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by Philander Deming (Author), Frank Bergmann (Other)
In simple, darkly faceted stories, Philander Deming writes as a person whose childhood knowledge of the Adirondacks has been honed to a fine sense for its potential human tragedy.
He was lost in the edge of the Adirondack Wilderness. It must have been the sound of the flail. Willie was hardly four years old; and when once he was a few rods away from the barn, off on the plain monotonous yellow stubble, he could not tell where he was, and could not detect the deceptive nature of the sound and its echo. He could see nothing: whichever way he looked, wherever he walked, there were the same reverberations; and the same narrow dome of watery gray was everywhere shutting close down around him. As he followed the muffled sound, in his efforts to get back to the barn, it seemed to retreat from him, and her ran faster to overtake it. He ran on and on, and so was lost.
Philander Deming, a lawyer by training, worked as a court reporter and stenographer. He became a significant literary figure in regional writing in the late nineteenth century.
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