This Is The Story Of The Wine Of Brule, And It Shows That What Men
Love Is Never Money Itself But Their Own Way, And That Human Beings
Love Sympathy And Pageant Above All Things.
It also teaches us not to
be hard on the rich.
I walked along the valley of the Moselle, and as I walked the long
evening of summer began to fall. The sky was empty and its deeps
infinite; the clearness of the air set me dreaming. I passed the turn
where we used to halt when we were learning how to ride in front of
the guns, past the little house where, on rare holidays, the boys
could eat a matelote, which is fish boiled in wine, and so on to the
place where the river is held by a weir and opens out into a kind of
lake.
Here I waited for a moment by the wooden railing, and looked up into
the hills. So far I had been at home, and I was now poring upon the
last familiar thing before I ventured into the high woods and began my
experience. I therefore took a leisurely farewell, and pondered
instead of walking farther. Everything about me conduced to
reminiscence and to ease. A flock of sheep passed me with their
shepherd, who gave me a good-night. I found myself entering that
pleasant mood in which all books are conceived (but none written); I
was 'smoking the enchanted cigarettes' of Balzac, and if this kind of
reverie is fatal to action, yet it is so much a factor of happiness
that I wasted in the contemplation of that lovely and silent hollow
many miles of marching.
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