Now Paul's daddy was a little bit of a thing. By the time he was seven, young Paul could pick him up in one hand. He'd set his pa on a tall stump and then go on about playin'. Paul was allus into mischief. Weren't a dang thing the old man could do to stop Paul when he dug a big hole in the back yard with his bare hands. When the hole was knee-deep to him, the lad toed in a trench to let the ocean flow through. Them science fellers would tell you somethin' else, but that's how the Strait of Juan de Fuca and Puget Sound got made. Another time, he knocked the top off Mt. Rainier and filled it full of snow so's he could have somethin' cold for summer afternoons. But most times, he was a good boy and helped out at home. In fact, one day he cleared his pappy's field of all the rocks, stacked 'em up neat down the middle of the state. Nowadays they call the pile the Cascade Mountains.
Yep, Paul's our native son and we're right proud to own him. Lots o' little places show it too, like Morton. But only a few of us remember Paul himself, a man tall as the sky with a heart to match, but remember him we do, and no dang state with M in it's got more rights to his legacy than us'ns. Maybe he did have a twin brother. I ain't sayin' yea or nay, but Paul...Paul was a Washington boy.
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