Explore "Clinton" by Walter Aimwell on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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.