The sound of an airplone motor in the sky is no novelty to the citizens of Mineola, L. I. Planes from the airport began to drone aver the town in 1917; they have never stopped. Mumbling like bumblebees by day, complaining by night like mosquitoes brushed, for their plaguery, from the beard of their God, their noise has jarred through the brains of the townsmen, mingling its drowsiness with the reveries of sleepyheads until that jargoning has become part of the normal somnolence of the place, part...

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