He remarked in my presence at a later time, "I learned to walk
in the furrows of a New Hampshire farm and the clogging clay has stuck
to my feet ever since."
His voice was thin and high-pitched, a small voice for such a big man,
as we thought, and he had an abrupt manner of withdrawing attention that
was to us rather disconcerting until we got used to it. His pockets were
bulging with newspapers and memoranda, scrawled in the curiously obscure
handwriting which I subsequently found much difficulty in learning to
read, though it was plain enough when the meaning of the strange
hieroglyphics intended for letters was once fully understood. He was
pressed with business during his brief visits but found time to make
friends with the juveniles of the family and we learned to welcome him
with real pleasure. My mother noted that we made him smile, and that
went far in establishing intimacy. Horace Greeley's rare smile revealed
beauty of character and that charity commended by St. Paul as greater
than faith or hope; a smile more nearly angelic than we often see in
this mundane environment.
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