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Story No. 14960
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Twisting and languishing in the unstoppable tide of mirth
which came as a result of yesterdays beaver hunt, Malcolm Imbago
had detested beavers from an early age. His abhorrance had began when
the belittling and snide remarks had become an everyday occurrence, chiding him like
Eric The Chider did back in the days of yore. Those were mighty times of chiding, when great armies clashed and chided each other until the fields ran red with scorn. But these were quieter, gentler times where
life seemed to flow like a fresh water spring.
