I wonder whether the old mill still stands as it did, hidden from view by a thick clump of shade trees. Every summer when we visited my uncle, aunt, and cousins at their farm, going down to explore the old mill was one of our favourite occupations. Perhaps it appealed to us children so much because we had been instructed never to go there. The grown ups felt it was a decrepit, unsafe place and cautioned us to stay away from it. This only added to our trips the extra thrill that goes with forbidden fun. We would finish our farm chores early-collecting eggs, weeding the vegetable garden, and feeling the live-stock. Then my two cousins, my sister, and I would hurry down the winding road. It was an asphalt road that grew extremely hot under the bright noon-day sun. I remember that it making us skip quickly along. We would run down the road, spurred on by the excitement of our trip. Soon we turned off into a narrow dirt path. Up a small rise, around a bend, and there, under a cluster of elms, stood the abandoned mil. It was a wooden building, approximately the size of a barn. It had never been painted, and its aged wood was now dark brown. Two very large doors had fallen from its side; Through the various openings we could see the dark, shadowy interior, with glinting sunlight showing here and there. Up the seven rotting steps we would run, and there we were inside the old place at last. Straw covered the whole floor, and several empty grain sacks lay folded in one of the corners. On the walls, yellowing posters announced the programme of a summer stock company. All the posters were torn and about twenty years old; they had faded to the point where they were only partially readable. Thorough the window frames in the back the old water wheel could be seen-a rested piece of machinery, now embedded in the earth, over which a stream of water flowed continually. Bits of moss clung to the old wheel. summer hoi