                   The Windmill
    The little one keeps everything in order. When, lately, in my wisdom, I let the father and the boys examine my millstone 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 oneself, the little ones made a tremendous noise. The youngest jumped up into my hat, and shouted so 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, 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 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 a quite different being, and yet remain the same! That's difficult for me to understand, however enlightened I may be with sun, moon, steering, train oil, and tallow. My old wood-work and my old brick-work will rise again from the dust!
