Summer 1845 – Planted in Rich Soil and Fertilized with Abundant Resentment

“It ate another one of the field niggers last night,” said Pickett. “Now the cowardly bastards are barely working. They’re all hanging together like a bunch of rabbits, looking over their shoulders and ready to bolt.”

“That seems like a sensible response to the situation,” said Father. 

“They’re supposed to be working,” said Pickett. 

Father smiled. “And we’re supposed to kill a worm. Shall we begin?”