It’s awful pretty in the Kentucky hills. Not like the Flint Hills, where the beauty is in the huge Kansas sky, and the sun washes everthing else out, and the land don’t seem like much. Oh, the land’s pretty, in a brownish way, with miles of knee-high brownish prairie grass dotted by brownish rocks and bushes. And the longer you live there, the more you see the million tiny differences in the dun shades. But the sun—seems like you’re exposed to the sun’s very eyeball, it glares down at you. Makes you feel little, like you might disappear and never be missed. But them Kentucky hills, why, the
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