"There was once upon a time a young boy who inherited a small mountain farm from his parents. He held his father’s farm so dear that he thought to himself that he would live here all his life. But often, when he looked out over his small plots of land, he wished that they might grow into large rolling fields and meadows. And when he looked at his two solitary cows, he wished that he could own a whole herd. And when one evening he took the time to properly consider the small, grey buildings, he wished that they were large and fine, both those for the crops and those for the livestock and those he lived in himself. Yet there was one thing he was wholly certain of, and that was that he would never trade away or sell his father’s farm – no, not for all the goods or gold in the world. After all, it was here that he had been born and raised - and round about stood the quiet forest and the mighty mountains, and the view down to the broader settlement and its sparkling river was so pleasant and so beautiful. And just below his best field lay the bluest of blue mountain lakes, blinking at him, reflecting the surrounding mountains."
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