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- 2026-01-30T20:48:15.023Z
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- 98
- text
- The house was wide—my fortune narrow; so that, to build a panoramic
piazza, one round and round, it could not be—although, indeed,
considering the matter by rule and square, the carpenters, in the
kindest way, were anxious to gratify my furthest wishes, at I’ve
forgotten how much a foot.
Upon but one of the four sides would prudence grant me what I wanted.
Now, which side?
To the east, that long camp of the Hearth Stone Hills, fading far away
towards Quito; and every fall, a small white flake of something peering
suddenly, of a coolish morning, from the topmost cliff—the season’s
new-dropped lamb, its earliest fleece; and then the Christmas dawn,
draping those dim highlands with red-barred plaids and tartans—goodly
sight from your piazza, that. Goodly sight; but, to the north is
Charlemagne—can’t have the Hearth Stone Hills with Charlemagne.
Well, the south side. Apple-trees are there. Pleasant, of a balmy
morning, in the month of May, to sit and see that orchard,
white-budded, as for a bridal; and, in October, one green arsenal yard;
such piles of ruddy shot. Very fine, I grant; but, to the north is
Charlemagne.
The west side, look. An upland pasture, alleying away into a maple wood
at top. Sweet, in opening spring, to trace upon the hill-side,
otherwise gray and bare—to trace, I say, the oldest paths by their
streaks of earliest green. Sweet, indeed, I can’t deny; but, to the
north is Charlemagne.
So Charlemagne, he carried it. It was not long after 1848; and,
somehow, about that time, all round the world, these kings, they had
the casting vote, and voted for themselves.
No sooner was ground broken, than all the neighborhood, neighbor Dives,
in particular, broke, too—into a laugh. Piazza to the north! Winter
piazza! Wants, of winter midnights, to watch the Aurora Borealis, I
suppose; hope he’s laid in good store of Polar muffs and mittens.
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