Transcriber’s Note: Italics are enclosed in _underscores_. Additional
notes will be found near the end of this ebook.




[Illustration: (cover)]




                           TWO MEN ON A MILL


                             _The Story Of
                   THE RESTORATION OF BAXTER’S MILL_


    _The Baxter boys they built a mill,
    Sometimes it ran--
    Sometimes stood still.
    But when it ran, it made no noise,
    Because ’twas built by Baxter’s boys._


                                  _By_
                          A. HAROLD CASTONGUAY

                                  1962




                            _Copyright 1962
                                  by_
                          A. HAROLD CASTONGUAY


                      _Sketches by Gordon Brooks_


                          _Printed on Cape Cod
                                  by_
                           THE WAYSIDE STUDIO
                     SOUTH YARMOUTH, MASSACHUSETTS

[Illustration:

  _This_
  OLD WATER MILL
  _Is Being Restored_
  (IT IS HOPED)
  BY
  TWO LOCAL CHARACTERS
]




I

    _Time goes, you say:
        Ah, no!
    Time stays--
        We go!_

                --DOBSON


A few days before Christmas of 1961 we will raise a pen gate in a flume
adjoining the Mill Pond in West Yarmouth, on Cape Cod, and a 250-year
old water grist mill will again grind corn into corn meal.

And so, a vanishing part of Americana, especially old New England
dating to our colonial days, has been restored. Hundreds and perhaps
thousands of people have been going by this little old building,
especially in the summer, without giving it a thought but the mill’s
visitors from now on, growing up in our modern world of television, jet
airplanes, and high-powered automobiles, to say nothing of electric can
openers, will get a glimpse of early America, a view of the simplicity
of the mechanism, and the quiet dignity of the building itself.

The mill is the only one of its kind on Cape Cod, the few others being
either windmills or outside water wheels.

The original mill was probably built about 1710 by John and Shubael
Baxter, sons of Thomas, who arrived in Yarmouth from Rhode Island after
the close of King Philip’s War. Originally a mason, the loss of a hand
in the war made it impossible for Baxter to continue his trade, and he
became a millwright. His will, probated in 1714, disposes of fulling
mill equipment. This equipment was from the fulling mill which he built
on Swan Pond, now Parker’s River, in West Yarmouth.

He probably offered no more than advice to his sons when they built the
grist mill near the South Sea neighborhood, but it is undoubtedly these
sons who are immortalized in the little verse on the frontispiece of
this saga. The poem was already old when Amos Otis reproduced it in his
1880 _Genealogy of Barnstable Families_.

The Baxter mill passed from John and Shubael to their children, Richard
and Jennie, first cousins who were wed. From them, it went to their
son, Prince, and from him to his son, Prince, Jr., whose guardian,
David Scudder, sold one-half of the mill to Timothy Baker and his son,
Eleazer, and the other half to Alexander Baxter, a remote cousin of
Prince, Jr., through their common great-grandfather, John.

Extensive repairs were made to the Baxter mill around 1850. It is
likely that Prince, Sr., who inherited the mill on the death of his
father, Richard, in 1785, either made the repairs or caused them to be
made.

After about two hundred years of continuous operation, the mill was
finally abandoned around the turn of the century, the last miller being
a man aptly named Dustin Baker, who earned the magnificent sum of 68¢
per day for his work.

The mill did lend itself as a gift shop and a lobster stand in the
past few years, but as it stands today, completely restored in all
authenticity it is doing exactly the work it did originally, with the
same machinery, except the turbine which had to be replaced.

[Illustration]




II


So many people have asked me,

“What are you doing this for?”

“Is there any money to be made grinding corn?”

“What are you ever going to do with this useless old building?”

And most people, when they get an answer, sadly walk away shaking their
heads, wondering.

I suppose no one person or no one episode gave rise to my thought in
acquiring the mill and entering upon a program of restoration, unless
it could be what I have heard in the various entertaining stories of
people such as C. Milton Chase, Dean of the Massachusetts Town Clerks,
and retired Town Clerk of Barnstable, who tells most engaging tales of
his trips as a young lad to the mill with a horse and team, carrying
corn to be ground.

Perhaps I was fired by my friend, George Kelley, a ponderous,
phlegmatic, Cape Codder, attempting to perpetuate some of the
characters of old Cape Cod, personified in Joe Lincoln’s stories; and
perhaps by the stories of Walter B. Chase and Howard Hinckley of their
nostalgic remembrances of the old mill.

If you ever meet Milton Chase, see if you can get him to tell you of
the adventures, and strange doings of an old-time travelling barber,
one Frank Clifford, who went around to all the business places, livery
stables, and grain stores with his little black bag, plying his barber
trade, and who employed a most ingenious method of warming the shaving
lather for his customers.

Or perhaps it was enthusiasm of Margaret Perkins. Maggie, as we
affectionally call her, spent long hours in tedious searching of the
records at the Deed Registry, Town Clerk’s office, Proprietor’s Records
of the Town of Yarmouth, and interviewing everyone she could think of
who might know something of the history of the old mill. Maggie was the
motivating force in presenting an article at our Town Meeting about
a year ago, requesting the Town to purchase the mill or take it by
so-called eminent domain proceedings, so that it might be preserved and
restored, but the townspeople were not eager to invest in the past.

Strange how so many people insist upon their rights and forget their
obligations. Strange again, how so many people are looking for
something without giving part of themselves.

Whatever it was, or however it arose, I found myself engulfed in the
middle of hard but fascinating work.

Having lived for thirty-five years close by the old Baxter Mill in West
Yarmouth, it is not surprising that my curiosity and interest were
aroused. Somehow, I felt called upon to restore this old mill, perhaps
to keep a way of life now forgotten in our present civilization,
perhaps merely as a means of self-expression.

A clipping from the Yarmouth Register, November of 1935, speaks for
itself of the lethargy of present day thought, when the old Farris Mill
that stood for many years at the corner of Berry Avenue and Main Street
in West Yarmouth was purchased by Henry Ford and moved to Dearborn,
Michigan, despite violent protest. The clipping reads as follows:

    TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO--_From the files of the Register--November,
    1935_.

    It is reported that the oldest windmill on Cape Cod is to be moved
    from West Yarmouth. The West Yarmouth Association is attempting
    to obtain the sentiments of Cape Cod residents, both permanent
    and seasonal, on the rumored removal of one of the Cape’s most
    picturesque objects of great historical value to the Cape--the
    old windmill in West Yarmouth. Mrs. George Breed of Englewood and
    Germantown has wired Mr Ford, the new owner, direct, expressing
    her individual feelings in the matter, and the West Yarmouth
    Improvement Society has done the same.

