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"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 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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Par
kujiyoo le vendredi 18 mars 2011
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