheel; perhaps he is jealous because

his playfellow in the beaver bonnet is so rapt in its movement. It is

time the little playfellow went in, I think; and there is a very

bright fire to tempt her: the red light shines out under the deepening

gray of the sky. It is time, too, for me to leave off resting my arms

on the cold stone of this bridge....

Ah, my arms are really benumbed. I have been pressing my elbows on the

arms of my chair, and dreaming that I was standing on the bridge in

front of Dorlcote Mill, as it looked one February afternoon many years

ago. Before I dozed off, I was going to tell you what Mr. and Mrs.

Tulliver were talking about, as they sat by the bright fire in the

left-hand parlor, on that very afternoon I have been dreaming of.