    We quote from a letter also dispatched, “If the windmill is to be
    retained by you upon its present location, we are delighted, but if
    it is to be removed it is a calamity.” “It may be well to explain
    that there is no record in the offices of the Town of Yarmouth
    whereby any offer was ever made and presented to the voters that
    the windmill was to be a gift or offered to be purchased; thus the
    townspeople have never been allowed to express their opinion on
    this matter, nor have they been allowed to visit and inspect the
    mill. The door is always locked.”

I can distinctly remember at about this time the concern and heated
meetings held by civic groups, the letters and telegrams of indignation
sent to high public officials, and the angry voice of the people
protesting the removal of this old landmark, but it struck me as being
a bit strange that not one person (including myself) came forward with
donations to purchase the Farris Mill and keep it where it belonged.
Needless to say, it was the usual story of “Let George do it.”

In looking back, it was probably George Kelley and Walter Chase
who finally prodded me into action. George Kelley is engaged in a
flourishing insurance business in Hyannis and is very handy and
exceptionally good with tools. As a matter of fact, he is better than
the usual expert, and has an extensive knowledge of craftsmanship. He
is meticulous, patient, and without his assistance I don’t think we
could ever have accomplished the project.

Walter B. Chase and his brother, Milton, are two of the last old-school
gentlemen left on the Cape, both of them well-known and beloved by
everyone and the living examples of young boys graduating from high
school and immediately starting in business as a clerk or as an
ordinary laborer. One rose to be the Dean of Massachusetts Town Clerks
and the other rose to be the President of the Hyannis Trust Company,
the largest commercial bank on the Cape. They represent a living
contrast to the average youth of today, the product of our so-called
schools.

These gentlemen, through their own efforts and by virtue of the simple,
ordinary and basic fundamentals learned in their school days, made a
complete success of their lives and are vigorously engaged today in
directing the affairs of two banks. Both are in their 80’s, alert, and
enterprising, as were their contemporaries, young men of 18, 20 and 22
who became masters and captains of deep-sea sailing vessels going all
over the world, purchasing cargo, handling all kinds of men, and making
money and profit for their employers.

I mention this because of the things uncovered in working on the mill
to show the sharp contrast of the average youth of today who is taken
to school on the bus so that he can engage in physical exercise and
who, when graduating from the glamorous schools, hasn’t the slightest
idea of fundamental mathematics, of figuring simple interest, or of
handling ordinary division or multiplication.

[Illustration]




III


Around 1870 the water wheel was disposed of and a so-called “new and
improved” metal turbine was installed for a few very good reasons.

The old outside wooden water wheel in the winter became lopsided with
ice forming on the paddles and the uneven motion was undoubtedly
disconcerting to the miller to feel the building and the machinery
wobbling about. Whenever solid ice blocked the wheel, it was useless.
Further, the mill pond was limited in its volume of water (“head,” to
you engineers), so that when the pond was low there wasn’t very much
water to turn a large outside wheel.

Ingenious engineers of that era came up with the so-called “improved”
iron turbine to rest under the water and under the mill where ice could
not get at it and where there would always be some water in the pond to
turn it.

[Illustration: THE ORIGINAL TURBINE]

About two or three months after we started reconstruction, my friend,
George Kelley, came up with an old pamphlet put out by the J. Leffel
Company of Springfield, Ohio, dated 1870, and sure enough the pamphlet
referred to a “satisfied customer” as “J. Baker and Company, Hyannis,”
who were successors in title at that time to the Baxter boys.

I wrote to the Company in Springfield, Ohio, and much to my surprise
received a most magnificent brochure showing they were still in
business after all these years, now supplying turbines to great power
dams, but ready to build a small turbine. I thought it very interesting
that at least there was one company left that could turn out and
furnish a small turbine.

Everyone likes to play in the water, so we went to work about August
1, 1960. You can well imagine the condition of the mill. Windows were
shattered, the sills were powder, the roof practically gone, and the
building had a definite cant to the east’ard. It really looked hopeless.

Fortunately, most of the ancient machinery--the stones, gears, brakes,
and chutes--were still intact, even the miller’s little desk where he
kept his records, and the ancient bin for storage.

The beams, the corner post studs, etc. are of tremendous size and all
mortised, tenoned and dowelled, and hard as rock. The stairs were worn
paper thin; the floor was practically gone. Dirt and dust, of course,
were everywhere.

The stones are the French buhr type, which are practically impossible
to obtain today, to say nothing of the fact that probably no stone
could be obtained, except in upper New England, so many of the old
mills having been raided and the equipment, especially the stones,
taken away for steps and other decorative purposes.

[Illustration]

Eric Sloane, in his exceptionally fine and exhaustive research entitled
“The Vanishing Landscape,” refers to the pattern of the stones, meaning
the furrows or grooves cut in the stone, against which the corn was
ground.

Directly underneath the first floor of the mill were the remains of a
wooden pit, which was filled with sand, gravel, and debris, accumulated
over the years, particularly because of the raising of the adjacent
State Highway from time to time, and more or less by the action of the
elements.

Sticking out of the debris beneath the first floor was an iron bar or
shaft, about five inches in diameter, so George and I and a couple of
hired help went to work, and on hands and knees we finally managed to
dig enough away to stand upright and eventually came to the top of the
old turbine which was so far rusted as to be beyond reconditioning. We
uncovered the complete wheel pit, the floor of which was about twelve
to fifteen feet below the level of the first floor of the mill. This
pit was made of hard pine, 2½ inch planks, set against 12 × 12 hard
pine uprights, and was about 10 foot square and probably 12 feet deep
to the lower shelf, called the “tail race.”

We had a rough time removing the old turbine with some hydraulic jacks,
muscle power, and the sage advice and help of friend George.

Now, George is a married man, blessed with three children, and I
noticed in our local newspaper one evening shortly after we had started
work that his wife had experienced another happy event. George had not
mentioned this to anyone, including me so when I suggested the next day
that this was a bit of a surprise, he said,

“You know, it was news to me, too. Last night about three o’clock, my
wife woke me up and said, ‘George, I think you have to take me to the
hospital.’

“I muttered, ‘What for?’, and she replied that she was going to have a
baby.

“You know”, said George, “I do declare that is just what happened.”

I suppose everyone has a desire to investigate, to explore into the
past, and to relive some of our history and past traditions. This mill
and its restoration has provided us an excellent opportunity to test
our ability to do what the old folks did. They were able, with their
crude tools, to build this mill and to actually make it grind corn in
excellent fashion, even to the extent of doing a thriving business. It
is interesting to reflect that they did not have the modern power tools
available today, nor did they really have the time we have today, but
these folks really built for permanence.

