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158
Adventures in Contentment
·
David Grayson
9
Of
all
my
neighbours,
Horace
is
the
nearest.
From
the
back
door
of
my
house,
looking
over
the
hill,
I
can
see
the
two
red
chimneys
of
his
home,
and
the
top
of
the
windmill.
Horace's
barn
and
corn
silo
are
more
pretentious
by
far
than
his
house,
but
fortunately
they
stand
on
lower
ground,
where
they
are
not
visible
from
my
side
of
the
hill.
Five
minutes'
walk
in
a
straight
line
across
the
fields
brings
me
to
Horace's
door;
by
the
road
it
takes
at
least
ten
minutes.
In
the
fall
after
my
arrival
I
had
come
to
love
the
farm
and
its
surroundings
so
much
that
I
decided
to
have
it
for
my
own.
I
did
not
look
ahead
to
being
a
farmer.
I
did
not
ask
Harriet's
advice.
I
found
myself
sitting
one
day
in
the
justice's
office.
The
justice
was
bald
and
as
dry
as
corn
fodder
in
March.
He
sat
with
spectacled
impressiveness
behind
his
ink-stained
table.
Horace
hitched
his
heel
on
the
round
of
his
chair
and
put
his
hat
on
his
knee.
He
wore
his
best
coat
and
his
hair
was
brushed
in
deference
to
the
occasion.
He
looked
uncomfortable,
but
important.
I
sat
opposite
him,
somewhat
overwhelmed
by
the
business
in
hand.
I
felt
like
an
inadequate
boy
measured
against
solemnities
too
large
for
him.
The
processes
seemed
curiously
unconvincing,
like
a
game
in
which
the
important
part
is
to
keep
from
laughing;
and
yet
when
I
thought
of
laughing
I
felt
cold
chills
of
horror.
If
I
had
laughed
at
that
moment
I
cannot
think
what
that
justice
would
have
said!
But
it
was
a
pleasure
to
have
the
old
man
read
the
deed,
looking
at
me
over
his
spectacles
from
time
to
time
to
make
sure
I
was
not
playing
truant.
There
are
good
and
great
words
in
a
deed.
One
of
them
I
brought
away
with
me
from
the
conference,
a
very
fine,
big
one,
which
I
love
to
have
out
now
and
again
to
remind
me
of
the
really
serious
things
of
life.
It
gives
me
a
peculiar
dry,
legal
feeling.
If
I
am
about
to
enter
upon
a
serious
bargain,
like
the
sale
of
a
cow,
I
am
more
avaricious
if
I
work
with
it
under
my
tongue.
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