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to be at home. The winters...have no black foul
weather as at home, but a fine pure sky and bright
heavens. No storms as at home...no winds to shake
or rains to rot the corn. ...I cannot express the beauty
of the summer season; While I and my sons are
clearing ground, and go for a while to walk or rest
ourselves in the forest among the tall oaks on a
summer day, the sight of the heavens and the smell
of the air gives me pleasure which I cannot tell you
how great it is. When I sit down to rest, the breezes
of the southwest wind and the whispering noise it
makes in the top of the trees together with the fine
smell of the plants and flowers pleases us so
exceedingly that we are almost enchanted and
unwilling to part with such pleasure.
...In truth, I am sorry to hear of the great distress of
farmers and tradesmen in your country. You mention
that in your letter, but I have heard much more from
some folks I lately met with when I was at
Philadelphia; and so far as I understood the weavers
and other tradesmen, and also many farmers are in
far worse condition than they were when I came
away, in the year 1771, for it seems the tradesmen
cannot get employment and meal continues to be as
dear as it was.