Eric Sloane aptly puts it by saying,

“What a shame that with all our timesavers and with our abundance of
wealth, we do not have the time today and apparently cannot afford to
build the way they did or to use the excellent material they did.”

Why is it impossible for our builders and architects to construct a
house with a bow roof, for instance, a little more overhang on the
rake, a box return with gutters, a decent-sized chimney, and many of
those small things that lend charm to a house and give it character and
dignity? Why are we satisfied with chicken houses, or is it that we
have not made the progress we thought we had?

All these things we thought about as we went about the business of
restoration.

[Illustration]




IV


The peace and quiet of the mill pond every Saturday morning was
shattered by the rumblings of two water pumps. These pumps had to suck
out the water from the pit in the flume to enable us to even see what
we were trying to do. Three or maybe four, very muddy characters,
attired in the necessary garments to withstand the cold, were always in
the depths of the mill, working in the mud, sand, gravel and debris,
and at times it seemed as though we were merely moving these from one
place to another, rather than disposing of them.

We finally managed to extricate the old turbine. The simple mechanism
and design of this ancient piece of machinery to me is always
marvelous. We had hoped to renovate the old turbine and put it back in
its place, but age and rust made this impossible, and the turbine now
rests on the shore of the pond for all to see.

In the process of moving all the mud and sand, we uncovered the remains
of the original flume or sluiceway leading from the mill pond to the
wheel pit. We found the flume to be about five and a half feet wide
and originally about ten feet high and, roughly, thirty feet long. The
sides were planked against 8 × 8 hard pine timbers which were in turn
cut or tenoned into 8 × 8 mortised supports, twelve on each side of the
flume, about two feet apart, and each dowelled or pinned with one and a
half inch hard pine trunnells (wooden pins to you).

We were now down about twelve feet in the dike of the flume, and we
had to hand shovel and excavate all around each stub of these timbers,
knocking back the dowels and prying out each stub. These uprights had
been broken off when the flume was filled in. Every one of the stubs
and the pins was bright and new as the day it was put in. Packed
around each section of each stub was about six inches of semi-hard blue
clay.

Apparently wood or any substance long immersed in water will last
forever and undoubtedly the clay we found packed around each helped to
preserve this wood. We threw the stubs upon the top of the dike, and
they were not in the air and light two or three days before they turned
gray, discolored and aged looking.

George Woodbury, in his book, “John Goffe’s Mill”, says:

    “Wood can be almost indefinitely preserved if it is kept either
    consistently dry or consistently wet all the time. Let it get wet
    and dry out a few times and it quickly decomposes. In Egypt where
    it never rains, wooden objects are found well preserved after
    countless centuries of burial. In Switzerland, the piles driven
    into the Lac Neuchatel by the aboriginal lake dwellers are still
    sound after two thousand years.”

We could not obtain any proper hard pine 8 × 8, but we did find some
creosote 6 × 8 hard pine timber creosoted, about twenty feet long.
Friend George very carefully made the tenons, and we were able to
replace them in the old position from whence they came. This may sound
easy, but just try it!

After a few hours of this work, the writer became exhausted. Hot baths
and horse liniment helped somewhat, but I think I can still feel the
effects. The chances are, our tenacious forefathers had no trouble
whatsoever in this work.

We were able to re-use about fifty per cent of the old pine pins, or
trunnells, recovered from the joints. The new ones we made by hand. I
would suggest to anyone contemplating such a venture as this that he
would be wise to anticipate endless frustration, hard work, and snide
and caustic comments from onlookers and discouraging prospects of
completion.

The embankment would cave in every few minutes, notwithstanding our
amateurish shoring attempts, but we managed to keep ahead of the
cave-ins by shoring up quickly before the whole dam caved in on top of
us.

During all this, the level of the water in the mill pond had to be
lowered so that we could work in this spot, which is about two or three
feet below the bottom of the mill pond. The lowering of the water level
resulted in great consternation to the inhabitants thereabouts, whose
only concern seemed to be _when_ were we going to raise the pond. No
one seemed to care about our sudden demise from the pond breaking
through the dam.

Of course, the pumps had to be working constantly while we were
employed in this operation. One of these pumps was loaned to us by
S. R. Nickerson of Hyannis, and the other was given us by Colonel Ralph
Thacher of the Cape Cod Shipbuilding Corporation, some of the few
persons who were sympathetic with our cause.

Although this pump from Colonel Thacher was probably around fifty years
old, it proved to be a most reliable and excellent piece of apparatus,
consisting of a large, horizontal, single cylinder, “make and break”
engine, driving a heavy, eighteen-inch rubber diaphragm pump. It
certainly puts to shame some of the modern pump equipment of today,
chugging along hour after hour like a patient old horse without much
noise and clatter.

We all became very fond of this sturdy antique which, to my mind,
combines functional beauty with gratifying simplicity and reliability.
Cooling was a simple matter of a pail of water in the cylinder jacket
tank; lubrication was by a few grease cups and an outside glass oil
container about the size of a large tea cup; and the starting was easy
and positive, all by hand.

[Illustration]

All the visitors seemed to be drawn to this piece of equipment when it
was operating, and we signified our tribute by mounting a small flag on
the pump every Saturday morning.

I should not forget to relate how Harvey Studley, a young, local
contractor, sent up three men and all the shingles necessary to
entirely re-do the roof of the mill itself. Harvey also gave us a
goodly supply of 10 × 10 hard pine timbers which we put to good use in
the sills and otherwise.

About six months before this project got underway, Harvey, who is
generally a quiet, peaceful soul, delivered an impassioned speech
at our annual Town Meeting, decrying the lack of interest by the
townspeople in the preservation of some of our own landmarks.

The building itself had to be raised by Bob Hayden and his crew, and
a new foundation completely made on the old. When this was done, new
sills put in and the building lowered, things looked a little better,
for at least the building sat upright.

Harvey gave concrete help, but although a good many people expressed
their admiration of the job we were doing and the task which we had
undertaken, we didn’t get too much actual help. It is always more fun
to watch work being done.

We did, however, among other people, receive help from a photogenic
barrister, Harold Hayes, who spent an afternoon in his boots with
a shovel helping us to disturb the mud of the centuries. One kind
gentleman, whom I do not know, was watching us one day as we were
trying to pry off some of the rusted bolts and nuts from the old
turbine. He showed up the next afternoon with a large, much-needed,
Stilson wrench which he donated to the cause.

