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THE ANCIENT ONE

ONE summer afternoon many years ago, a Haida
Indian boy sat upon a moss-covered log in a secluded
nook on the wooded hill behind Quasset, his father’s
village, and slowly polished a beautiful grease dish
which he had just finished. Already the surface was
as smooth to the touch as the inside of an abalone
shell, but he was not satisfied. Again and again he
rubbed it with the rough dried skin of a dogfish, his

keen eyes detecting every tiny ridge left by his crude
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