Text Leveling System

Mississippi Trial, 1955

RDQ:	2509	Max Word/Sent	63	Total Words	5049		Diff Words	1273
Lex	980	Ave Word/.Sent	12	Hi Freq occurs	3855	76.4%	Hi freq	553	43.4%
AR	5.8	Long Sentences	21.8	Low Freq occurs	297	5.9%	Low freq	227	17.8%

My dad hates hate.
All my life, if the word ever slipped out of my mouth, he'd snap into me faster than a rattlesnake.
"Hiram," he'd say, straightening up tall like a preacher, "the world's got plenty enough hate without you adding to it. I will not tolerate such language-or even such thinking-in my home or in my family!" He'd go on with his sermon for too long, five minutes or more, preaching about the evils of hate and reminding me how hate had hurt folks back in our old home, the Mississippi Delta. Then he'd march me up to the bathroom and give my tongue a slathering of Lifebuoy soap.
I can't tell you which was worse, the sermons or the soap, but I will tell you this: I hated Dad when he acted like that, like some kind of born-again crusader out to protect everybody's right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
By the time I turned sixteen last july, I'd had it with Dad's sermons and weirdness about hate, racism, equal rights, and all that. Funny thing was, the more he preached about hate, the madder it made me. Never told him to his face, of course. It wouldn't have been worth it, but I let him know in a thousand ways that I'd just as soon live in the Arizona desert with Gila monsters and tarantulas than spend any time with him.
But a few months ago, the summer of 1955, lots of stuff happened, stuff I never would have imagined. It was strange, but you know how sometimes when you get what you think you always wanted, it turns out to be nothing like you expected?
That happened to me when I was back in Greenwood, Mississippi, last summer. Some awful things happened to a Negro kid named Emmett Till, and I was right in the middle of it, smack in the heart of crazy, senseless hatred. And you know what? When it was all over, I started seeing Dad and lots of people-a whole lot different than ever before.
I first started butting heads with Dad in 1948-I was only nine-because he dragged us away from Mississippi. Dad and his dad, Grampa Hillburn, got along about as well as Hitler and Roosevelt. Spend any time with the two of them in the same room, and you'd figure that World War II hadn't ended yet. The problem was that while Dad was away fighting Japanese in the Pacific and Mom was working for the war effort, Gramma and Grampa Hillburn raised me. They spoiled me pretty good, I guess, but as a
little kid, I liked the spoiling, and I loved my grandparents. And their big old house. And Greenwood, Mississippi. Dad came home from the war, took one look at how tight I was with Grampa, another look at the South he hated, and used the GI Bill to go up to Ole Miss to get a master's degree in English so he could land a college teaching job out west, far away from Grampa, from Mississippi, from racism and prejudice, from hate. Mom and Dad lived in a shoe box-size apartment up there, so while Dad studied and Mom worked at Oxford Elementary School, they let me stay with Gramma and Grampa for the two years it took Dad to finish school.
Looking back on it now, I can see how lots of things that happened when I used to live in Greenwood stacked up to set the stage for all the horrible stuff that took place last summer.
I still remember being a little kid in Greenwood. I spent nearly all my time with Grampa, and we had a regular routine: After breakfast we'd walk down to the Leflore County Courthouse so Grampa could "do a little business." That usually meant he'd stroll into someone's office, pull up a chair, and visit. Usually, before he'd even sit down, he'd fish in his pocket for a nickel, hand it to me, and say, "Hiram, Mr. Hardin and I have some serious business to tend to for the next little while. Why don't you run down to the lobby and see what Mr. Paul's got for sale today."
Funny how you remember some days more than others, but I still remember one summer morning there. With the nickel in my fist, I left Mr. Hardin's office and headed
straight for the glass cases and counters in the center hallway of the courthouse.
"Hey, Mr. Paul, it's me, Hiram Hillburn."
"Little Hiram, how's the world treating you this morning?" Mr. Paul turned to face me, smiling with his hands flat on the glass countertops. He looked about my dad's age, and I knew he'd been in the war too. His Army truck hit a land mine in France and he ended up blind. Dark glasses hid his eyes.
"Grampa gave me a nickel."
"That right? Nobody can say old Earl Hillburn doesn't know how to occupy his grandchild. What'll it be today, Hiram?"
I walked up to the glass display cases and looked over the rows of gum and candy bars laid out on the shelves. Behind the counter, Mr. Paul kept an ice chest full of soda, and on the right side of the display case he kept a cooler filled with ice cream bars. It was a hard decision.
"I've got some cold Co'-Cola back here," he said, "but I know you like those Eskimo Pies too."
This particular morning was cooler than most summer mornings had been, so I had my eye on something else. "Could I please have a Hershey's bar, Mr. Paul?" Keeping his head upright, he reached carefully into the display case and felt around until his hand found the dark brown Hershey's bars. He set one on the counter "That'll be five cents."
I snapped my nickel flat on the glass top. Mr. Paul felt for
it, picked it up, and dropped it into the cigar box he kept on a shelf behind him. "Pleasure doing business with you, Hiram. What big things do you and your grampa have planned for today?"
"Dunno, sir." I peeled the wrapper off my chocolate bar and broke off a section. "He'll probably be talking in there with Mr. Hardin for a while longer. Then we'll go out to the fields and work some before lunch."
