in such
interpretation? Let us read on! You read to us still.

On this mighty tide the black ships--laden with the fresh-scented
fir-planks, with rounded sacks of oil-bearing seed, or with dark
glitter of coal--are borne along to the town of St. Ogg's, which
shows its aged, fluted red roofs and the broad gables of its
wharves between the low wooded hill and the river-brink, tingeing
the water with a soft purple hue under the transient glance of this
February sun. Far away on each hand stretch the rich pastures and
the patches of dark earth, made ready for the seed of broad-leaved,
green crops, or touched already with the tint of the tender-bladed
autumn-sown corn. There is a remnant still of the last year's
golden clusters of beehive ricks rising at intervals beyond the
hedgerows; and everywhere the hedgerows are studded with trees: the
distant ships seem to be lifting their masts and stretching their
red-brown sails close among the branches of the spreading ash. Just
by the red-roofed town the tributary Ripple flows with a lively
current into the Floss. 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 dear and loving. I remember these
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. The stream is brimful now, and lies high in this little
withy plantation, and half drowns the grassy fringe of the croft in
front of the house. As I look at the full stream, the vivid grass,
the delicate bright-green powder softening the outline of the great
trunks and branches that gleam from under the bare purple boughs, I
am in love with moistness, and envy the white ducks that are
dipping their heads far into the water here among the withes,
unmindful of the awkward appearance they make in the drier world
above.