The Land That Time Forgot

By Edgar Rice Burroughs

Page 0

The Land that Time Forgot


Edgar Rice Burroughs

Chapter 1

It must have been a little after three o'clock in the afternoon that it
happened--the afternoon of June 3rd, 1916. It seems incredible that
all that I have passed through--all those weird and terrifying
experiences--should have been encompassed within so short a span as
three brief months. Rather might I have experienced a cosmic cycle,
with all its changes and evolutions for that which I have seen with my
own eyes in this brief interval of time--things that no other mortal
eye had seen before, glimpses of a world past, a world dead, a world so
long dead that even in the lowest Cambrian stratum no trace of it
remains. Fused with the melting inner crust, it has passed forever
beyond the ken of man other than in that lost pocket of the earth
whither fate has borne me and where my doom is sealed. 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 to bump into a Bengal tiger in the ravine behind
the Bimini Baths, one could be no more surprised than was I to see a
perfectly good quart thermos bottle turning and twisting in the surf of
Cape Farewell at the southern extremity of Greenland. I rescued it, but
I was soaked above the knees doing it; and then I sat

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