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Updated: May 21, 2025
The tongue falters in giving them utterance; the pen trembles that records them. Such is the ghastly horror of a late tragedy in Edgecomb, in the State of Maine.
The snow had been cleared off of the narrow footpath, but the president of the great city bank was so deeply engrossed that he failed to take advantage of this singular demonstration of worthiness on the part of Edgecomb and his assistants so soon after the break of dawn. As a matter of fact, he had forgotten that it was Christmas morning.
A Thlinkit stole the sun and hid it in a box, but Yehl found it and set it so high in the heavens that none could touch it. Then the Thlinkits grew and spread abroad. But a great flood came, and all were swept away save two, who tossed long upon the flood on a raft of logs until Yehl pitied, and carried them to Mt. Edgecomb, where they dwelt until the waters fell."
"What is the matter?" he asked. "Nothing, only I am tired out," Edgecomb replied, wearily. "Sometimes I envy you." "Don't," said Anderson. "I do. This friction with new souls and temperaments is wearing my old one thin. I would rather sell butter and cheese." "Rather do anything than desert the battle-field you have chosen, because you are beaten," said Anderson, with sudden bitterness.
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