Ben Baxter, one of the living heirs of the “Baxter boys”, and a
descendant of some of the best sea captains the Cape has ever produced,
gave much of his time and effort and loaned us considerable equipment.
Ben is an expert mariner, engaged in ferrying cargo back and forth to
Nantucket, virtually bring “oil to the lamps of China”. I don’t think
anyone knows Nantucket Sound better than Ben Baxter. Between his trips
to the island, Ben found time to be with us every Saturday. He is a
stout fellow.

My friend, John Doherty, who is engaged in the building of homes and
selling of real estate, has delivered to us many loads of loam, fill,
and sand.

Charles Cunningham, a local contractor and builder of large buildings,
was most generous in offering the use of his stock pile, where a
treasure was found of different sizes and shapes of all kinds of lumber
and materials. He told us to take anything we could use, and the offer
was music to our ears.

I do hope Mr. Cunningham didn’t feel too chagrined when he saw how much
we were taking, but nevertheless he grinned and said to go ahead and
take whatever we wanted.

The Hinckley Lumber Company of Hyannis graciously offered, and we
quickly accepted, lumber and supplies from their mill and warehouse.

Our busy surveyor of highways, Chris Marsh, loaned to us from time to
time a machine called a back hoe, which does marvelous things, and some
men to help with the hard digging.

One generous soul, Tom Powers, has given us several beautiful trees
which we are planting and hope will live to beautify the structure and
the landscaping. Tom is a director and officer of several banks, owns
most of the real estate on Cape Cod, and is a teller of tall tales in
any dialect you wish.

The two signs, and especially the final sign, which grace the mill
property were made by a sign painter and artist extraordinary, one
H. O. Thurston, of Centerville, a friend of long-standing.

There were many times when it seemed to me we would never finish this
job; that it really was perhaps too much for us to have ever started,
what with our limited knowledge and seemingly insurmountable obstacles.
Somehow we all kept going, hoping that we would finally have the mill
completed as we envisioned from the beginning. It reminded me of the
chap who had the tiger by the tail and didn’t dare let go.




V


This land on which we live, called Cape Cod, is visited by hundreds of
tourists in the summer and dwelt upon by the year-round residents, most
of whom are totally unaware of the richness of the tradition and of the
way of life which is found here. This way of life is quite different
than any one finds in any other part of our country. We do live close
to the sea, and we have many little villages nestled around quiet,
patient roads. We have innumerable ponds and lakes, and the vast seas
on either side of us. Express highways bring crowds to the Cape, but
there are many villages and communities not encroached upon as yet to a
great degree by speed and hasty living.

Being close to Plymouth, the birthplace of liberty, and the second
landing place of the Pilgrims, we, of course, are bound to history by
close ties.

I think and I hope many people are becoming more and more aware of the
gradual loss and decay of our historical landmarks, and my thought is
to preserve the rich but dwindling heritage of our traditional land,
not by or through the Federal Government or by the State Government,
but by all the people in local communities through our own Town
Government.

There are a few restoration projects now under way and some have been
completed in the past few years. I can think quickly of the West Parish
Meeting House in West Barnstable, which can be seen from the Mid-Cape
Highway; the old Hoxie House in Sandwich; the Sandwich Water Mill, now
being restored by the Town of Sandwich, which, by the way, has a most
excellent setting at Shawme Pond, in which are reflected the tall,
white buildings surrounding it; the Brewster Mill at Stony Brook,
having been restored about three years ago by the Town of Brewster,
where one can purchase corn meal every Saturday afternoon at twenty
cents per pound.

I recently purchased some of the corn meal from the Brewster Stony
Brook Mill, where it is slowly ground between old millstones, and if
you have never tasted corn meal muffins made from this flour, you
are in for a real treat. Ground in this manner, the corn apparently
keeps the goodness and the natural nutrients of the grain. It is not
processed and bleached to a point where it tastes like a blotter. It
actually tastes like corn. We have also tried some of the wheat flour,
and the bread made from it is something to be experienced.

Other restoration projects that come to mind are two or three windmills
in Chatham and Eastham which have been restored or reproduced, and a
few herring runs, but there are many other places and sites that are
gradually going unless we all make some effort to preserve them.

We cannot, of course, entirely recapture the way of life in the 1800’s,
nor probably would we want to, but it would seem that we could preserve
and keep that which was good and those methods which were efficient,
employed so long ago. I don’t think anyone wants to give up our
electric lights for the old oil lamps, nor indoor bathrooms for the
outside “privy” (notwithstanding hearsay that the outdoor “privy” was
quite pleasant on a balmy summer afternoon), but there are many things
which we can learn from the old people that certainly would make our
mode of living and our existence a bit more pleasant, tranquil and
serene.

Although it may cost a bit more to “post and beam” a house, a bit
more for a bow roof, or box returns, or dental work on the trim, I do
believe that many people would really prefer this type of construction
once they have seen it, and I do know that most people could afford
it. I will also go farther out on a limb and say that this type of
construction is actually cheaper in the long run, and the long run
means the lifetime of a house.

Plymouth is now embarking on a very ambitious program of rebuilding the
old “Plimouth Plantation”.

I do not think that we on the Cape can do another Williamsburg, nor
do I think that we should try to restore everything we find, but each
town could do a little bit each year toward setting aside some of its
historical treasures.

We have all kinds of beaches, public landing places, swimming pools,
both public and private, for the two-week visitor in the summer, all
kinds of dance halls and bowling alleys for their entertainment; but
what a great wealth of information, interest, and education could
be aroused through the restoration of some of the old buildings and
landmarks.

The Yarmouth Historical Society, like many other similar groups, has
been doing an excellent job. The Captain Bangs Hallett house has been
authentically repaired, restored, and reconstructed by and through the
Historical Society. Captain Bangs Hallett was one of the deep-water
sailors who commanded some of the well-known clipper ships, the
giants of the sea. This house is open to the public every afternoon
in the summer and reflects the way of living at that time of the more
well-to-do sea captains.

My idea is not to restore the Baxter Mill just as another museum which
would be filled with all kinds of ancient bric-a-brac, furniture,
glassware and curios for people to look at and pass by. My thought is
that we should restore and reconstruct this mill, holding to exact
authenticity, so that the final result would be exactly the same mill
with its fundamental mechanisms and its simple dignity, and turn out
the same products.

[Illustration]




VI


Snow and bitter weather came early to Cape Cod in December, 1960. We
have always bragged about the mild winters enjoyed on the Cape, but we
certainly had a real old fashioned one this year. Every Saturday it
seemed that the very nastiest weather prevailed, but on Monday it was
beautiful.

