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Bacheller, Irving, 1859-1950

"Eben Holden, a tale of the north country"

He came down shortly with one of
them clinging to his hand.
'Thunder!' said he, 'I had forgotten all about you. Let's go right
in to dinner.
He sat at the head of the table and I next to him. I remember how,
wearied by the day's burden, he sat, lounging heavily, in careless
attitudes. He stirred his dinner into a hash of eggs, potatoes, squash
and parsnips, and ate it leisurely with a spoon, his head braced
often with his left forearm, its elbow resting on the table. It was a
sort of letting go, after the immense activity of the day, and a
casual observer would have thought he affected the uncouth,
which was not true of him.
He asked me to tell him all about my father and his farm. At length
I saw an absent look in his eye, and stopped talking, because I
thought he had ceased to listen.
'Very well! very well!' said he.
I looked up at him, not knowing what he meant.
'Go on! Tell me all about it,' he added.
'I like the country best,' said he, when I had finished, 'because there
I see more truth in things.


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