I think I was about 18 years of age when I decided that I would be a
miller, with flour on my clothes and a salary of $200 per month. This
was not the first thing I had decided to be, and afterward changed my
mind about.
I engaged to learn my profession of a man called Sam Newton, I believe;
at least I will call him that for the sake of argument. My business was
to weigh wheat, deduct as much as possible on account of cockle, pigeon
grass and wild buckwheat, and to chisel the honest farmer out of all he
would stand. This was the programme with Mr. Newton; but I am happy to
say that it met with its reward, and the sheriff afterward operated the
mill.
On stormy days I did the book-keeping, with a scoop shovel behind my
ear, in a pile of middlings on the fifth floor. Gradually I drifted into
doing a good deal of this kind of brain work. I would chop the ice out
of the turbine wheel at 5 o'clock a. m., and then frolic up six flights
of stairs and shovel shorts till 9 o'clock p. m.
By shoveling bran and other vegetables 16 hours a day, a general
knowledge of the milling business may be readily obtained. I used to
scoop middlings till I could see stars, and then I would look out at the
landscape and ponder.
I got so that I piled up more ponder, after a while, than I did
middlings.
One day the proprietor came up stairs and discovered me in a brown
study, whereupon he cursed me in a subdued Presbyterian way, abbreviated
my salary from $26 per month to $18 and reduced me to the ranks.
Afterward I got together enough desultory information so that I could
superintend the feed stone. The feed stone is used to grind hen feed
and other luxuries. One day I noticed an odor that reminded me of a hot
overshoe trying to smother a glue factory at the close of a tropical
day. I spoke to the chief floor walker of the mill about it, and he
said "dod gammit," or something that sounded like that, in a coarse and
brutal manner. He then kicked my person in a rude and hurried tone of
voice, and told me that the feed stone was burning up.
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He was a very fierce man, with a violent and ungovernable temper, and,
finding that I was only increasing his brutal fury, I afterward resigned
my position. I talked it over with the proprietor, and both agreed that
it would be best. He agreed to it before I did, and rather hurried up my
determination to go.
I rather hated to go so soon, but he made it an object for me to go, and
I went. I started in with the idea that I would begin at the bottom of
the ladder, as it were, and gradually climb to the bran bin by my own
exertions, hoping by honesty, industry, and carrying two bushels of
wheat up nine flights of stairs, to become a wealthy man, with corn meal
in my hair and cracked wheat in my coat pocket, but I did not seem to
accomplish it.
Instead of having ink on my fingers and a chastened look of woe on my
clear-cut Grecian features, I might have poured No. 1 hard wheat and
buckwheat flour out of my long taper ears every night, if I had stuck to
the profession. Still, as I say, it was for another man's best good
that I resigned. The head miller had no control over himself and the
proprietor had rather set his heart on my resignation, so it was better
that way.
Still I like to roll around in the bran pile, and monkey in the cracked
wheat. I love also to go out in the kitchen and put corn meal down
the back of the cook's neck while my wife is working a purple silk
Kensington dog, with navy blue mane and tail, on a gothic lambrequin.
I can never cease to hanker for the rumble and grumble of the busy mill,
and the solemn murmur of the millstones and the machinery are music to
me. More so than the solemn murmur of the proprietor used to be when
he came in at an inopportune moment, and in that impromptu and
extemporaneous manner of his, and found me admiring the wild and
beautiful scenery. He may have been a good miller, but he had no love
for the beautiful. Perhaps that is why he was always so cold and cruel
toward me. My slender, willowy grace and mellow, bird-like voice never
seemed to melt his stony heart.