Days of the Gristmill

"So he spake on; and Federigo heard
As from afar each softly uttered word,
And drifted onward through the golden gleams
And shadows of the misty seas of dreams...
   –Longfellow, Tales from a Wayside Inn







5.

We know from many testaments,
of traveling mailmen, agents,
itinerant showmen and teamsters,
that the Old Bar Room at the Inn
was a clandestine jolly place,
where, even if it did not show,
a weary rider would no doubt know
that the umbrella of shadowy
breadth of the Matacomet range
drew its breath and would often
blow the foothills at a mighty pace.
By the berth of the Bar Room fire
in the bowels of the Wayside Inn,
under the oak beams overhead
stood the mantelpiece which hung
an old and trusty musket and sword
and a "curious little wooden canteen."
We can just about hear the hum
of tipsy conversation from chairs,
where Adeline Lunt by mid 1880's,
what does she say but that the Squire
"was much afraid of Lightening."
So much so her story goes that he
had the habit of securing the safest
place by positioning his chair
"in the centre of the room."
Outside we must see the romantic
gloom lit by torchlight as usual,
but this night flickered in violence
against the grog sipping inside.
Aunt Margey herself uneasy
from the violence of the storm
in wandering from her kitchen corner
found the squire in his retreat.
Putting up the finger, she ejaculated
"Ha, you can't get away from
the wrath of God" and herself fled.