{"id":"01KG6YH8FSM3Y7H7MPKQWADRPB","cid":"bafkreig2wsvxifbitcxxf72p4ble5nzfobfbbngp3zxi4kzjlbgqdpleoq","type":"chunk","properties":{"end_line":469,"extracted_at":"2026-01-30T07:57:55.409Z","extracted_by":"structure-extraction-lambda","label":"Chunk 8","source_file":"01KG6YDDF6PTWG4P7JTS5THSTD","start_line":391,"text":"leveled telescope, I caught sight of a far-off, soft, azure world. I\r\nhardly knew it, though I came from it.\r\n\r\n“You must find this view very pleasant,” said I, at last.\r\n\r\n“Oh, sir,” tears starting in her eyes, “the first time I looked out of\r\nthis window, I said ‘never, never shall I weary of this.’”\r\n\r\n“And what wearies you of it now?”\r\n\r\n“I don’t know,” while a tear fell; “but it is not the view, it is\r\nMarianna.”\r\n\r\nSome months back, her brother, only seventeen, had come hither, a long\r\nway from the other side, to cut wood and burn coal, and she, elder\r\nsister, had accompanied, him. Long had they been orphans, and now, sole\r\ninhabitants of the sole house upon the mountain. No guest came, no\r\ntraveler passed. The zigzag, perilous road was only used at seasons by\r\nthe coal wagons. The brother was absent the entire day, sometimes the\r\nentire night. When at evening, fagged out, he did come home, he soon\r\nleft his bench, poor fellow, for his bed; just as one, at last, wearily\r\nquits that, too, for still deeper rest. The bench, the bed, the grave.\r\n\r\nSilent I stood by the fairy window, while these things were being told.\r\n\r\n“Do you know,” said she at last, as stealing from her story, “do you\r\nknow who lives yonder?—I have never been down into that country—away\r\noff there, I mean; that house, that marble one,” pointing far across\r\nthe lower landscape; “have you not caught it? there, on the long\r\nhill-side: the field before, the woods behind; the white shines out\r\nagainst their blue; don’t you mark it? the only house in sight.”\r\n\r\nI looked; and after a time, to my surprise, recognized, more by its\r\nposition than its aspect, or Marianna’s description, my own abode,\r\nglimmering much like this mountain one from the piazza. The mirage haze\r\nmade it appear less a farm-house than King Charming’s palace.\r\n\r\n“I have often wondered who lives there; but it must be some happy one;\r\nagain this morning was I thinking so.”\r\n\r\n“Some happy one,” returned I, starting; “and why do you think that? You\r\njudge some rich one lives there?”\r\n\r\n“Rich or not, I never thought; but it looks so happy, I can’t tell how;\r\nand it is so far away. Sometimes I think I do but dream it is there.\r\nYou should see it in a sunset.”\r\n\r\n“No doubt the sunset gilds it finely; but not more than the sunrise\r\ndoes this house, perhaps.”\r\n\r\n“This house? The sun is a good sun, but it never gilds this house. Why\r\nshould it? This old house is rotting. That makes it so mossy. In the\r\nmorning, the sun comes in at this old window, to be sure—boarded up,\r\nwhen first we came; a window I can’t keep clean, do what I may—and half\r\nburns, and nearly blinds me at my sewing, besides setting the flies and\r\nwasps astir—such flies and wasps as only lone mountain houses know.\r\nSee, here is the curtain—this apron—I try to shut it out with then. It\r\nfades it, you see. Sun gild this house? not that ever Marianna saw.”\r\n\r\n“Because when this roof is gilded most, then you stay here within.”\r\n\r\n“The hottest, weariest hour of day, you mean? Sir, the sun gilds not\r\nthis roof. It leaked so, brother newly shingled all one side. Did you\r\nnot see it? The north side, where the sun strikes most on what the rain\r\nhas wetted. The sun is a good sun; but this roof, in first scorches,\r\nand then rots. An old house. They went West, and are long dead, they\r\nsay, who built it. A mountain house. In winter no fox could den in it.\r\nThat chimney-place has been blocked up with snow, just like a hollow\r\nstump.”\r\n\r\n“Yours are strange fancies, Marianna.”\r\n\r\n“They but reflect the things.”\r\n\r\n“Then I should have said, ‘These are strange things,’ rather than,\r\n‘Yours are strange fancies.’”\r\n\r\n“As you will;” and took up her sewing.\r\n\r","title":"Chunk 8"},"relationships":[{"peer":"01KG6YGB7ZRMGN7B1MPH0Y1BQ2","peer_type":"chapter","predicate":"in"},{"peer":"01KG6YDDF6PTWG4P7JTS5THSTD","peer_type":"file","predicate":"extractedFrom"},{"peer":"01KG6YCG626JN4FCG8QK17CQCF","peer_type":"collection","predicate":"collection"},{"peer":"01KG6YH8FMFKFTM4SXGVAYREV2","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"prev"},{"peer":"01KG6YH8FME5SN7TPAEHN2SDGQ","peer_type":"chunk","predicate":"next"}],"ver":2,"created_at":"2026-01-30T07:57:55.577Z","ts":"2026-01-30T07:58:02.250Z","edited_by":{"method":"manual","user_id":"01KFF0H3YRP9ZSM033AM0QJ47H"}}