#very marshy so lots of em

[catmemey]

never forgetting bug spray again. Im am distressingly itchy

[agirlnamedhagrid]

Get to Know Me Better

Thank you for the tag:  @ereborne! I always appreciate being tagged in these even if it takes me months to get around to filling them out!

Relationship status:  single

Favorite color(s):  Grayish purples and marshy greens and dusty pinks

Favorite food:  so many! But I’ll go with custards because so many of my favorite pastries and desserts are custard-based.

Song stuck in my head:  "Made You Look” by Meghan Trainor. Honorable mentions (because I get a lovely jukebox of snippets of all of them rolling through my brain simultaneously) include: “She Had Me at Heads Carolina” by Cole Swindell, “Thank God” by Kane & Katelyn Brown, “What My World Spins Around” by Jordan Davis, and “Heart Like a Truck” by Laine Wilson. It should be noted that I really resent Heart Like a Truck - I don’t care for it but damn it gets stuck in my head nonetheless.

Last thing you googled:  “Elves in lord of the rings” because I could not for the life of me remember Elrond’s name. I am ashamed.

Time:  11:14 p.m.

Dream trip: I really, really, really want to see Australia (mostly to visit the Australia Zoo) but also I desperately want to run away and spend more time in Ireland and see Scotland. Someday, maybe.

Last thing you read:  I just finished Hail Mary by Kandi Steiner. It’s a ridiculous college sports romance but it was exactly the fluffy break I needed after The Cruel Prince.

Last book you enjoyed reading: I don’t really read books I don’t enjoy to some extent. But the last book that I was gushing over and oh-so-happy about reading was The Kiss Curse by Erin Sterling.

Last book you hated reading: Okay, so the last book I really hated reading was a paranormal romance I borrowed off of Kindle Unlimited and it just. . . it was truly let down by terrible editing and a very muddy concept. It was bad. So bad. And marketed so poorly. What was advertised was not in anyway what I read.

Favorite thing to cook/bake: I have been really into entremets lately - little layered domes with a baked element, a mousse, and a fruity center and some sort of glaze or shell. It’s been lots of fun. I also really enjoy baking breads.

Favorite craft to do in your free time: I have been very into crochet lately! I am making lots of little stuffed creatures and truly loving it and I have a very exciting project planned for after my birthday. I am going to be making a snake with rows colored based on the books I finish reading in the course of a year. Like a temperature blanket, except a reading log snake.

Most niche dislike: I hate bananas. Can’t stand ‘em. They are the worst fruit. Also, possibly even weirder, I hate the stupid bandage tape they use with cottonballs whenever you give blood. I am allergic to the medical adhesive used in most of those things. Basically, if it ain’t Band-Aid brand, I don’t want it.

Opinion on circuses:  I went to one when I was younger. It was. . . okay? It was kind of overwhelming for me, even though they didn’t use many of the classic “circus” animals due to welfare concerns (yay! a big win!). I like ren faires, and I like feats of human ingenuity and creativity, but circuses are just a little off for me. And I especially don’t love circuses that don’t understand the ethics/welfare needs for animals they use.

Do you have any sense of direction: sort of? Don’t ask me road names/numbers, but give me landmarks or drop me somewhere and tell me to walk myself back to the car and I should be good.

Tell us about your D&D character: I have not played in years, but I have recently been invited to join an all-bard oneshot in a couple weeks? I’m really tempted but also pretty intimidated because I haven’t played in years and this would be a remote campaign with some potentially weird player dynamics. (The DM is one of my best friends who also happens to be my ex and the other players would be all female -- his girlfriend, his gf’s friend, and one of his old friends I never met. Although I have met his gf and she’s incredibly awesome, so maybe it’s just me seizing an excuse because I don’t know how to RP anymore.) I have to give them my decision by Wednesday and I have a built-in out of work stress, so all opinions and/or advice welcome :P

[scaryscarecrows]

What’s Left of God’s Light (May Not be Enough)

AN: I have been playing A Plague Tale: Innocence and very much enjoying it. I said I shouldn’t plunk the squad in there.

I did it anyway. For, um. Expanding my writerly horizons. Or something.

I totally did it for fun.

Also on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22956727

* * *

The air is thick with the stench of bodies, smoke, and terrified horses. Men are screaming. The ground, already marshy, is growing wetter with spilled blood. The creaking of the towers and the sounds of the catapults are so, so loud and to make matters worse, it’s starting to rain.

