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Updated: May 16, 2025
It was locked, but a twist of his muscular hands sufficed to break it open. Then he saw that it was a spring lock, and that, with grim, characteristic humour, Uncle Ebeneezer had placed the key inside the box. There were papers there and money, the coins and bills being loosely scattered about, and the papers firmly sealed in an envelope addressed "To Whom it May Concern."
Ebeneezer always lived plain, but we're all simple folks, not carin' much for style, so we never minded it. The air's good up here an' I dunno any better place to spend the Summer. My gracious! You be n't sick, be you?" "I don't know what to do," murmured Dorothy, her white lips scarcely moving; "I don't know what to do." "Well, now," responded Mrs. Dodd, "I can see that I've upset you some.
"Him," creaked Uncle Israel. "Him, as never see Ebeneezer." "He has never," continued the poet, with difficulty, "rung my door bell at night, nor eaten me out of house and home, nor written begging letters " this phrase was well-nigh inaudible "nor had fits on me " Here there was a pause and all eyes were fastened upon Uncle Israel. "'T wa'n't a fit!" he screamed.
"I lost the last when my dear mother died. She made me promise, during her last illness, that if anything happened to her, I would come to Uncle Ebeneezer. She said she had never imposed upon him and that he would gladly take care of me, for her sake. I was ill a long, long time, but as soon as I was able to, I came, and now and now "
Afterward, they made a fire in the parlour, even though the night was so warm that they were obliged to have all the windows open, and, inspired by the portrait of Uncle Ebeneezer, discussed the peculiarities of his self-invited guests. The sacrificial flame arising from the poet's bed directed the conversation to Mr. Perkins and his gift of song.
"Get out of my house, every one of you, before noon to-morrow, and the devil has my sincere sympathy when you go to live with him and make hell what you have made my house ever since Rebecca's death. "Ebeneezer Judson." The letter was badly written and incoherent, yet there could be no doubt of its meaning, nor of the state of mind in which it had been penned.
The pages were thickly strewn with marginal comments in the fine, small, shaky hand she had learned to associate with Uncle Ebeneezer. The paragraph about the skull, in the tree above the treasure, had evidently filled the last reader with unprecedented admiration, for on the margin was written twice, in ink: "A very, very pretty idea."
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