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Bacheller, Irving, 1859-1950

"Eben Holden, a tale of the north country"

A few more steps and it burst into a peal of laughter that
lasted half the year as it tumbled over narrow shelves of rock into
a foamy pool. Many a day I had sat fishing for hours at the little
fall under a birch tree, among the brakes and moss. No ray of
sunlight ever got to the dark water below me - the lair of many a
big fish that had yielded to the temptation of my bait. Here I lay in
the cool shade while a singular sort of heart sickness came over
me. A wild partridge was beating his gong in the near woods all
the afternoon. The sound of the water seemed to break in the
tree-tops and fall back upon me. I had lain there thinking an hour
or more when I caught the jar of approaching footsteps. Looking
up I saw Jed Feary coming through the bushes, pole in hand.
'Fishin'?' he asked.
'Only thinking,' I answered.
'Couldn't be in better business,' said he as he sat down beside me.
More than once he had been my father confessor and I was glad he
had come.
'In love?' he asked. 'No boy ever thinks unless he's in love.


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