There came an hour When all this beauty and love and power Did seem But a small thing to that Mill Stream. And then his cry Was, "Why, oh! why Am I thus surrounded With checks and limits, and bounded By bank and border To keep me in order, Against my will? I, who was born to be free and unfettered--a mountain rill! But for these jealous banks, the good Of my gracious and fertilizing flood Might spread to the barren highways, And fill with Forget-me-nots countless neglected byways. Why should the rough-barked Willow for ever lave Her feet in my cooling wave; When the tender and beautiful Beech Faints with midsummer heat in the meadow just out of my reach? Could I but rush with unchecked power, The miller might grind a day's corn in an hour. And what are the ends Of life, but to serve one's friends?"
A day did dawn at last, When the spirits of the storm and the blast, Breaking the bands of the winter's frost and snow, Swept from the mountain source of the stream, and flooded the valley below. Dams were broken and weirs came down; Cottage and mill, country and town, Shared in the general inundation, And the following desolation. Then the Mill Stream rose in its might, And burst out of bounds to left and to right, Rushed to the beautiful Beech, In the meadow far out of reach. But with such torrents the poor tree died, Torn up by the roots, and laid on its side. The cattle swam till they sank, Trying to find a bank. Never more shall the broken water-wheel Grind the corn to make the meal, To make the children's bread. The miller was dead.
When the setting sun Looked to see what the Mill Stream had done In its hour Of unlimited power, And what was left when that had passed by, Behold the channel was stony and dry. In uttermost ruin The Mill Stream had been its own undoing. Furthermore it had drowned its friend: This was the end.
Oh boy, down there, I can't believe that what they say is true! We squirrels surely cannot have an enemy in you; We have so much in common, my dear friend, it seems to me That I can really feel for you, and you can feel for me.
Some human beings might not understand the life we lead; If we asked Dr. Birch to play, no doubt he'd rather read; He hates all scrambling restlessness, and chattering, scuffling noise; If he could catch us we should fare no better than you boys.