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Speaker 1: Hate by David M. Newell. Old Man Cow rode staggered

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under a smashing blow in the mouth, shaking his grizzled

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head in a vain attempt to clear his sight so

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that he might yet pound the bloody face that loomed

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before him. But he was done for That last crushing

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blow had broken him, and he sank slowly to his

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hands and knees in the soft, damp soil. Little old

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man Knight swayed on his feet, gazing vacantly down on

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his larger foe. It had been a bitter, bitter fight,

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the result of an old quarrel between these backwoods neighbors,

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and contrary to local custom, they had fought it out clean.

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Old Man Tom had said quietly, no guns or knives Cow,

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and Cow had agreed. Missus Tom had washed Old Tom

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go down to the field with many misgivings, calling after him.

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He ain't to be trusted, Tom, that cracker eight and

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sides he's bigger than you. Better take your pistol. God

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made guns and knives to make all men the same size.

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And if y'all can't fight like gentlemen, but has to

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use your fists, why don't come home less you whip him.

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Old Tom had just shaken his head, and now as

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he looked down on his enemy, he spoke again, quietly

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through his bettered, bleeding lips. I whipped you, fair, Cal,

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and you know I did, But you fought. Well, let's

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call it quits. Old man cow raised his head with

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a great effort. For a moment, his lips moved with

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no sound, and his swollen eyes burned with savage hate.

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Then all right, Tom, you whip me fair. Let the

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haire go with the hide. They shook hands, and Old

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Tom picked up his coat and walked slowly off toward

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his cabin under the big live oaks. For a long

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time thereafter, Calrode sat staring off to the west, across

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the harefield and charred pine stumps. The preacher leaned across

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his pulpit in his earnestness that bright Sunday morning, The

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heart is deceitful and wicked above all things who can

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know it. That's my text, friends, and y'all know it's true.

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I don't know what's in your heart, and you don't

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know what's in mine. God knows and sees. May he

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find no malice in any of our hearts. This morning,

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if y'all turn to, and Calvin roodes with unhearing ears,

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gazed beneath shaggy brows at Old Tom and the pew across,

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devising away, devising away. Two years pasted, old man cow

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paused in his plowing and again stared out across the

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little field. Again he saw himself beaten equipped by a

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smaller man in a fair fight, and he spoke aloud,

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I'll have revenge on you, Tom Knight, ye if, And

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that's the last thing I ever do. I hate the

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sight of you. I hate your name. From far away

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towards the Cypress Swamp came the distant cry of a hound.

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Cal road stopped. The hound's baying was growing steadily nearer,

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and the old man forgot his grudge. By Jingo, that's

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zeb Allison's sproudy, and he's a bringing a deer out

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across the ridge as sure as I'm a foot eye.

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There was no time to go to his own house

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for a gun, and he bethought himself of the night cabin.

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I'll get Tom's the old well. Let him think I'm

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peaceable like till I get my chance. He arrived at

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the neighbors out of breath. Missus Tom met him at

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the door. Why howdy col come in? She beamed, Sure,

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glad you've decided to let bygones be bygones. Tom's down

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at the millhouse. A grinding cane can't come in, Thank you, ma'am,

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panted Old man Cow just wanted to borrow Tom's gun.

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There's a dogg coming with a deer, and I thought

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maybe as how I could cut him off shore, agreed

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missus Tom. There it is a sitting behind the door.

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Hope you get the deer, and ifing you do, bring

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us a quarter, as we're plumb out of meat. Old

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man Cow noticed the gun was loaded as he ran.

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When he reached the hog pasture gate, rowdy and the

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deer had passed, and he sat down on a log

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to get his breath. Might a note I couldn't kill

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nothing with his gun anyway? The old skunk exploded, his

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failure to get a shot, fanning his hatred. A sudden

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idea seized him. He rested a few minutes and then

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returned to the field, where he unhitched his mule and

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started up the lane to his own cabin. Arriving there,

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he went to a cupboard and took down his old

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powder horn and pouch of shot. Craftily, he peered from

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the window to make sure no one watched. An hour

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or two later, the gun stood in its place behind

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the door, and Col Rose shifted uneasily on his feet

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as he said, no, ma'am, I didn't get there in time,

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thank y'all. Anyway, spring came. Old Man Tom plowed his

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corn and played in the evenings to Little Tom on

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his banjo, and Calvin, hearing Little Tom's whoops of pleasure

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at the old darky song, would shake his fist in

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the direction of the sound and go inside, wherein I

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don't have to listen to the old skunk's voice. A

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lank cracker boy on an ancient moth eaten mule pulled

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up in front of Cal's cabin. Hear the news, he

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shouted to Old man Cow, who was coming up the

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lane from feeding his hogs. Tom Knight dropped dead this evening,

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just all of a sudden heart failure. I reckon, what,

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screamed Old col It can't be, it mustn't be. I

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don't believe it. Hi, the cracker boy addressed the group

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in front of the post office. I never see the

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like of the way old man Roads carried on. When

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I told him why, he must have actually got to

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love mister Knight. He sure did take on. They buried

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Old Tom Knight from the little backwoods church. Calvin Rose,

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by request of the Night family, served as a pallbearer.

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With his last look at Old Tom's weather beaten face,

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now so still and white, he cursed silently at the

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fate that had robbed him of his revenge, and went

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home to brood alone. Death had cheated him. There was

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nothing he could do. A year passed. Little Tom shouldered

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the farming valiantly, and Widow Knight, as befitted her heroic breed,

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took up the lighter chores. Old Cow tilled his little field.

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It could be seen that he had aged from his

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stooping shoulders and the way he would absently stop in

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his plowing to stare vacantly into thin air. Came another fall.

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From far across the ridge floated the faint, quivering cry

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of an old hound. Calvin Rhodes heard and shouted to

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Little Tom in the next field, get your gun, son,

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and come a runnin The old pity dog.

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Speaker 2: A Zeke's is a comin' with a deer. Little Tom

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came a running, eyes bright with excitement. Hurry up, mister Rhodes.

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Heel crossed by the hog pasture gate, he puffed, handing

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the old muzzleloader to cow. Old cow hurried as best

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he could, and together they crouched in a pine thicket.

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It might have been the same buck that broke again

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into the clearing. Old cow fired. The preacher drew a

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large handkerchief from his shabby coat. Friends, he said, we're

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here to day to pay respect to our beloved brother,

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Calvin weather be Roads. He was a good and kind man,

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with malice toward none. His death is a great loss

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to our little community. He was a noble forgiving spirit.

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May we all learn from him the spirit of forgiveness.

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And little Tom, in his father's seat, sniffled softly and whispered,

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poor mister Rhodes. I sure wonder what made the gun

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sound so uncommon loud and burst that away. The End

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of Hate by David M.

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Speaker 1: Newell