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.

In the morning he took leave of his wife, and with his hoe slung over
his shoulder, made his way down to the cornfield. There, seated upon a
stone, he saw himself in Attleboro again, pictured to himself the
countryside beyond, and before noon, was half way round the world,
leaving friends behind him in every land. Then, with a sigh, he would
go in among the corn with his weeder, only to stand dreaming at every
rustle of wind, seeing, in his mind, the smoke of distant cities,
hearing, in fancy, the booming of foreign seas.

His wife was no longer a young woman. As a girl she had also had hopes