My Uncle's Story
How a Murderer Was Discovered by Dreams
Written for The Chicago Tribune
He was an old man—I should say full three score and ten—when I heard him tell this story. Although he has been dead many years, it is fixed so vividly in my mind that I can now call up from memory everything, every circumstance connected with it: the time, the place, the Christmas Eve, the blazing fire, the old man in his easy chair, the old cat Reuben playing at his feet; and even the very words in which he told it. I fancy I could imitate the very tones of his voice.
I have said he was an old man. He was more than that. He was the loveliest, the most amiable, the most enchanting man I ever knew. Let me describe his venerable person. I cannot, with poor, weak, human words, paint the beauties of his mind. He was tall and straight, of graceful and Kingly presence. His hair was white, very white, and flossy, and hung in thin curls to his splendidly-molded shoulders. His eye—Ah! how shall I paint it? Pigment ne’er went on palette that could be made to imitate it—was the tender, loving blue that could look more affection than most mortals are capable of expressing through all the senses. His face was beardless, round and rosy,—a face that a man would not be ashamed to kiss. His mouth was more than splendid, intellectual, clean-cut—such a mouth as a painter would delight to… Read More