EBEN HOLDEN'. LAST DAY A-FISHING By Irving Bacheller Author Of “Eben Holden” “Silas Strong” Etc. Etc. New York And London Harper & Brothers Publishers 1907 0006 0007 0009 A. BARTON HEPBURN FISHERMAN, HUNTER, FRIEND OF UNCLE EB, AND LOVER OF THE LAND IN WHICH HE DWELT, I DEDICATE THIS LITTLE VOLUME CONTENTS EBEN HOLDEN'S LAST DAY A-FISHING I II III EBEN HOLDEN'S LAST DAY A-FISHING I 8011 9011 NE morning in early June I was walking on a crowded thoroughfare. The earth had rolled suddenly into summer skies. Birds chattered in the parks, and I could hear a cock crow in a passing freight wagon. I stopped to listen, while he seemed to hurl defiance at his captors and all the noisy crowd, and bid them do their worst to him. His outcry put me in 8012 mind of my own imprisonment there in the rock-bound city. As I thought of it, I could see the green hills of the North all starred with dandelions; I could hear the full flow of the streams that pass between them—you know—and that evening we were on our way to Hillsborough. Uncle Eb, then a “likely boy” of eighty-six, and Elizabeth Brower and Lucinda Bisnette were still in the old home. We had quickly planned a holiday to be full of surprise and delight for them. They were in the midst of the days that are few and silent—those adorned with the fading flowers of old happiness and thoughts which are “the conclusion of the whole matter.” As for ourselves, we found them full of a peace and charm I would fain impart to those who read of them, if that 8013 were possible. I know well how feebly I shall do my task, but now, at last, a time is come when it seems to call me, and I can begin it with some hope and courage. I shall try not to write a book, nor a tale even, but mainly to gather a few flowers, now full grown, in the garden of remembrance. You that see it growing lovelier in the lengthening distance will understand me. Always, when our train went roaring into the quiet village, we used to look out of the car-window down across the river and a smooth stretch of fields into the edge of the little town. At a small, familiar opening in the shade-trees, almost half a mile from the train, we never failed to see the flicker of a white handkerchief. It signalled their welcome. And then—well, I doubt 8014 if any one may have in this world better moment. Yes—that was years ago, and there are strangers in the old home, but to this day every time I enter Hillsborough I look for that flicker of white, away off among the trees.