It was really hard work in this flume and in the wheel pit at ten and
twelve above zero, notwithstanding our heavy winter clothing, but
nevertheless about ten o’clock a welcome coffee break was taken. Time
after time ice would form and congeal around our boots while we were
working, and a penetrating, deadly chill arose from the wheel pit. I
don’t know how many hours were spent in breaking up the ice before we
could even start to work. Fortunately, no one seemed the worse for wear.

We collected all kinds of lumber, materials, and supplies of various
descriptions, widths, and lengths, piling all of this around the mill
site. It was a great source of concern to many passers-by where we
possibly could be putting all this vast amount of lumber and supplies.
Those that took the time to see could readily understand the large
amount of lumber necessary to go into the wheel pit and the flume.

Joe Carapezza, the stone mason, was then employed and did a most
excellent job in renewing the foundation and rebuilding the retaining
walls, mostly out of old dressed granite blocks. These old fashioned
dressed granite blocks are about two and a half feet long and about
ten to twelve inches square and make a most attractive addition to
the landscape of the mill. Not being accustomed to this heavy work,
which was indeed difficult for a professional like Joe, you can well
imagine that I gradually gravitated to an assistant hired hand, but
in this weather one did not stand around and become solidified. It was
necessary, for self preservation, to keep moving, and while you are
moving you might as well be doing some work.

We did indulge in a welcome respite at ten o’clock on a Saturday
morning of adjourning to my homestead where we would have some hot
coffee and doughnuts. I don’t know how many gallons of coffee and how
many doughnuts we consumed over this year and a half, and I don’t
know how much mud my wife had to clean up in the kitchen after we all
tramped in and out. We were all very thankful to her, however, for
putting up with us.

Friend George is slow, meticulous, and very exacting. As for myself,
I know that I am impatient and I have to do everything in a hurry.
Naturally, both our natures at times clashed, but I think one was good
for the other.

I did object strenuously to George’s most annoying habit of suddenly
standing up and shouting,

“Harold, where is the rule?”

I found that ignoring him did not help, so I acquired some earmuffs
which worked admirably until George resorted to making signs and
perhaps lifting up one of the earmuffs and gently requesting the rule.
Incidentally, the rule most of the time was sticking out of his own
pocket.

Everyone slept fairly well after a day’s work at the mill, but I asked
George one morning how he slept. He replied,

“Not too well. I had to turn over once.”

I furnished no small amount of amusement to my co-workers as I tried to
fashion a fifteen-foot board to the floor of the mill. The board had
to be fitted in about five places, and I would saw and cut and chisel
and then saw and cut some more, finally ending up with a board about
three feet long, much to the gratification and mirth of my so-called
assistants.

It seems that shingles are always in demand no matter whether you are
rebuilding an old building or building a new one. I never realized how
handy shingles were until we began this project. Apparently, shingles
were made not only for roofs and side-walls, but to take up the error
in the professional’s work.

Somewhere in Maine George made a large speech to an assembled populace
about the necessity of everyone having shingles at hand.

[Illustration]




VII


New England is especially favored with many rivers, streams, ponds and
lakes, and it is with never-ending admiration that one reflects on the
ingenuity of the early settlers putting to practical use all of the
water power. Throughout the whole region will be found hundreds of
remains of water mill sites, small and large, and the settlers soon
found ways of putting a harness on them for water power.

If the stream happened to be small, the early millwright built a dam
across it and in no time he acquired a small pond. The higher the dam,
the greater the head of water.

Where there were large rivers, you can now find tremendous power
plants, textile mills and other manufacturing establishments all using
this water power.

Most of us today, when we think of power, think of electricity, gas,
or steam, but it is very simple to consider the water in an ordinary
little stream and the amount of power it can deliver.

Although the machinery built by the early millwrights was a bit crude,
nevertheless it was functional and worked with efficient success.

On a recent scouting trip George and I took through Massachusetts, New
Hampshire and Connecticut, we visited a few restored mills. One of
them was in Rowley, Massachusetts, just off the Main Road, called the
“Jewel Mill”. Here an enterprising and resourceful chap had rebuilt the
outside water wheel on a fairly small stream and he was driving a small
D C generator supplying electricity to his house and to a small lathe
shop. This, he told me, had been going on for five or six years without
interruption. The lights were steady and there was no fuss, clamor, or
noise. The only thing one heard was the splashing of the water over
the wheel. His mill was so named because he was actually cutting and
polishing small, local, semi-precious stones.

I find that there is a small group of enthusiasts who are gradually
picking up and collecting all the old turbines they can find of ancient
vintage, so if one wishes to invest in the future, he might consider
picking up one of these old turbines which in a few years will be
extinct.

Another interesting site we visited was John Goffe’s Mill near
Manchester, New Hampshire. Having read with fascination George
Woodbury’s tale of restoring this mill, we were very anxious to
actually see it. Mr. Woodbury, a very learned gentleman, former
archaeologist and now author, had performed a most remarkable job.

Another mill, farther along the trail, was in Alstead, New Hampshire,
where Heman Chase was conducting a class in woodworking, the power
being supplied by an old refinished turbine. Mr. Chase, in addition, is
a land surveyor, a teacher of mathematics and the philosophy of Henry
George, as you can see from his letterhead.

At Weston, Vermont, at the Artists’ Guild, will be found a real old
mill where they are grinding corn and wheat and other grains.

Late the first night of this expedition, George and I holed up in a
modern motel somewhere in New Hampshire. I was not quite prepared
for George’s night attire. It seems he still wears an old fashioned
nightshirt, split up on each side, and I got a bit of a start to
observe this character climbing into bed with this on. George will deny
this, but he also had on an old night-cap.

Coming home we went to Monson, Massachusetts, and there found all kinds
of mill apparatus in various states of repair, gradually rusting out
and disappearing into the ground. I was a little sad to observe how the
owner was tenaciously clinging to his old way of life: his machinery,
tools, and all the things he had collected all his life. But how his
eyes did light up with enthusiasm when he learned we were attempting to
restore our own mill.

A tall, gaunt man, weather-beaten, with hands that had known many a
piece of machinery, he was a living figure of the old millwright and
gave us a great amount of information on the revolutions per minute and
various other facets of millwrighting.

Most of us think of antique things as so many curios and objects to
be placed in museums to be passed by, but we do not realize how much
better some of these things did work than the ones we buy today. For
instance, I have a small hand garden trowel, forged perhaps fifty or
sixty years ago, and it is much more practical than the new trowels on
sale in the hardware stores. I have often wondered why they couldn’t
make one like this rather than the ones on display but perhaps this
kind would last too long and the factory would go out of business.

