"Why, yes," said the Poor Brother, "I will."

So the Rich Brother took the Little Mill under his arm and started across
the fields to his house. When he got near home he saw the farm-hands
coming in from the fields for their luncheon. Now, you remember, he was
rather mean. He thought to himself, "It is a waste of good time for them
to come into the house; they shall have their porridge where they are." He
called all the men to him, and made them bring their porridge-bowls. Then
he set the Little Mill down on the ground, and said to it, "Grind oatmeal
porridge, Little Mill, and grind quickly!" The Little Mill ground, and
ground, and ground, and out came delicious oatmeal porridge. Each man held
his bowl under the spout. When the last bowl was filled, the porridge ran
over on the ground.

"That's enough, Little Mill," said the Rich Brother. "You may stop, and
stop quickly."

But this was not the magic word, and the Little Mill did not stop. It
ground, and ground, and ground, and the porridge ran all round and made a
little pool. The Rich Brother said, "No, no, Little Mill, I said, 'Stop
grinding, and stop quickly.'" But the Little Mill ground, and ground,
faster than ever; and presently there was a regular pond of porridge,
almost up to their knees. The Rich Brother said, "Stop grinding," in
every kind of way; he called the Little Mill names; but nothing did any
good. The Little Mill ground porridge just the same. At last the men said,
"Go and get your brother to stop the Little Mill, or we shall be drowned
in porridge."

So the Rich Brother started for his brother's house. He had to swim before