It was a large
old-fashioned square farm-house, which had once boasted a coat of red
paint, but the winds and rains of many years had sadly marred its
beauty, so much so that, but for the patches of dull red still visible
beneath the eaves and round the windows, one would have been loth to
believe the old house had all been of a deep red. The high road lay
between the house and the long stretch of meadow-land which separated it
from the river. The picket fence in front of the dwelling was in rather
a dilapidated condition, and the gate, being minus a hinge, hung awry.
Many tall sunflowers stood in the narrow strip of ground between the
front fence and the house, and they were about all I could see in the
way of ornament. But with this rather shabby look there was after all
something inviting and attractive about the place, something that
suggested the idea of quiet and repose and cozy comfort. Reader, have
you never seen a home like Uncle Nathan's? I have seen many of them.
Little did I then think how, in course of time, I should learn to love
that old house and its inmates.
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