Clinton by Walter Aimwell

Most people on entering the little village of Brookdale for the first / time, are struck with the beauty of its location. Those who were born / there, and who have always lived in sight of its green hills, and / pleasant valleys, and frolicsome rivulets, probably do not think so / much of these things as does the stranger who happens to come among / them, and who has an eye for the beauty of nature. Beautiful objects / often lose their attractions when they become familiar to us. If a man / were permitted to behold the splendors of a clear evening firmament / but once in his life-time, he would be almost enraptured with the / sight; but give him the opportunity of gazing at the stars every / cloudless night in the year, and he will seldom notice them.

A range of high hills skirt the eastern side of Brookdale, and stretch / away to the north, as far as the eye can reach. Towards the west, / in a clear day, can be seen the shadowy form of a distant mountain, / looking like a dim cloud on the horizon. Near the centre of the village / is one of those beautiful little lakes, so common in the State of / Maine. Several rivulets, fed by springs in the hills, flow through / the village during the greater portion of the year, and empty their / sparkling waters into this lake, or pond as it is generally called. It / is from this circumstance that the town is called Brookdale.