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tales-of-Fogo-Island

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MYSTERYBy Pierce DwyerOne dull, dreary November daySome berries for to pickWill Hurley left his little cotAnd set out on a tripWith eyesight slightly growing dimNot far he planned to goLate autumn is a dangerous timeFor frost and rain and snow.When darkness cameNo Bill returnedNo search was started thenBut dawn it brought the hue and cryAnd many able men, did search his hauntsBoth high and low, but never once did traceA footstep, jacket, shouting noiseAnd least <strong>of</strong> all his face.There's some maintain until this dayHis footsteps led astrayHe stumbled through a rocky pathHe thought the proper wayIf so the body should be nearUpon the rugged shoreBut poor old Will was never seenAnd never will no more.There's many other sceptics, who doNot buy this taleAlthough they searched the countrysideO'er hill, through trees and daleOnly echoes answered, as they calledWith futile criesThe stars were only mocking,As they twinkled in the skies.

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