They’ve been here for three days. Three hellish days of death and pain and fear. Antoine thinks they’re losing. They started out organized but both sides have since devolved into the sort of savagery he hopes never to see again. At this point, all he wants is to make it out alive.

Night is falling, but with the sky already dark it almost doesn’t matter. He’s just pulling back to try and gather new bolts when there’s a new creak, a big creak, almost directly above him.

One of the towers is...very wet. Glistening, rain or no rain. And it smells of oil--oil--

“Move!” he shouts, unsure if there’s anyone that can hear him anyway. “Get out, get away from the--”

FWOOSH!

He scrambles backwards, trips on a body and ends up on his back in the mud.

God, please--

“We got ‘em on the run, boys!” Fucking English scum. “Keep after ‘em--what the hell?”

The ground’s shaking. He’d thought it was the tower, or even just the sheer number of people. But then the earth...it. It bubbles up, a few feet away from the tower. And then it just sort of...pops, like a boil, and black gunk spews out.

No. No, not gunk. Rats, it’s thousands of goddamn rats--THE BITE--

There’s a soldier, not twenty feet from him. He’s shadowed, making it impossible to tell which side he’s on. The swarm of rats stops, just for a second, and then, as one, they see him. And they rush him.

Antoine’s never seen anything like that. But he thinks maybe they’re scared. Bugs run at people, sometimes, and so do common mice. Maybe they’re scared.

“No, no-no, no--AUGH!”

One minute, the man is standing in the mud. The next, they’re all over him they’re all over him. And then...then he’s...he’s not there, anymore. When the swarm moves on, Antoine can just make out white bones before they sink into the muck.

There’s more rumbling, and the squeaking reaches a new volume that nearly drowns out the screams of men and horses alike. In the distance, he can see more earth-boils spewing rats. God, where is he supposed to--what can he--

“The light!” That sounds like Jason. Where is he…? “Get in the light, come on! Move!”

He scrambles to his feet and stumbles as close to the burning tower as he dares. In the distance, he can just make out a horse and cart stopped by a small torch, but that torch won’t last in this rain.

“Here!” he shouts. Come on, come on, there has to be something--there! A heap of straw, if it’s not too damp. “I’ll try to light that, be ready to move!”

“Okay!” Mark’s voice. Why is he out here? Never mind…

He’s always been a little skittish, shooting fire at anything. There’s no time to aim, hardly, and one mistake…

But this has gone beyond battle and straight to the end of all things.

By the grace of God, the haystack lights up and the cart is moving, careening over bodies and rats alike to get to it. It stops, just for a few seconds, before going again, this time towards Antoine.

There’s three people, all told. Frank, who’s driving, Mark, who’s clutching a barely-burning lantern, and Jimmy, who looks green. The horse is terrified, eyes rolling in panic, but he’s still enough, blowing hard but not looking completely likely to bolt. 

“Easy, old man, easy,” he murmurs, more out of habit than anything. His voice shakes in his own ears and he doubts the horse is soothed in the least. “What’s happening?”

“I don’t know.” Frank sounds just as bad. “I don’t know, they came out of nowhere--”

“I saw--”

“Why are they acting like this--”

“God in Heaven--”

“Stay in the light!” Where is he? “Stay in the light, they’re afraid of it!”

The rats rush something. Antoine doesn’t know what, he can’t see and he doesn’t want to and--

There’s a terrific THUD! followed by angry squeaking and Trent’s thunderous voice going, “Get back, you sorry little bastards!”

Trent’s easier to spot, especially when he rears back and brings his flail down on a section of rats just outside the reach of his flickering torch.

“Here!” he shouts. “Make a run for it before the fire goes!”

“What do we do?” Jimmy’s whispering. He’s in Mark’s personal space, but Mark either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “This isn’t...I’ve never seen rats act like this, what’s happening?”

Trent narrowly avoids skidding into the cart, Riley slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Riley’s not hurt, but he is the one holding the torch.

“Did you see anyone else?”

“No. No, we heard Jason, just after the ground opened up, but we didn’t see him.”

The screaming has scaled way back. No more horses, fewer men. The storm’s picked up, though, and Antoine is suddenly struck with the fear that the burning tower...might not stay burning.

It’s dark. It’s so damn dark, except for the spots of torchlight dotted throughout the field. And the ground’s still moving, the rats swarming over the bodies. Three days’ worth of corpses, two armies of men, and they’re going through it like pigs go through corn.

