I recollect that my first exploit in squirrel-shooting was in a grove of tall walnut-trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at noontime, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around and was prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes.
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They had always called it the green river. It made sense. The river was green. The river likely had a different official name, but to everyone in town, it was and had always been the green river. So it was with great surprise that on this day the green river was a fluorescent pink.
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He had disappointed himself more than anyone else. That wasn't to say that he hadn't disappointed others. The fact was that he had disappointed a lot of people who were close to him. The fact that they were disappointed in him was something that made him even more disappointed in himself. Yet here he was, about to do the exact same things that had caused all the disappointment in the first place because he didn't know what else to do.
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