                   The Windmill
    I will hope that I may keep my old thoughts, the father in the mill, and the mother, and 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 millstone 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 the 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.  
