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Updated: May 21, 2025
It sounded strangely like the last phrase of "dear Uncle Ebeneezer's last communication," and, trembling, the disconsolate poet obeyed. He fled to his own room as a storm-tossed ship to its last harbour, and renewed the composition of his epic on "Disappointment," for which, by this time, he had additional material. Harlan went back to his work, but the mood was gone.
In spite of his laughing protest, she went into the library, locked the door, and curled up in Uncle Ebeneezer's easy chair with a well-thumbed volume of Poe, finding a two-dollar bill used in one place as a book mark. She read for some time, then took down another book, which opened of itself at "The Gold Bug."
Perkins, "to think that dear Uncle Ebeneezer's last words should be given to us in this unexpected but original way." "Shut up," said Mrs. Smithers, emphatically, "and read them last words. I'm gettin' the pneumony now, that's wot I am." "You're the only one," chirped Mrs. Dodd, hysterically. "The money in this here box is all old." It was, indeed. Mr.
Still the stern, malicious face held her spellbound, and even when Harlan came in with his load of wood, she could not turn away. "Now," he said, "we'll start a fire and hang ourselves up to dry." "What is it?" asked Dorothy, her lips scarcely moving. His eyes followed hers. "Uncle Ebeneezer's portrait," he answered. "Why, Dorothy Carr! I believe you're scared!"
I've cooked my own food an' brought most of it, an' provided all my own medicines, an' even took my bed with me, goin' an' comin'. Ebeneezer's beds is all terrible drafty I took two colds to once sleepin' in one of 'em an' at my time of life 't ain't proper to change beds. Sleepin' in a drafty bed would undo all the good of bein' near the sanitarium.
The rented typewriter, with its enticing bank of keys, was close at hand. A thousand sheets of paper and a box of carbon waited in the drawer of Uncle Ebeneezer's desk. His worn Thesaurus of English Words and Phrases was at his elbow. And they were poor. Then Harlan laughed, for they were no longer poor, and he had wholly forgotten it.
The chickens were clucking peacefully in their corner of Uncle Ebeneezer's dooryard, and the newly acquired bossy cow mooed unhappily in her improvised stable. Harlan had christened the cow "Maud" because she insisted upon going into the garden, and though Dorothy had vigorously protested against putting Tennyson to such base uses, the name still held, out of sheer appropriateness.
All but the last few pages in the book were covered with fine writing, in ink which was brown and faded, but still legible. It was Uncle Ebeneezer's penmanship throughout, except for a few entries at the beginning, in a fine, flowing feminine hand, which Dorothy instantly knew was Aunt Rebecca's.
The kitchen clock struck next, with short, quick strokes, followed immediately by a casual record of the hour from the clock on the mantel beneath Uncle Ebeneezer's portrait. Then the grandfather's clock in the hall boomed out twelve, solemn funereal chimes. Afterward, the silence seemed acute. "The end of the honeymoon," said Dorothy, a little sadly, with a quick, inquiring look at her husband.
"Sometimes," interrupted the poet, in a low tone, "when I have felt especially near to Uncle Ebeneezer's spirit, I have barely glanced in secret places where I have felt he might expect me to look for it, but, so far, I have been wholly unsuccessful, though I know that I plainly read his thought." "Some word some clue did he give you none?"
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