soned oak, two pieces put together
so that they should not warp. He rubbed the edge with ruddle, and,
placing the millstaff on the stone, turned it about on its shorter
axis: where the ruddle left its red mark more pecking would be
required. There was but one small spot, and this he quickly put right.
Even the seasoned oak, however, is not always true, and to be certain
on the point Tibbald had a millstaff prover. This is of rigid steel,
and the staff is put on it; if any daylight is visible between the two
the staff is not accurate--so delicately must these great stones be
adjusted for successful grinding.

The largest of them are four feet two inches diameter; and dangerous
things they are to move, for if the men do not all heave or 'give' at
the same moment the stone may slip, and the edge will take off a row
of fingers as clean as the guillotine. Tibbald, of course, had his
joke about that part of the machinery which is called the 'damsel.' He
was a righteous man enough as millers go, but your miller was always a
bit of a knave; nor could he forbear from boasting to me how he had
been half an hour too soon for Hilary last Overboro' market.

He said the vast water-wheel was of elm, but it would not last so long
up so near the springs. Upon a river or brook the wheel might endure
for thirty years, and grind corn for a generation. His millpond was
close to the spring-head, and the spring-water ate into the wood and
caused it to decay much quicker. The spokes used to be mortised in,
now they used flanges, ironwork having almost destroyed the business
of the ancient millwright. Of all manual workers, probably the old
style of millwright employed the greatest variety of tools, and was
the cleverest in handling them. There seemed no end to the number of
his chisels and augers; some of the augers of immense size. In winter
time the millwright made the millstones, for the best stones are not
in one piece but composed of forty or fifty. The French burrs which
Tibbald preferred come over in fragments, and these are carefully
fitted together and stuck with plaster of Paris. Such work required
great nicety: the old millwright was, in fact, a kind of artist in his
handicraft.

I could not help regretting, as Tibbald dilated on these things, that
the village millwright no longer existed; the care, the skill, the
forethought, the sense of just proportion he exhibited quite took him
out of the ranks of the mere workman. He was a