are you compared to some whiffs of the pure Dutch tobacco which I am smoking at this moment while I sit here in my attic, looking out over my old town.
12th of June.
IVOn the highest point of Rough-Hill, above the wood, on the open hillside, towers the mill, white with black wings on the green sward. It is the best mill for miles around, because there is always enough wind to work it. It serves also as landmark for the ships on the fjord, for it can be seen at several miles distance.
The miller owns the hill as far down as the park. The northern slope towards the fjord is wild and uncultivated, but on the southern slope a large piece of ground is railed in and cultivated as a garden. The miller has followed the example of the man who laid out the park. He has conquered wind and weather by planting a protecting hedge along the western side; he has mixed the sandy earth of the hill with laboriously-carried rich mould from the arable land below; he has watered and manured, digged and delved, until he saw his hanging garden thrive and blossom.
I remember the half-willing respect with which the miller was talked of by the townsfolk. They admired his capabilities, but resented his strange aloofness, In his contract with the town-council from whom he bought the land, it was mentioned that at all times his land should be free for people to enjoy the view. But though he never attempted
