Clinton: Boy-life in the Country

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.

It was near the foot of one of the hills in this pleasant little village, in a snug farm-house a story and a half high, that Clinton lived. Mr. Davenport, his father, had formerly been a carpenter in another part of the State; but having a taste for farming, he gave up his trade after he had accumulated a little property, and bought the place of which we are speaking. He brought with him, however, a great variety of carpenter’s tools, and had a room fitted up for a workshop, where he often did little jobs for himself or some neighbor, when a rainy day kept him indoors. This room was in the rear of the house, adjoining the pantry, so that it was not necessary to go out of the house to reach it. Clinton spent a great many happy hours in this shop; for though he was only thirteen years old, he had considerable mechanical skill, and could handle the plane, the saw, the bit, and most of the other tools, in quite a workmanlike style. As he was careful not to injure the tools, his father allowed him to use them whenever he wished.