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This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 273 pages of information about Eben Holden, a tale of the north country.

‘I’d lay me doun an’ dee,’ I said.

And I well remember how, when I lay dying, as I believed, in rain and darkness on the bloody field of Bull Run, I thought of that moment and of those words.

‘I cannot say such beautiful things as you,’ she answered, when I asked her to describe her ideal.  ’He must be good and he must be tall and handsome and strong and brave.’

Then she sang a tender love ballad.  I have often shared the pleasure of thousands under the spell of her voice, but I have never heard her sing as to that small audience on Faraway turnpike.

As we came near Rickard’s Hall we could hear the fiddles and the calling off.

The windows on the long sides of the big house were open.  Long shafts of light shot out upon the gloom.  It had always reminded me of a picture of Noah’s ark that hung in my bedroom and now it seemed to be floating, with resting oars of gold, in a deluge of darkness.  We were greeted with a noisy welcome, at the door.  Many of the boys and girls came, from all sides of the big hall, and shook hands with us.  Enos Brown, whose long forelocks had been oiled for the occasion and combed down so they touched his right eyebrow, was panting in a jig that jarred the house.  His trouser legs were caught on the tops of his fine boots.  He nodded to me as I came in, snapped his fingers and doubled his energy.  It was an exhibition both of power and endurance.  He was damp and apologetic when, at length, he stopped with a mighty bang of his foot and sat down beside me.  He said he was badly out of practice when I offered congratulations.  The first fiddler was a small man, with a short leg, and a character that was minus one dimension.  It had length and breadth but no thickness.  He sat with his fellow player on a little platform at one end of the room.  He was an odd man who wandered all over the township with his fiddle.  He played by ear, and I have seen babies smile and old men dance when his bow was swaying.  I remember that when I heard it for the first time, I determined that I should be a fiddler if I ever grew to be a man.  But David told me that fiddlers were a worthless lot, and that no wise man should ever fool with a fiddle.  One is lucky, I have since learned, if any dream of yesterday shall stand the better light of today or the more searching rays of tomorrow.

‘Choose yer partners fer Money Musk!’ the caller shouted.

Hope and I got into line, the music started, the circles began to sway.  Darwin Powers, an old but frisky man, stood up beside the fiddlers, whistling, with sobriety and vigour, as they played.  It was a pleasure to see some of the older men of the neighbourhood join the dizzy riot by skipping playfully in the corners.  They tried to rally their unwilling wives, and generally a number of them were dancing before the night was over.  The life and colour of the scene, the fresh, young faces of the girls some of them models of rustic beauty — the playful antics of the young men, the merrymaking of their fathers, the laughter, the airs of gallantry, the glances of affection — there is a magic in the thought of it all that makes me young again.

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