He doesn’t want to die here.

He steps back, closer to the horse and the fire, and strains to see anything, anything at all besides the writhing ground.

“There!” What? What now? “I think that’s--Jason! Is that you?”

Oh. There’s a bit of light. Not a lot of light, but a bit. Enough, for the moment.

“Yeah!” The figure jabs the light at the encroaching shadow and it recoils, squeaking. “How many made it?”

“Six!”

“I’ve got another one!” But for how long? “Is there.” He stops, suddenly, and maybe the world is going to end, because Antoine’s seen this idiot stare down a sword to his throat and laugh. Frank had been furious. “Is there any way you can make a path for us?”

They can’t make it to them with a torch, not in this rain. But...there’s piles of plant matter, and a handful of stick bundles they’ve all been using for tools and torches and weapons.

“Are either of you injured?”

“No!”

Good. Okay.

“I’m going to light you a path!” he calls over. “Be ready to run!”

The first stack of plants goes up just as the other light goes out and they all cringe, bracing for the screams. But they don’t come, and a second later, there’s two figures in the firelight. Maybe they can pull this off. It’s only maybe...four, five more lights to get to them. They can do this.

Eventually, they’re close enough that Antoine can see who Jason’s got with him. It’s Martin, a kid-literally, he’s maybe fifteen-who got caught up in all the lies about glory and what-have-you. Antoine’s relieved to see him alive.

“All right,” Jason’s saying, half-shouting to be heard over the downpour, “you go first, and I’ll be right behind you. You ready?”

“Yes.”

“Go.”

They sprint for it, ground shrieking as they dash through, and Trent thrusts an arm out to half-lift Martin into the safety of the light. Jason skids in after him, gasping for breath and nearly bowling Antoine over before he can stop.

There’s no more screams, now. Just skittering and squeaking and...feeding noises.

“What now?”

Frank jerks his head towards the cart.

“You may as well get out of the mud,” he says. “Away from the...from the edge.”

It’s the best they’ve got. They clamber in and Frank tugs Martin against his side with a soft, “Just don’t look anymore. You don’t need to see this.”

“They’re everywhere--”

“Shh. Don’t. Just don’t.”

They sit quietly, just breathing and shaking and stealing glances at the carnage in the dark. The horse stomps the mud and Antoine leans over to give it what he hopes comes off as a reassuring pat. Horses are either paranoid idiots or obscenely understanding, and there is no in-between.

Jimmy’s the one that finally speaks, voice thick and shaky.

“Think there’s anyone else?”

Jason shrugs.

“I don’t know. I didn’t--I didn’t see anyone, but maybe...maybe...I don’t know.”

“We’re gonna die,” Martin whispers frantically. “We’re gonna die, we’re gonna die--”

“Shh.” Frank rubs his shoulders. “We’re gonna be fine, we just have to…”

“Is anyone hurt?” Antoine’s never been gladder to hear Mark’s ‘give me no horseshit or on my mother’s grave, I’ll beat you with your own severed limb’ tone. So there’s a shake to it. That’s understandable.

There’s a chorus of ‘nos’ and a head-shake from Riley. It’s something.

“You’re all sure? Nobody was bitten?”

More ‘nos’. Riley hops out to check the horse, which doesn’t terribly appreciate the poking, judging by the suddenly flat ears.

He gives them a thumbs up, though, before hefting himself back into the cart. Good. Good. Antoine’s not sure if animals can be...Bitten...but he’d rather not contend with a crazy horse or anything. 

“What do we do?”

“I don’t know.”

“We pray,” Trent says tiredly. “That’s the best idea I’ve got.”

Nobody else has a better solution, and they all join hands. On an afterthought, Antoine leans over to put his hand on the horse. It deserves to be included. Martin apparently agrees.

“You may as well lead us, then,” Jason tells Trent. “This is your idea.”

In better circumstances, that might have been met with a, what, you’d rather me struck down than you? followed by a friendly back-and-forth. But tonight, Trent just nods, takes a deep breath, and rumbles, “Our Father in Heaven…”

Now they just have to hope the tower continues to burn until...theoretically dawn, but...maybe there won’t be a dawn. Maybe the world’s over.

God, he doesn’t want to die out here.

