s something to be both feared and hoped
for.

One day, when Will was about sixteen, a fat young man arrived at sunset
to pass the night. He was a contented-looking fellow, with a jolly eye,
and carried a knapsack. While dinner was preparing, he sat in the arbour
to read a book; but as soon as he had begun to observe Will, the book was
laid aside; he was plainly one of those who prefer living people to
people made of ink and paper. Will, on his part, although he had not been
much interested in the stranger at first sight, soon began to take a
great deal of pleasure in his talk, which was full of good nature and
good sense, and at last conceived a great respect for his character and
wisdom. They sat far into the night; and about two in the morning Will
opened his heart to the young man, and told him how he longed to leave
the valley, and what bright hopes he had connected with the cities of the
plain. The young man whistled, and then broke into a smile.

"My young friend," he remarked, "you are a very curious little fellow, to
be sure, and wish a great many things which you will never get. Why, you
would feel quite ashamed if you knew how the little fellows in these
fairy cities of yours are all after the same sort of nonsense, and keep
breaking their hearts to get up into the mountains. And let me tell you,
those who go down into the plains are a very short while there before
they wish themselves heartily back again. The air is not so light nor so
pure; nor is the sun any brighter. As for the beautiful men and women,
you would see many of them in rags, and many of them deformed with
horrible disorders, and a city is so hard a place for people who are poor
and sensitive that many choose to die by their own hand."

"You must think me very simple," answered Will. "Although I have never
been out of this valley, believe me, I have used my eyes. I know how one
thing lives on another; for instance, how the fish hangs in the eddy to
catch his fellows; and the shepherd, who makes so pretty a picture
carrying home the lamb, is only carrying it home for dinner. I do not
expect to find all things right in your cities. That is not what troubles
me; it might have been that once upon a time; but although I live here
always, I have asked many questions and learned a great deal in these
last years, and certainly enough to cure me of my old fancies. But you
would not have me die like a dog and not see all that is to be seen, and
do all