Violets at Historic Clifton Mill, Dayton, OH

 This is Historic Clifton Mill which Jonathan and I visited for a lovely 40 minutes last Tuesday morning near Dayton, OH,  before meeting Bro. and Sis. Will Byler for lunch before IHC began.

I saw a photo of this mill flit across the screen at the airport when we arrived in Dayton, and I begged Jonathan to look it up and see if it was far away.

It was only 30 minutes away from our hotel!

I wanted so badly to go out in the country in the east in the spring time to enjoy some eastern spring scenery,

and this was just the thing!

 Jonathan wanted me to sit on that wooden bench behind these beautiful tulips.

Inside there is this charming restaurant with wooden floor and pictures of the old mill (which got featured in Country magazine once.)

There was also a rustic gift shop, looking much like olden days.

The restroom had these cute water pump spigots.

Another snap inside the gift shop, of these little bean bins behind glass under the counter.

My heart nearly jumped out of my ribs when I saw this enormous patch of violets in front of the mill. 

Violets are some of my favorite flowers.

Roses are elegant, but violets remind me of me--just a little wild thing that chums up with dandelions sooner than clematis or morning glories. 

Maybe I should find my poem, "The Violet," which I wrote about 30 years ago--well, here it is!

The Violet

I am a violet in the wood

That knows I am for nothing good.

I look around at all the trees

And say, "I wish I were like these!"

How firm the evergreens do stand!

The oaks and maples are so grand!

The aspen, with its thousand leaves,

That every wisp of wind retrieves;

The glowing tulip tree's hidden bloom,

The snowy cherry's sweet perfume,

The apple tree, radiant as a bride,

The beech tree huge, the spring beside.

And then, poor me, poor little spike,

The Mayapple guards umbrella-like!

What use am I to this old world 

That my poor petals be unfurled?

Hark! Hear I not a child come,

Singing, skipping on toward home?

Ah, slower, slower is her tread

And her voice is quieted.

What, is it true? I see her face

So happy in its charming grace.

And--she's beaming down at me!

 

What? See you not yon stately tree?
But she disregards my plea

And plucks my stem quite tenderly.

Then running, flying on toward home

She bids her mother, "Quickly come!

See from the woods what I did get!

A pretty little violet!"

A tiny vase she fetched with pride

And gently placed my stem inside.

Then suddenly I see there is

A reason why God made me this.

 

Those trees could not--though hard they try-- 

Fit in a vase with so  much grace--as I!

g
Two pictures up is Jonathan in front of an old blacksmith shop which is just across the road from the mill.