THE END

[midwesterndays]

Superior Hiking Trail (Sugarloaf - Lutsen)

In August, my husband and I are heading to Peru to hike the 81 mile Cordillera Huayhuash circuit.  That hike is at very high elevations so, in order to try to train for it in Minnesota, we headed up North in search of hills (just hills, that’s all we’ve got here in the great pains).

We decided to hike about 30 miles from Sugarloaf to Lutsen ‘Mountain’ in 3 days and 4 nights.  We planned this trip over 4th of July weekend so when we finally got off work and headed up North we were faced with gnarly traffic.  We arrived up at Lutsen around 8 PM where we met our hiking buddy Lee.  We grabbed some food, left Lee’s car at Lutsen and took my car to the starting point (we parked our car on Sugarloaf Rd).  On the way we dropped a cooler in the woods 5 miles short of what would be our second campsite filled with some cold beverages and frozen hobo dinners.  We like little luxuries (this turned out to be not a great idea).

Day/Night 1:

By the time we parked our car it was 10:30 at night and we hiked about one mile in to our first campsite (Sugarloaf pond).  The site was small and the water source was kinda marshy and not ideal... that didn’t matter to us so early in the hike but just making note of it.  On the brightside, we ventured out to the marsh after setting up camp only to be greeted by hundreds of fireflies.  It was magical.  The highlight of day 1 for sure.  I tried to take some night time photos of them but Eric brought the wrong tripod :/

Day 2:

This was our first real day of hiking, we went 10.5 miles to the first of four campsites near the Cross River.  We made two tough discoveries as we were starting out, 1.  The trail was muddy, very muddy, 3-4″ of mud covering about 90% of the trail.  It was really tough to hike through and slippery made even more difficult by our packs. 2.  Our packs were way too heavy. The bright spot of the morning was crossing some old railroad tracks in a field of wild flowers.   A few hours in we were all hurting and then we stumbled upon our cooler stashed at Cramer Road...  We packed up the hobo dinners and then were faced with the 10 beverages that had to be added to the already heavy packs.  Eric and Lee each had one and then Eric piled ‘em in his pack and we headed on our way.  This extra weight effected Eric for sure.  We rolled into our campsite at Cross River around 4 in the afternoon exhausted.  Luckily we were greeted by warm, friendly people and we had a fun night hanging out with them.  (side note - if you can push it a little further one of the other campsites (maybe the forth) is actually ON the Cross River... super nice site, I wish we’d have stayed there)

Day 3:

The next morning we packed up camp around 8, grabbed granola bars and said goodbye to the good people we met.  We were off for another 10 mile day through mud, mud and more mud.  The first half of this hike is really pretty with Cross River and the Temperance River.  We must have spent an hour sunning on the rocks at Temperance before moving on.  It was a highlight for sure.  The afternoon was a hike up Carlton peak which was visually beautiful when you had brief moments outside of the green tunnel.  Eric twisted his ankle somewhere around here and his pace slowed to a crawl.  We trudged our way to our next campsite Dyers Creek Camp - it was an OK site.  Here we ran into one of the groups from the night before and a father and grown son.  Again, the people were so nice and it’s just great to sit around a campfire and meeting new people.  I was sleeping by 8:30 sore and exhausted.

Day 4:

Break down camp, eat granola bar, say goodbyes and head out for another 10 mile day.  We are all very sore at this point.  Lees knee hurt and Eric’s twisted ankle is puffy and painful. We feel like we are falling apart, I was worried about Eric’s ankle being ready for Peru and we had heard rumors that if we made it to the top of Moose 'Mountain’ we could take a gondola down.  The second Eric heard that his mind was made up.  And THEN we found another way to take some of the strain off ourselves and after our first 5 miles of hiking that morning (through more mud mud mud) we dropped our packs at a parking lot to finish the last 5 miles without packs.  It was a long climb to the top of the mountains.  Lee saw a bear on the trail (he was walking in front of us) I missed him :\ There were some cool rocks and nice vistas.  Most of this trail is a green tunnel so any views are very much appreciated.  And then, we found the gondola.  $17 per person to be transported to a bar/grill.  That’s priceless if you ask me.  Also at the top gondola there is a cafe where you can get a coffee and take in Lake Superior - pretty nice. 

