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Stockton, Frank Richard, 1834-1902

"The Magic Egg and Other Stories"



"What place in Europe," I said to myself, "could be so
beautiful, so charming, and so helpful to reflection as this
sequestered lake, these noble trees, these stretches of
undulating meadow?"

Even if I should care to go abroad, a month or two later
would answer all my purposes. Why had I ever thought of spending
five months away?

There was a pretty stream which ran from the lake and wended
its way through a green and shaded valley, and here, with a rod,
I wandered and fished and thought. The miller had boats, and in
one of these I rowed far up the lake where it narrowed into a
creek, and between the high hills which shut me out from the
world I would float and think.

Every morning, soon after break of day, I went to my home and
wandered about my grounds. If it rained I did not mind that. I
like a summer rain.

Day by day I grew bolder. Nobody in that household thought
of getting up until seven o'clock. For two hours, at least, I
could ramble undisturbed through my grounds, and much as I had
once enjoyed these grounds, they never afforded me the pleasure
they gave me now. In these happy mornings I felt all the
life and spirits of a boy. I went into my little field and
stroked the sleek sides of my cows as they nibbled the dewy
grass. I even peeped through the barred window of Sappho's box
and fed her, as I had been used to doing, with bunches of clover.
I saw that the young chickens were flourishing. I went into the
garden and noted the growth of the vegetables, feeling glad that
she would have so many fine strawberries and tender peas.


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