For some years, when a child, I used daily to pass the dwelling of
Uncle Ephraim, on my way to and from school. He was not my uncle; indeed
he bore no relationship whatever to me, but Uncle Ephraim was the
familiar appellation by which he was known by all the school-boys in the
vicinity. He was among the oldest residents in the section, and although
a very eccentric person, was much respected by all his neighbors. How
plainly do I yet remember him, after the lapse of so many years! His
tall figure, shoulders that slightly stooped, his florid complexion,
clear blue eyes, and hair bleached by the frosts of time to snowy
whiteness. The farm on which he resided had improved under the hand of
industry, till since my earliest recollection, it was in a state of high
cultivation. His dwelling was an old-fashioned structure, placed a
little back from the main road, and almost hidden from view by thick
trees. In an open space, a little to one side, was the draw-well with
its long pole and sweep; and I have often thought that I have never
since tasted such water as we used to draw from that well, as we used
often to linger for a few moments in Uncle Ephraim's yard on our return
from school during the hot summer afternoons.
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