THE WINDMILL
    
    
        A WINDMILL stood upon the hill, proud to look at, and it
    was proud too.
    
        "I am not proud at all," it said, "but I am very much
    enlightened without and within. I have sun and moon for my
    outward use, and for inward use too; and into the bargain I
    have stearine candles, train oil and lamps, and tallow
    candles. I may well say that I'm enlightened. I'm a thinking
    being, and so well constructed that it's quite delightful. I
    have a good windpipe in my chest, and I have four wings that
    are placed outside my head, just beneath my hat. The birds
    have only two wings, and are obliged to carry them on their
    backs. I am a Dutchman by birth, that may be seen by my
    figure- a flying Dutchman. They are considered supernatural
    beings, I know, and yet I am quite natural. I have a gallery
    round my chest, and house-room beneath it; that's where my
    thoughts dwell. My strongest thought, who rules and reigns, is
    called by others 'The Man in the Mill.' He knows what he
    wants, and is lord over the meal and the bran; but he has his
    companion, too, and she calls herself 'Mother.' She is the
    very heart of me. She does not run about stupidly and
    awkwardly, for she knows what she wants, she knows what she
    can do, she's as soft as a zephyr and as strong as a storm;
    she knows how to begin a thing carefully, and to have her own
    way. She is my soft temper, and the father is my hard one.
    They are two, and yet one; they each call the other 'My half.'
    These two have some little boys, young thoughts, that can
    grow. The little ones keep everything in order. When, lately,
    in my wisdom, I let the father and the boys examine my throat
    and the hole in my chest, to see what was going on there,- for
    something in me was out of order, and it's well to examine
    one's self,- the little ones made a tremendous noise. The
    youngest jumped up into my hat, and shouted so there that it
    tickled me. The little thoughts may grow- I know that very
    well; and out in the world thoughts come too, and not only of
    my kind, for as far as I can see, I cannot discern anything
    like myself; but the wingless houses, whose throats make no
    noise, have thoughts too, and these come to my thoughts, and
    make love to them, as it is called. It's wonderful enough-
    yes, there are many wonderful things. Something has come over
    me, or into me,- something has changed in the mill-work. It
    seems as if the one half, the father, had altered, and had
    received a better temper and a more affectionate helpmate- so
    young and good, and yet the same, only more gentle and good
    through the course of time. What was bitter has passed away,
    and the whole is much more comfortable.
    
        "The days go on, and the days come nearer and nearer to
    clearness and to joy; and then a day will come when it will be
    over with me; but not over altogether. I must be pulled down
    that I may be built up again; I shall cease, but yet shall
    live on. To become quite a different being, and yet remain the
    same! That's difficult for me to understand, however
    enlightened I may be with sun, moon, stearine, train oil, and
    tallow. My old wood-work and my old brick-work will rise again
    from the dust!
    
        "I will hope that I may keep my old thoughts, the father
    in the mill, and the mother, great ones and little ones- the
    family; for I call them all, great and little, the company of
    thoughts, because I must, and cannot refrain from it.
    
        "And I must also remain 'myself,' with my throat in my
    chest, my wings on my head, the gallery round my body; else I
    should not know myself, nor could the others know me, and say,
    'There's the mill on the hill, proud to look at, and yet not
    proud at all.'"
    
        That is what the mill said. Indeed, it said much more, but
    that is the most important part.
    
        And the days came, and the days went, and yesterday was
    the last day.
    
        Then the mill caught fire. The flames rose up high, and
    beat out and in, and bit at the beams and planks, and ate them
    up. The mill fell, and nothing remained of it but a heap of
    ashes. The smoke drove across the scene of the conflagration,
    and the wind carried it away.
    
        Whatever had been alive in the mill remained, and what had
    been gained by it has nothing to do with this story.
    
        The miller's family- one soul, many thoughts, and yet only
    one- built a new, a splendid mill, which answered its purpose.
    It was quite like the old one, and people said, "Why, yonder
    is the mill on the hill, proud to look at!" But this mill was
    better arranged, more according to the time than the last, so
    that progress might be made. The old beams had become
    worm-eaten and spongy- they lay in dust and ashes. The body of
    the mill did not rise out of the dust as they had believed it
    would do. They had taken it literally, and all things are not
    to be taken literally.
    
    
                                THE END
    


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