One ordinary morning upon Adamic Hill the sun beamed through an opening which used to be a window in the Volendam Windmill. 

It lit up the old wooden shoe where Millmouse was sleeping.

With a twitch of his nose and a flutter of his whiskers, he woke up, gave his eyes a quick rub and pricked his ears. Goldfinch was awake as well and already singing a song that Millmouse could almost understand . . . almost.

He jumped over to his hoard of seeds, nuts and assorted crumbs in the other wooden shoe. Breakfast was the same every morning, but was always delicious. 

Millmouse's days are much like those of most creature's. He does his best to keep out of harm's way as he goes about wrangling the necessities of life . . . and of course he forever harbors a wish that each day might turn marvelous.

Millmouse went scavenging around the still and silent millstones . . . nothing.
He stopped to check out Black Lace Weaver's elegant web. There were a few entangled bug carcasses and thery could be tasty, but all eight of the spider's eyes were fixed fiercely upon him, so Millmouse moved on.

He hopped up into the hopper. Perhaps the nightwind had freed an ancient seed or two stuck in the seams between the splintering boards . . . no such luck. 

He made his way up the chute. It squeaked back and forth on its last, rusty hinge.

He savored the ghosty smell of the grist which once slid down there by the ton. Ah, those must have been marvelous days!

The bin floor was completely bare except for Fivefingers snoring in a corner; the racoon's feet were ever so slightly pedaling through a dream.

Mice are said to be meek, but they are actually quite courageous . . . they have to be. Millmouse crept over to the sleeping bandit and found a large scatter of peanut crumbs left over from a midnight bonanza. 

Fivefingers was not the neatest of eaters which often worked out in the mouse's favor

 . . . and Red Ants's too who was also taking advantage.

Millmouse pitty-patted his smidgeons into a pile and it took many runs to transport all the bounty to his wooden shoe. Ah yes, a fair day . . .  if not quite a marvelous one.

His work done early, Millmouse decided to see what was up with all the banging which had begun above.

He went up a shaft to the cogwheels climbing into the lair of Old Graycat.

Old Graycat raised his head when he smelled his tiny nemesis, but decided against another frantic chase between the gears . . . not because he was old, but because he was blind and it always ended badly with a painful bump on his noggin. 

Besides, Old Graycat wasn't hungry. He always gets fed for free over in Whistling Man's house . . . he may be blind, but his life is still pretty easy, that cat!

Then it was another hard pull up the main shaft. Millmouse could have ambled up his secret passage inside the wall, but chose the the quicker way instead.

He clambered around the wallower.

and onto the windshaft where he caught a glimpse outside through an enormous crack.

There on a high scaffold was Whistling Man. He was whistling as usual as he watched a few other men working on the windmill's broken sails.

That meant that the Volendam Windmill might yet turn anew . . .

and that the millstones may well grind again . . . 

and there would be grain and grist and seeds galore leaking from their sacks . . .

and overflowing the bins.

Millmouse's day was turning into a very good one indeed.

He made his way down to his cloggy home by the windmill's sagging door. He planned to propose a solitary toast with a peanut crumb to acknowledge the fortunate developments. . . and to celebrate a future of plenty.

But when he arrived there was a surprise. Smiling in between the wooden shoes was his beautiful wife, Bright Eyes and his two little Millmouse mice, Missy and Magic.

They were all back from a way too long visit to Grandmouse's firewood box.

And that's when Millmouse's day turned marvelous!