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Updated: June 12, 2025
Our bird we found sweetly berry-fed. The bitterness, if any, was that we had not a brace. So, at last, in an hour, after shooting one bird and swallowing six million berries, for the railroad was a shaft into a mine of them, we came to the terminus. The chewer of cuds was disconnected, and plodded off to his stable. The go-cart slid down an inclined plane to the river, the Penobscot.
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