Block · one region of the page, as the scanner read it. It may hold a whole story, part of one, several, or an advertisement; stitching blocks into articles is the next step. Text is supplied OCR.
Page 2 · column 6 of 9 · from the scan, no model involved
stuffs skinny legs into his Long lohns. He howls with anguish as :he hibernating wasp stings him right in the vou-kno\yhere. In the early dawn a squirrel nunter cradles his gun while he matches the acrobatics of two greys as they race each other madly around a tree. He marvels at the biggest paper nest of white faced hornets he ever saw. Should fie cut it now or, be sure, - later, rhe moon has changed introducing November, the concluding chapter of Autumn. It’s a month to love and a month to cuss. Fickle as a phantom, the weather spreads its beaming warmth on Red Oak Mountain’s final picnic. The day is a weather breeder. Next morning misery bits with both barrels. The rain pouring over leaf-stuffed gutters bits the unsuspecting neck. There’s a chill in the darkness, and dampness, and fog. Old arthritis shoots needles through the joints. The worryin’ asthma kicks and old Leroy is obliged to find a late farrowing hog in 2 feet of mud. The night is misty and blue with hot cussin’. It’s what provokes folks to say, “I hate Fall.” It’s the condition that makes beautiful Autumn just a dismal prelude to Winter and the wood stove. The rain has cleared but November in cahoots with plunging temperatures now destroys a season of art in a single night.
A mountain of tapestry is disappearing as the dropping leaves form a new mosaic on the ground below. It’s a frosty invigorating morning, and you are the you in the picture. Two bird dogs are rigid on point, and as you step expectantly forward, you thank the Creator for this delightful excitement.
The nip in the air each day seems to underscore the dateline. Harvest is almost complete and country folk have that warm feeling. The wood pile is stacked just outside and the hay is stored within. The pickers have finished the Rambos long ago. The orchards are filled with tall crates of Winesaps and Yorks and the public has cleaned the grounds of drops at 50 cents a bushel. Only the black walnuts remain to be retrieved from the many rural driveways. Weeks before, bushels of these savory nuts had been spread out so that the rolling wheels of visiting cars would shuck off a sticky outer layer. A quaint customer that saved both labor and stained hands. Not So with Granny’s jelly operation last month. Her arms were purple stained to the elbow from squeezing for grape pulp in that old cotton flour sack. Here comes Uncle Zeb to the kitchen door to swap a paper bag of chinquapins for a jar of that delectable jelly, which is not as good as Carolina
96.4%