(side note: after Britton peak there is Leveaux Pond and there is a super cool campsite there)

I don’t think we failed on this trip, we made it pretty much all the way save the final descent.  And we did add some mileage hiking to the gondola.  I think Eric and I learned a lot in terms of our future hike in Peru: 1.  Get water bladders for our packs  2.  Get a few more wicking shirts 3. And most importantly, try to take the time to stop and look around, snap some pics, enjoy where we are - we both regret not doing that more on this hike we really just put our heads down and powered through and that’s a shame.

Highlights:

The people we met

The fireflies by sugarloaf

Temperance River

The top of Carlton Peak (not the views but the rocky climb at the top)

Lowlights:

The mud

The mosquitos

Heavy packs

Our days were so long that we couldn’t take the spur trails to see the overlooks and that’s a huge bummer

[backcountryquotes]

Earl Howell Reed, The Dune Country, 1916

Page 9: While many interesting volumes could be filled by pencil and pen, this story of the dunes and the “back country” has been condensed as much as seems consistent with the portrayal of their essential characteristics.

Page 69: One morning we missed Billy, and we possibly have never seen him since. He may have answered “the call of the wild” and joined the black company that goes over into the back country in the morning and returns to the bluffs at night, or he may have fallen a victim to indiscriminating overconfidence in mankind — a misfortune that is not confined to crows.

Page 71: They probably flew over into the back country, where food was more abundant and where they were subjected to less observation.

Page 89: It was Sipes’s custom to take the old shotgun over into the marshes of the back country, and shoot ducks in the fall and spring. His ideas of killing ducks were worthy of the Stone Age, for it was meat that he sought, and not sport. He always “killed ‘em settin’,” and would “lay fer ‘em ‘till fifteen er twenty got in a bunch, an’ then let ‘em ‘ave both bar’ls.

Page 103: “Swanson an’ Burke took my gun an’ went over in the back country an’ shot some tame ducks an’ brought ‘em back to the shanty an’ wanted me to fix ‘em up to cook. When I was picking’ ‘em on the beach the owners come over. They’d heard the shots an’ they found some tracks an’ seen where they was some feathers. I told ‘em I didn’t have nothin’ to do with it, but as I was settin’ there undressin’ the fowls they seemed to think I had, an’ I had a lot o’ trouble fixin’ things up.

Page 108: Pete got in contact with a voracious bulldog, that came from somewhere over in the back country; and in the final analysis — in which the two animals participated — Pete was left in a badly mangled condition.

Page 112: “The real facts is ‘e lived over in the back country fer twenty years, an’ ‘e was chased into the hills by ‘is wife an’ mother-in-law fer good an’ sufficient reasons. He handed me all that dope oncet about some girl ‘e was stock on some ‘res down south. It’s all right fer an old cuss like ‘I’m to set ‘round an’ talk, but ‘e was just ‘avin’ dizzy dreams, an’ you fergit ‘em. If ‘e’d only tell the truth, the way I always do, ‘e wouldn’t never have no trouble, an’ folks would ‘ave some respect fer ‘I’m, like they do fer me.”

Page 118: John knew most of the outcasts along the beach for many miles. He occasionally visited some of them, particularly Sipes, to obtain extra supplies of fish, with an old gray horse and a dilapidated buggy frame — both of which were also rheumatic. On the wheels back of the seat he had mounted a big covered box for the fish, which he peddled over into the back country. Some of the fish were very dead, and the whole box was replete with mystery and suspicion.

Page 130: We proceeded about half a mile along the shore, and took the road that led through the sand hills into the back country. When we got to the marshy strip, we bumped along over the corduroy for quite a distance, but the road became better when we got to higher ground. As soon as we arrived on firm soil, Napoleon stopped. A fat man with a green basket was advancing hurriedly along the edge of the thin timber, about a quarter of a mile away, and the horse probably surmised that his coming was in some way connected with a rest.

Page 134: We approached a weather-beaten house standing near the road. A middle-aged woman in a gingham dress and brown shawl stood near the face. The nondescript rig had been seen coming. Travelers on the road in the back country are so rare that a passing vehicle is an event; it is always observed, and its mission thoroughly understood, if possible. In no case during the day were we compelled to announce our arrival.

Page 195: Among the most interesting of the marsh dwellers is the muskrat. This active little animal is an ever-present element in the life of the sloughs, and he is the most industrious live thing in the back country. His numerous families thrive and increase, in spite of vigilant enemies that besiege them. The larger owls, the foxes, minks, and steel traps are their principal foes.

