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368 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1968
Where he had once owned work stock and tools, now he had nothing. Not only that; the countryside was full of men just like him, walking the roads mile after mile offering all they had to offer, the labor of their hands, their minds bewildered by the turn of events, because around them the fields were fertile beyond the memory of the oldest man, choked to bursting with cotton that was worth only four cents a pound … if a man could even find a buyer. And that not even the worst, the hardest part coming when they gave up on the day and came home to not-look into the faces of wife and children because they had returned as empty-handed as they had set out.
It come on to rain the next day, a hard, steady drizzle that started at daylight so a body could wake up and turn over in bed and think comfortably, There won’t be no work in the fields today, and go back to sleep. That’s the best kind of rain there is, for man and beast, providing it doesn’t go on so long it rots the seed already in the ground.
We whirled in and around ourselves, too, our own little world. If we’d had a queen bee, Bugscuffle Bottoms would have been exactly like that swarm of wild bees, trying to get closer and closer and dying off and not paying any attention to the dying because living was more important. (271)