We did not find on our pilgrimage a turbine suitable for us, but we
did find the brilliant foliage of the hills and mountains, the quiet
patience of the roads, and the beauty of the small towns of New England.

A few weeks later our fast trip in upper New England paid off, for we
heard by mail of a turbine that seemed might be just right for our
purposes. Chuck Stanley gave us the loan of his truck and George and I,
fortified by a packed lunch, hot coffee, and sandwiches, started out
at 4:00 A. M. one Sunday morning for Livermore Falls, Maine.

There, we found on the side of a hill an old turbine weighing about two
ton, and after poking about this monster we decided we could use it.

The task of loading this beast upon the truck seemed formidable, so we
finally located a mountaineer who possessed an oversized auto wrecker,
and backing our truck against a strategic hump on the side of the hill
we proceeded to load the turbine on the truck. The wrecker hooked onto
the turbine, but the turbine proved too much for it, so much so that it
turned it over on its side.

A goodly crowd had by this time gathered to watch the operation, and
enlisting the aid of some husky boys, we finally managed to push the
wrecker back on its four wheels.

Friend George, in his unruffled manner, soon had the turbine on the
truck, and we fell to the task of shoring it up with chunks of wood,
plank and chalks. We could vividly imagine what would happen if this
baby got away from us going down some mountain, so we took a long time
in lashing it securely to the truck.

Of course, George could not let the day go by without shouting,

“Harold, where is the shingle?”

“Didn’t bring one,” I replied.

Then followed an impassioned speech by friend George from the tailboard
of the truck to the assembled populace, extolling the virtues of
shingles and decrying the negligence of the author in not bringing at
least _one_ shingle to Maine.




VIII


A brief glimpse of the Cape Cod Village in the 1800’s and its everyday
life in those days would be interesting and would also throw some light
on the fascination of the mill.

This mill and many others like it played a most important role in our
small towns, as did the country store, the blacksmith shop and, of
course, the church.

On the Cape at about that time, there were between thirty and forty
mills, either powered by wind or water, and these mills supplied
flour and corn in its various stages to the villages. Corn then was
more important than gold. The meal, of course, was used for corn meal
muffins and corn bread, and the cracked corn for the chickens and pigs.

Every family was practically self-sufficient, growing their vegetables,
and if they did not have a cow, trading eggs or other produce for milk
or cream with their neighbors. Almost everyone would supplement their
food supply with shellfish from the shores and flats and fish from the
various boats that plied the sound and bays. There were many orchards,
most of which have now disappeared. One can hardly find a grape arbor
left, but in those days apples and other tree-grown fruit were found
in every other home or homestead. Cranberries played no small part,
but they were just about developing in the 1880’s, and I can remember
distinctly, while growing up in Brewster, of earning small amounts of
money from time to time helping the farmers harvest their cranberry
crop, together with asparagus, turnips and strawberries.

I cannot remember any people being on Old Age Assistance, and I recall
distinctly there was no Social Security program. There was always
something for everyone to do whether they were young, middle-aged, or
old. For us young children there were ordinary chores in and about the
house to be done morning and evening, cutting the kindling, getting
wood ready for the fires, and generally being handy boys around the
house and barn. I can definitely say there were no gangs of teenagers
with switchblades. “Mac the Knife” was wholly unknown. The only
knives we had were pocket jackknives used for whittling and playing
mumbley-peg.

I can remember that there were many things to do the night before the
Fourth, but I can remember no destruction of property. Perhaps a few
privies might be displaced, and on Halloween fences might disappear,
but they were always found somewhere, and the culprits made to replace
them.

In the Fall almost everyone would gather seaweed from the beaches and
bank it around the house, because only the very rich could afford full
basements and what we call central heating. The small, round Cape Cod
cellars were used to keep fruits and vegetables.

I can also distinctly remember working on the town roads, helping to
get in ice for the ice houses, and I can also remember that almost
every boy knew how to handle a hammer, a saw, screw driver, or chisel,
which did not seem work to us at the time.

The mill was not exactly a gathering place for the country folk; that
was left to the country store. In Brewster, the mail would come in
about 6:00 P. M., and it was a great thing for us younger boys to
gather at the Knowles’ store at about the time the mail was due and
listen to some of the older men around the stove discuss the events of
the day and the nation.

I do not recall many critical periods of wars and threats of war, but I
do recall the fusion of the wonderful odors of the country store, the
far off cry of the lonely whistle of the mail train, the hard candy,
and the attractive chocolate-colored tobacco. I can also recall vividly
the old time “drummer” with his fancy, gay, colored straw hat, the
horse drawn carts that would bring groceries, meat and fish once or
twice a week.

All around the towns, almost everyone had a horse and some more
well-to-do people had two or three. It was not necessary to turn in the
horse every year, because the model never changed. The horses sometimes
died, but only after twelve or fourteen years of good service. Almost
everyone owned a so-called Cape Cod truck wagon, painted a faded blue
color.

I can remember the May baskets, the sleigh rides, and sliding down the
hill in High Brewster in the winter-time.

All this is in sharp contrast to the children on the present day and
the problems of juvenile delinquency. Undoubtedly lack of parental care
and instruction, to say nothing of planned obsolescence, time payments,
and lack of individual initiative, can be blamed for the conditions.
Being fortunate to have been born at about the turn of the century,
when the era of the horse was just about departing and the automobile
beginning, I think I am in a fairly good position to compare conditions
of that day with today.

I might say that I do recall when I was about ten years of age, my
mother and grandmother sadly declaring that things at that time were
different when they were children, and that they did not know where we
then were going. I put this in to show that there may be an answer to
all this through the process of evolution. I do not know.

I do know that the flour and the meal coming from these old and ancient
mills produced much better food than the present day processed flour
and meal.

I can remember many of the older figures of that time. Seth Rogers, a
typical country gentleman, and many other well-known men about that
time, who were not looking for something for nothing. They all did
work of one form or another, either on their farms or their cranberry
bogs, or in some business or trade. They did not have much time, but
the time they had was put to great use in production. They did not have
too much money because they did not need it. A man that died leaving
an estate of $5,000.00 or $6,000.00 was considered reasonably wealthy.
These men would do something for their town without expecting great
pay in return; they were not constantly looking to the town, state,
or government for handouts. They produced and developed a way of life
totally different from the way we have today.

[Illustration]




IX


Now, after the machinist has repaired and fixed up the old coupling,
and other parts of the old turbine which could not withstand our
battering, it becomes necessary to drop the turbine in place and hope
everything will work.

