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    Friday, May 31st, 1889. The day before had been a solemn holiday. In every village veterans of the War for the Union had gathered; in every cemetery flowers had been strewn upon the grave-mounds of the heroic dead. Now the people were resuming the every-day toil. The weather was rainy. It had been wet for some days, Stony Creek and Conemaugh were turbid and noisy. The little South Fork, which ran into the upper end of the lake, was swollen into a raging torrent. The lake was higher than usual; higher then ever. But the valley below lay in fancied security, and all the varied activities of life pursued their wonted round.
    Friday, May 31st, 1889. Record that awful date in characters of funereal hue. It was a dark and stormy day, and amid the darkness and the storm the angel of death spread his wings over the fated valley, unseen unknown. Midday comes. Disquieting rumors rush down the valley. There is a roar of an approaching storm--


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Last Updated: 30 Mar 2008
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Lynne Canterbury and Diann Olsen