There, we think, dwell the friends who would love
us, if we were known to them, and there, too, must be found the beauty
and the happiness that we have failed to discover where we are. It
seems to us that there, in the distance, we should be happier, we
should be more amiable and more dignified.
Aaron Bade, tied to his rocky farm on the slopes above Adams' Forge,
remembered with a feeling of pleasure his one journey as far south as
Attleboro. He had been obliged to return home before he had found the
happiness which he had expected to find. However, once he was home, he
realized that he had left it behind him, in Attleboro, or just a little
further south . . .
Now, at forty, he was neither happy nor unhappy, but turned back in his
mind to the fancies of his youth, and enjoyed, in imagination, the
travels denied him in reality.
He had no love for the farm, which had belonged to his father; an old
flute, on which his father used to play, was more of a treasure to him.
Often in summer, as day faded, and the dews of night descended; when
the clear lights in the valley were set twinkling one by one, leaving
the uplands to the winds and stars, Aaron Bade, perched upon his
pasture bars, piped to the faintly glowing sky his awkward thoughts and
clumsy feelings.
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