Page 197: The muskrats are great travelers, and roam over the meadows, through the ravines, up and down the creeks, and around on the sand hills, in search of food and adventure. They run along the lake shore at night, and their tracks are found all over the beach. Their well-beaten paths radiate in all directions from their homes. They are not entirely lovable, but the back country would be desolate indeed without them.

Page 201: A man of perhaps forty, but who looks to be fifty, rather tall and spare, with bent shoulders and shambling step, appears after a few minutes. His shaved upper lip and long chin whiskers strictly conform to the established customs of the back country.

Page 203: Time slumbers in the back country. The weekly paper is the only printed source of news from the outside, and, with the addition of a monthly farm magazine, with its woman’s department, constitutes the literature of the home. These periodicals are read by the light of the big kerosene lamp on the table in the middle of the room, and the facts and opinions found in them become gospel.

Page 212: The stock of merchandise was varied, but there was very little of any one kind, except plug tobacco. Over a case containing several large boxes of this necessity of life in the back country was a strip of cardboard, on which was inscribed, “Don’t use the nasty stuff.” Under a wall lamp was another placard, “This flue don’t smoke, neither should you.” Other examples of the proprietor’s wit were scattered along the edges of the shelves, and on the walls, and helped to impart an individual character to the place. Among them were, “Don’t be bashful. You can have anything you can pay for.” “This store is not run by a trust.” “No setting on the counter — this means you!” “Credit gives only on Sundies, when the store is closed.” “Don’t talk about the war — it makes me sick.”

Page 215: It was indeed strange destiny that took the sardine, flashing his bright sides in the blue Mediterranean, and left him immured on a musty shelf in a store in the back country. It he, with the contents of the cans around him, could return to life, there would be a motley company.

Page 225: When the time comes to “git home to supper,” the dilapidated vehicles begin to crawl out into the fading light and disappear. They carry the pessimists and the few necessaries which they have bought at the store — some molasses, sugar, tea and coffee, possibly a new shovel, some nails, and always a plentiful supply of plug tobacco, a great deal of which is filtered into the soil of the back country. Some eggs, butter, vegetables, and other produce of the little farm has been left in payment.

Page 229: The road leading from the lake, through the sand hills, and the low stretches of the back country, over to the sleepy village, is broken — and badly broken — by numerous sections of corduroy reinforcements, which have been laid in the marshy places, across small creeks and quagmires. The portion of the road near the lake is seldom traveled. Occasionally, during the hot weather, a wagonload of people will come over from the sleepy village, and from the little farms along the road, and go into the lake to get cool. They will then spend the rest of the day sweltering on the hot sand to get warm, and return at night.

Page 232: In talking with Sipes, one afternoon, about some of the roads in the back country, he suggested that we take a walk over to the Judge’s house and see him. “The Jedge has got a map that’s got all them things on it. The ol’ feller deals in law, an’ land, an’ fire insurance, an’ everythin’ else.”

Page 256: The Winding River begins miles away and steals down through the back country. It curves and runs through devious channels and makes wide detours, before it finally flows out through the sand hills into the great lake.

Page 260: A crude mill-race has been dug parallel to the river’s course, and the clumsy old-fashioned wheel is slowly and noisily churning away under the side of the mill. The structure was once painted a dull red, but time has blended it into a warm neutral gray. Some comparatively recent repairs on the sides and roof give it a mottled appearance, and add picturesque quality. A few small houses are scattered along the road leading to the mill, and the general store is visible among the trees farther back, for the little boat has now come to the sleepy village in the back country. There are no railroad trains or trolley cars to desecrate its repose, for these are far away. Several slowly moving figures appear on the road. There is an event of some kind down near the mill, and the well-worn chairs on the platform in front of the store have been deserted. Whatever is going on must be carefully inspected and considered at once.

Page 263: The story of the eventful day percolates from the store off into the back country, and weeks later we hear it from a rheumatic old dweller in the marshy land, near the beginning of the sand hills. He unfortunately “wasn’t to town” at the time.

Page 280: Occasionally an imperfect or unfinished arrow or spearhead appears among the refuse, which the patient artificer discarded. Many perfect specimens are found, but these are seldom discovered near the sites of the rude workshops. They are uncovered by the shifting sands in the “blow outs,” where the winds eddy on the sides of hills that may have held their secrets for centuries, and turned up out of the fertile soil in the back country, by the plowshares of a race that carried the bitter cup of affliction to the aborigine.