I will wager he
knew long since what manner of man I was and has measured me
to the fraction of an inch, and knows even the colour of my hair
and eyes from having been so long in my company. If not - well, I
shall have to write him a letter.
When Uncle Eb and I took the train for New York that summer day
in 1860, some fifteen years after we came down Paradise Road
with the dog and wagon and pack basket, my head, which, in that
far day, came only to the latitude of his trouser pocket, had now
mounted six inches above his own. That is all I can say here on
that branch of my subject. I was leaving to seek my fortune in the
big city; Uncle Eb was off for a holiday and to see Hope and bring
her home for a short visit. I remember with what sadness I looked
back that morning at mother and father as they stood by the gate
slowly waving their handkerchiefs. Our home at last was emptied
of its young, and even as they looked the shadow of old age must
have fallen suddenly before them. I knew how they would go back
into that lonely room and how, while the clock went on with its
ticking, Elizabeth would sit down and cover her face a moment,
while David would make haste to take up his chores.
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