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Bacheller, Irving, 1859-1950

"Eben Holden, a tale of the north country"

The little company of graduates
trembled with fright as the people crowded in to the church,
whispering and faring themselves, in eager anticipation. As the
former looked from the two side pews where they sat, many
familiar faces greeted them - the faces of fathers and mothers
aglow with the inner light of pride and pleasure; the faces of many
they loved come to claim a share in the glory of that day. I found
my own, I remember, but none of them gave me such help as that
of Uncle Eb. However I might fare, none would feel the pride or
disgrace of it more keenly than he. I shall never forget how he
turned his head to catch every word when I ascended the platform.
As I warmed to my argument I could see him nudging the arm of
David, who sat beside him, as if to say, 'There's the boy that came
over the hills with me in a pack basket.' when I stopped a moment,
groping for the next word, he leaned forward, embracing his knee,
firmly, as if intending to draw off a boot. It was all the assistance
he could give me.


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