he got there, and the porridge went up his sleeves, and down his neck, and
it was horrid and sticky. His brother laughed when he heard the story, but
he came with him, and they took a boat and rowed across the lake of
porridge to where the Little Mill was grinding. And then the Poor Brother
whispered the magic word, and the Little Mill stopped.

But the porridge was a long time soaking into the ground, and nothing
would ever grow there afterwards except oatmeal.

The Rich Brother didn't seem to care much about the Little Mill after
this, so the Poor Brother took it home again and put it behind the door;
and there it stayed a long, long while.

Years afterwards a Sea Captain came there on a visit. He told such big
stories that the Poor Brother said, "Oh, I daresay you have seen wonderful
things, but I don't believe you ever saw anything more wonderful than the
Little Mill that stands behind my door."

"What is wonderful about that?" said the Sea Captain.

"Why," said the Poor Brother, "anything in the world you want,--you have
only to name it to the Little Mill and say, 'Grind that, Little Mill, and
grind quickly,' and it will grind that thing until--"

The Sea Captain didn't wait to hear another word. "Will you lend me that
Little Mill?" he said eagerly.

The Poor Brother smiled a little, but he said, "Yes," and the Sea Captain
took the Little Mill under his arm, and went on board his ship and sailed
away.