The Land That Time Forgot, by Edgar Rice Burroughs 2/160 | Previous page | Next page |

The Land That Time Forgot, by Edgar Rice Burroughs


I am here and here must remain.

After reading this far, my interest, which already had been

stimulated by the finding of the manuscript, was approaching

the boiling-point. I had come to Greenland for the summer, on the

advice of my physician, and was slowly being bored to extinction,

as I had thoughtlessly neglected to bring sufficient reading-matter.

Being an indifferent fisherman, my enthusiasm for this form of

sport soon waned; yet in the absence of other forms of recreation

I was now risking my life in an entirely inadequate boat off Cape

Farewell at the southernmost extremity of Greenland.

Greenland! As a descriptive appellation, it is a sorry joke–but my

story has nothing to do with Greenland, nothing to do with me; so I

shall get through with the one and the other as rapidly as possible.

The inadequate boat finally arrived at a precarious landing, the

natives, waist-deep in the surf, assisting. I was carried ashore,

and while the evening meal was being prepared, I wandered to and

fro along the rocky, shattered shore. Bits of surf-harried

beach clove the worn granite, or whatever the rocks of Cape

Farewell may be composed of, and as I followed the ebbing tide

down one of these soft stretches, I saw the thing. Were one

The Land That Time Forgot, by Edgar Rice Burroughs 2/160 | Previous page | Next page |

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