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.