“Freemans Mill The old mill long had closed its doors the rotting wheel would turn no more no grain to grind, no country stores where old men sat, told stories, swore¦ And rocks that formed the waterfall became the playground for us all on summer days, it beckoned, called beneath the old mills rotting walls¦. The chill of water, mountain-fed awakened spirits, long since dead where millers children once were fed on banks upon which lovers wed. And yet I hear the echoes still where laughter of the children filled those rotting walls upon the hill twas once the home to Freemans Mill¦.”
