At the door of the mill, as he turned the big rusty key in the lock,
he told himself doggedly that since he was not to have Molly, the only
sensible thing was to surrender the thought of her. While he started
a blaze in the stove, and swept the floor with the broomsedge broom he
kept for the purpose, he forced his mind to dwell on the sacks of grist
that stood ready for grinding. The fox-hound puppy, Moses, had followed
him from the house, and sat now over the threshold watching a robin that
hopped warily in the band of sunlight. The robin was in search of a few
grains of buckwheat which had dropped from a measure, and the puppy had
determined that, although he was unable to eat the buckwheat himself, he
would endeavor to prevent the robin from doing so. So intent was he
upon this resolve, that he forgot to bark at an old negro, who drove up
presently in an ancient gig, the harness of which was tied on a decrepit
mule with pieces of rope. The negro had left some corn to be ground,
and as he took his sack of meal from the miller, he let fall a few
lamentations on the general forlorn state of human nature.
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