Jeff gets there first:
Kana’tÃ¯ And Selu: The Origin Of Game And Corn
William J. Bishop
The Strange and WONDERFUL History of WILD BOY, an Indian Foundling
FIT THE FIRST
AN INSTRUMENT OF INTRODUCTION, as is proper, for the rendering of the tale of the WILD BOY, a Cherokee infant, whose MARVELOUS AND MYSTICAL JOURNEY was first related by an aged SORCERER of that selfsame TRIBE, and the VERACITY of which was STEADFASTLY attested to by the WIDOW of the FORMER MAYOR of the Town in which said WONDROUS EVENTS, even though otherwise wholly unsubstantiated, were said to have occurred SIXTY-THREE YEARS prior to this Author fixing them into print.
It would be preferred, naturally, that a tale as lacking in verisimilitude as the one forthcoming were related as Testimonials, or even Memorials, from the persons who were said to have participated in their unfolding. However, that transference not always being practical, or even desirable, on occasion the responsibility for enshrining these events in letters will fall to a man of lesser experience — particularly insofar as experiences directly relating to the story in question — and so certain details may necessarily be omitted, or else invented, perforce, by the Author to illustrate the heretofore oral odyssey in anything more than a strictly perfunctory manner. Such being the case in this instance, the Author shall endeavour to restrain himself when presented with dramatic possibilities that, while doubtlessly engaging, have no real basis or root in fact, and particularly when said paths would do nothing to Enlighten the Reader in ways that are illustrative of character motivation, psychological subtexts, natural proclivities, foibles, et cetera.
With those caveats firmly in mind, let us begin our tale with a house — nay, something more akin to a wigwam — the stile of which aspired to be something more grand than that which could be afforded. This stoic abode leaned unapologetically against the eastern side of a hill, nearer the bottom than the top of it, neatly impressing upon one the notion that this perhaps once proud refuge was in the midst of some precarious descent. Dear Reader, look not too closely upon this withering abode, for doubtless it cannot bear the burden of such heavy scrutiny; the glare of the eye, the cluck of the tongue: such immodest sighs of disapproval could — as mercilessly as a cyclone or some other vile, unrestrained intemperance, Natural or otherwise — shatter the footings of this tender hospice, and send the stones of its foundation tumbling down the hillside like so many acorns in the whirlwinds. O Gentle Reader, do restrain thyself, I beg of thee. Withhold thy judgment until this seemingly modest tale approaches its promised magical fruition. If then, perchance, the Reader’s appetite is yet unsated, consume then the house and its occupants. The Author will not interfere. But until then — as an indulgence, perhaps? — abate, be contented, and accompany us, arm in arm, on our incipient Journey…