First, we have to pull out the temporary retaining walls next to the
tailrace, dig down below the pool, and put in a brand new wall, so
that the rush of water will not tear away the earth next to the State
Highway which would stop all the dear people from dashing about on the
State Highway, especially the tourists.

I have often wondered what I would do if this mill doesn’t work when
we get through. All sorts of suggestions have come from skeptics, the
practical ones being to install a gas engine or electric motor to turn
the stones. I doubt very much that we will ever do this. We are still
convinced that if the early settlers and tenacious people could make
this work with their cumbersome and crude tools, we can do the same
thing with our so-called improved modern equipment and tools.

So now the flume is finished, a good solid bridge is built over it, and
we must go and dig out and repair the tailrace and get ready to place
the new turbine in its position.

This tailrace runs from underneath the building, from the bottom of
the turbine out to the pool near the State Highway and then under the
State Road into Lewis Bay. All the rocks which attempted to retain the
embankment adjoining the State Highway were merely dumped there by
someone hoping they would shore up the embankment. The result was, over
the years they were gradually disturbed and found their way into the
pool, and, of course, a lot of the dirt and sand from the embankment
slipped off into the pool and the bottom of the tailrace.

So we again call in our stout and genial mason, Joe Carapezza, and a
machine to dig out the rocks, dirt and mud. Putting the rocks back into
a firm and complete wall turned out to be a little more of a job than
we planned on.

Every one of the rocks, some of which weighed from five hundred to a
thousand pounds, had to be handled manually, as there was no room for
cranes and the like to lift them up and work them around. After about
two weeks of this, we finally managed to build a fairly solid retaining
wall next to the tailrace.

Just about this time the herring began their annual migration to their
spawning ground, so we had to raise the level of the mill pond so that
nature could take her course.

It would seem that every time a weekend came around there was either
rain, snow, drizzle, or some other sort of foul weather, which didn’t
help things along a bit.

In browsing through some old pamphlets by one Daniel Wing, a school
master who taught school in Yarmouth about 1900, I ran across the
following interesting paragraph:

    “The old gristmill directly opposite the Captain Baxter residence
    was known as Baxter’s mill. It was at one time owned by Captain
    Timothy Baker, Senr., (born in the first half of the eighteenth
    century) and later by his son, Captain Joshua Baker, born in
    1766. The mill pond was fed by several streamlets which came down
    from the north, but its work having been completed, the dam has
    been allowed to wash away; and, there being some question as to
    ownership, we learn that this once beautiful and interesting spot
    is now grown up with rushes. _It seems as if the water power here
    might, in this day of improved machinery, be made again to serve a
    useful purpose._”

I wonder if Daniel can see the mill now.

The old turbine that we excavated from a side hill in Maine was lowered
into place after much straining, blocking, and running around. George’s
careful measurements and minute calculations paid off, because it
fitted perfectly in the large hole cut in the bottom of the wheel pit.
We had to call upon the machinist to fashion a coupling in order to fit
the old coupling still left on the shaft coming down through the first
floor into the wheel pit from the gears above.

[Illustration]

While this was being done, George, Dick McElroy, and I managed to make
a decent pen gate with the necessary worm gear attached to it so that
we could block off the water in the flume and raise the gate when
necessary.

At this point I happened to mention to one of my friends that I would
like to find, somewhere, a metal wheel similar to a freight car brake
wheel that we could use on the shaft to raise and lower the pen gate.
A few days later, my friend left at the mill a real old timer. It was
a wheel which was about two and one-half feet in diameter, and which
was nicely adapted to the top of the rod of the pen gate. This wheel
suspiciously looked similar to a wheel that would toll a bell on a
church steeple, and when I suggested the possibility of this to my
friend, he merely smiled and walked away.

[Illustration]




X


We have used to a great extent Oliver Evans’ “_The Young Mill-Wright
and Miller’s Guide_.” This book was printed about 1800, and I think
I have referred to it before, but it has proved invaluable to us in
the course of our work. The words and references in the book may have
meant something to the millers one hundred years ago, but not us
poor amateurs of 1961, the words millseat, flutterwheels, cockheads,
cubocks, to say nothing of “tailflour,” confused us no end, but on
closer reading and more attention to the details of the book, we did
finally make some sense from it.

Under Article 108 in this ancient volume is found the following:

              “Of Regulating the Feed and Water in Grinding.”

    “The stone being well hung, proceed to grind, and when all things
    are ready, draw as much water as is judged to be sufficient; then
    _observe the motion of the stone, by the noise of the damsel_, and
    feel the meal; if it be too coarse, and the motion too slow, give
    less feed and it will grind finer, and the motion will be quicker;
    if it yet grind too coarse, lower the stones; then, if the motion
    be too slow, draw a little more water; but if the meal feel to be
    ground, and the motion right, raise the stones a little, and give
    the motion right, raise the stones a little, and give a little more
    feed. If the motion and feed be too great, and the meal be ground
    too low, shut off part of the water. But if the motion be too slow,
    and the feed too small, draw more water.”

I doubt very much that the venerable Mr. Evans would have relished “the
noise of the damsel” if he had observed George one sunny afternoon pick
up a luscious creature of the female sex, heave her over his shoulder
and transport her into the depths of the mill, all in plain sight of
the general public. It seems that it was a little too muddy for this
fair lady to walk to the mill, but the following week, however, the
same damsel was there and took the same ride on George’s shoulders into
the mill.

We could not and did not observe either the motion or the noise of the
damsel, which probably is just as well.

The damsel referred to by Evans, however, is nothing more or less
than a square wooden shaft which turns against a shoe suspended under
the spout of the hopper to regulate the flow of grain into the stones
themselves.

There is, of course, a definite rhythm to the clatter created by the
damsel, and this is what Evans was speaking about in “noise of damsel.”

Farther on in Evans’ book, it states that we must “pick up the stones”
and sharpen them, but as I said before, we found that we were too
ignorant of the art of sharpening the stones, and that is why we
obtained the services of Mr. Mattson, who did an excellent job in
“picking up” the stones.

It is interesting to read Evans’ book, and I have taken the time to
copy directly from the book the chapter on the “Duties of the Miller.”

                               “CHAPTER XVIII

    Directions for keeping the mill and the business of it in good
    order.

                                ARTICLE 116

                           THE DUTY OF THE MILLER

    The mill is supposed to be completely finished for merchant work,
    on the new plan; supplied with a stock of grain, flour casks,
    nails, brushes, picks, shovels, scales, weights, etc., when the
    millers enter on their duty.

