They say that deep down through the briar, past the knotted willow, way round by the old oak tree lives a kind old man.
Old Man Witherbee.
They say if catch him at the right time, when the morning sunlight begins to glisten off of the sweet, hillside dew and if you ask politely, he’ll give you a tour of the old oak and show you a history of America that has long been forgotten by the books.
They’re wrong though.
That guy doesn’t know shit
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