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Bacheller, Irving, 1859-1950

"Eben Holden, a tale of the north country"

He sent me away with nothing but
a great admiration of him. As a rule, the giants of that day were
plain men of the people, with no frills upon them, and with a way
of hitting from the shoulder. They said what they meant and meant
it hard. I have heard Lincoln talk when his words had the whiz of a
bullet and his arm the jerk of a piston.
John Trumbull invited McClingan, of whom I had told him much,
and myself to dine with him an evening that week. I went in my
new dress suit - that mark of sinful extravagance for which Fate
had brought me down to the pounding of rocks under Boss
McCormick. Trumbull's rooms were a feast for the eye - aglow
with red roses. He introduced me to Margaret Hull and her mother,
who were there to dine with us. She was a slight woman of thirty
then, with a face of no striking beauty, but of singular sweetness.
Her dark eyes had a mild and tender light in them; her voice a
plaintive, gentle tone, the like of which one may hear rarely if
ever. For years she had been a night worker in the missions of the
lower city, and many an unfortunate had been turned from the way
of evil by her good offices.


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