    If there be two of them capable of standing watch, or taking charge
    of the mill, the time is generally divided as follows. In the
    day-time both attend to business, but one of them has the chief
    direction. The night is divided into two watches, the first of
    which ends at one o’clock in the morning, when the master miller
    should enter on his watch, and continue till day-light that he may
    be ready to direct other hands to their business early. The first
    thing he should do, when his watch begins, is to see whether the
    stones are grinding, and the cloths bolting well. And secondly, he
    should review all the moving gudgeons of the mill, to see whether
    any of them want grease, etc.; for want of this, the gudgeons often
    run dry, and heat, which bring on heavy losses in time and repairs;
    for when they heat, they get a little loose, and the stones they
    run on crack, after which they cannot be kept cool. He should also
    see what quantity of grain is over the stones, and if there be not
    enough to supply them till morning, set the cleaning machines in
    motion.

    All things being set right, his duty is very easy--he has only
    to see to the machinery, the grinding, and the bolting once in
    every hour; he has, therefore, plenty of time to amuse himself by
    reading, or otherwise.

    Early in the morning all the floors should be swept, and the flour
    dust collected; the casks nailed, weighed, marked, and branded, and
    the packing begun, that it may be completed in the forepart of the
    day; by this means, should any unforseen thing occur, there will be
    spare time. Besides, to leave the packing till the afternoon, is a
    lazy practice, and keeps the business out of order.

    When the stones are to be sharpened, everything necessary should
    be prepared before the mill is stopped, (especially if there is
    but one pair of stones to a water-wheel) that as little time as
    possible may be lost: the picks should be made quite sharp, and not
    be less than 12 in number. Things being ready, the miller is then
    to take up the stone; set one hand to each, and dress them as soon
    as possible, that they may be set to work again; not forgetting to
    grease the gears and spindle foot.

    In the after part of the day, a sufficient quantity of grain is to
    be cleaned down, to supply the stones the whole night; because it
    is best to have nothing more to do in the night, than to attend to
    the grinding, bolting, gudgeons, etc.”

Shades of the coffee break and the forty-hour week! Apparently Evans
and his millers hardly found time to stop and get a bite to eat.

Interesting, the old methods and way of life compared with our present
day methods and ways of existence.




XI


The summer of 1961 is now hard upon us, as is the horde of vacation
seekers; so, at least for a while, we are forced to give up our labors
at the mill and go to other pursuits, but just as soon as autumn comes
around we start in again Saturday mornings at the old mill site.

The mill stones had to be sharpened and we found out that this was
really beyond the scope of our knowledge and skill.

Inquiries at Old Sturbridge Village in Sturbridge, Massachusetts led
us to finding one of the few men left who could “pick up” the stones.
This gentleman, Arthur Mattson, of Plainville, Connecticut, consented
to come, and finally did come to the Cape, and in a matter of hours had
sharpened the stones to the nth degree.

While he was here, we gleaned as much information from him as we could,
in the course of which we found that he owned five mill stones which
were grinding out stone ground flour, and that he had been supplying,
for many years, the stone ground flour to the Pepperidge Farm Mills in
Connecticut, famous for their Pepperidge Farm Bread.

Among other things, he showed us how to construct a “damsel” (which is
nothing but a small flutter board hung below the mouth of the hopper)
and wiggles just enough to let the grain drop into the stones at the
proper quantity.

About a year from the date we started to work on the mill, to wit:
August 3, 1960, we are able to open the pen gate, let the rushing
water fill up the flume and wheel pit, raise the skirt in the turbine,
and with a feeling of great self-satisfaction, see and hear the
stones turn, albeit, a little slow at first, since the stones were
not properly balanced, but, nevertheless, lo and behold, all our work
finally paid off.

Someone shouted, “Ho, ho, she starts, she moves, she feels a spark of
life.” You can well imagine who that was.

As near as we can figure, these stones had not been turning for exactly
seventy-one years, and frankness would be lacking if we did not feel
proud of our hard work and efforts.

The mill actually ran smoothly, and with very little noise, but to be
sure that we were not subject to hallucinations we spent the better
part of the afternoon turning the wheel off and on. The wheel and
its heavy but simplified gears responded with slow speed and gradual
pick-up of revolutions to a very deliberate cadence.

Again I was struck with the simplicity of the working of the turbine
and wheel, and perhaps the economy of the whole affair was intriguing.
One had only to look at the water pouring into the wheel pit to
see the power of the stream and to reflect upon the fact that it
cost absolutely nothing for this power. Gear grease, oil or other
lubrication was absolutely unnecessary to maintain the operation.

The stones were originally enclosed and covered with a wooden casing,
half of which we found in the mill, but the other half we had to build
ourselves and make them, of course, exactly as the first half. As usual
the boards that were available at any lumber yard were not the same
thickness, so again we had to have proper boards milled out to match up
with the old. Finally, George found an old blade adequate to make the
same beading on the edge of these new boards as the original beading,
and it was not too difficult to do with the aid of this old fashioned
plane.

About this time we received in the express from Mr. Mattson, the genial
gentleman from Connecticut, who had sharpened the stones, a cradle and
a shoe. The cradle is to hold the hopper and the shoe is for support,
as I said before, underneath the spout of the hopper.

The cradle was practically a perfect fit on the top of the wooden
casing, and the hopper fitted the cradle perfectly. This was one time
something really did fit.

And so - - - - just before the Christmas Holidays of 1961 everything
seemed to be about finished. We procured a bag of whole corn, part of
which we dropped into the hopper, opened up the pen gate, and lo and
behold, yellow gold came flowing out of the chute. To be sure, at first
the meal was a bit coarse, but after George maneuvered the “tenterer,”
we obtained about the correct texture of meal.

It has been said that the end of something is better than the
beginning, but I think I felt a little sad that we were finished and
somewhat surprised that the mill actually worked. Sad, perhaps, because
we had no more to do to complete the mill project. We were constantly
uncovering new sights in the ancient mill. The actual work, the
research, the conversations with new people, the reading of stories of
old mills, seeing the old mills, some of which were restored and others
abandoned, and being able to finally rebuild this old mill and to renew
a small part of life now long forgotten, has been most fascinating.

George just called me on the phone, saying,

“Harold ... you know what?”

“No, what?”

“I think I have found an old tide mill - - - -”




Transcriber’s Notes


Punctuation, hyphenation, and spelling were made consistent when a
predominant preference was found in the original book; otherwise they
were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; unbalanced quotation
marks were remedied when the change was obvious, and otherwise left
unbalanced. Two typographical errors in quoted text on page 37 were
corrected after consulting a copy of the book from which the quotation
was taken.

The illustrations at the ends of chapters I, II, VI, VIII, and X
are simple decorative tailpieces.