Mr. Paul grinned. "Work? You mean your grampa will drive out there and watch those boys sweating in his fields while he sits in his truck drinking lemonade and reading the paper. I'd surely like to get some of that kind of work for myself." A man approached the counter, and, hearing him, Mr. Paul said, "Well, I've got to get back to business. You have yourself a good day, Hiram, and stay out of the way of that busy grampa of yours."
I meandered down the marble hallway and out the main courthouse doors. A huge magnolia tree shaded the front of the building, and I walked under the tree and pulled myself up into its lowest branches, resting comfortably in a shady nook to enjoy my candy bar and wait for Grampa.
When Grampa came out of the courthouse, we walked back home, got into his pickup, and drove north of Greenwood for a few miles on Old Money Road, past flat wide fields furrowed with dark green cotton plants. Once we got to his fields, Grampa parked the truck and turned me loose while he talked with the workers and looked over the crops. I wandered up and down the cotton rows looking for ar-
rowheads or lost tools or anything I could find in the furrows. Grampa always rewarded me with a nickel when I found something. I liked exploring the rows of plants-they offered some shade from the Mississippi sun, and if the wind blew even a little, the plants swayed and stirred up air that seemed almost cool.
When Grampa was done in one part of the field, he'd whistle for me, and we'd drive to the next section. The only person he ever talked to was the field boss, Mr. Irwin, a red-faced man who wore dark green coveralls. Grampa talked to him and then Mr. Irwin told the field hands whatever it was Grampa wanted them to do. They were all colored men; I never saw a white man working Grampa's fields. I hadn't found anything worth a nickel to Grampa, so I followed some of the Negro workers into the rows while they chopped cotton. One man noticed me following behind, and turned to talk to me.
"You Mr. Hillburn's gran'child, ain't you?"
I didn't answer. I was seven years old, and he looked as old as Grampa, and taller. I'd hardly ever talked to a Negro man before, and I was scared.
He smiled and patted me on the head. " okay, Little Mr. Hillburn; I was wonderin' why you're followin' me." His deep, gentle voice relaxed me.
`Just watching," I said cautiously. "You choppin' those weeds pretty fast."
"Got to, little man. This whole field needs chopping today, and if we don't finish it, it's gonna be added to tomorrow's work, and if that happens, we ain't never gonna go
home tomorrow, and, son, I can't stand the thought of working in this field both day and night."
"I can help. Sometimes I help Gramma in the garden. She says I'm a good worker."
"Bet you are, I bet you are." The man smiled and turned back to his hoeing.
I stepped closer and could see the sweat damp on the back of his shirt. His black forearms, knotted with muscle, gripped the hoe, bringing it up and down rhythmically, knocking out weeds without hurting the cotton plants. I had to almost jog to keep up with him as he swept down the furrows. When we got to the end of the row, Grampa saw us. The Negro worker paused a moment to stand up and stretch his back, and as he did so, I grabbed his hoe and headed back into the cotton.
"Hiram! Hiram Hillburn, you put that down right now!" Grampa shouted. I dropped the hoe and Grampa turned on the worker. "You, boy!" he snapped. "Don't you know any better than to let my grandchild play with that tool? I ain't paying you to be a slacker, so you got no reason to be resting when you should be chopping."
The worker lowered his head.
"Mr. Irwin know you take rests at the end of the row?" "No, sir," the man replied without looking up.
"I catch you wasting my money again, you'll be working without a lunch break or not working at all. You understand me, boy?"
"Yessir," the man said as he picked up the hoe and turned back to his work.
Grampa often got mad like that: lightning quick, fast and without warning. His voice changed completely, mean: mad and mean at the same time. It scared me. "Hiram, boy, you come here right now."
I trotted to his side but stayed clear of his arm that tried to rest on my shoulders.
"Son, let me tell you something." He patted me on the head. "God made Negroes to work the land. They don't feel the heat like we do; they can work all day long in the most hellish weather. They're strong people, good with their hands."
"I'm good with my hands too, Grampa. Gramma lets me help in the garden."
"Well, sure, you're good with your hands, Hiram, but there's lots more that you can do. These folks, they're doing what the good Lord intended them to do; that don't mean you can't do it too, but you got more in you, boy. You're meant to be the boss, not the worker."
I looked out over the field at the black men, the backs of their shirts stained with sweat, bent over their hoes chopping weeds among the cotton plants. They worked methodically, quickly, almost like machines. I could do that, I thought, but I wouldn't want to do it all day.
I followed Grampa to the truck and climbed into the cab. He handed me a thermos cup of Gramma's cold lemonade. Hot from the time I'd spent in the sun, I gulped it down, no longer thinking about the black men and their backbreaking work out in Grampa's fields.
Coffee. When I was at Gramma and Grampa's house, I woke up every morning to the smell of coffee. The nutty aroma floated up the back stairs and into my room through the transom window above my door. Once I was awake, I tried to separate the other aromas of my grandparents' house: Some mornings the meaty, spicy scent of sausage came up the stairs; other days the sweet fragrance of fresh muffins. Behind those morning smells lingered the mellow scent of mildew, wood, and Ivory soap. To this day, if you dropped me blindfolded at my grandparents' home, I'd know I was there as soon as you opened the door.
Gramma and Grampa lived in a big white two-story house on Market Street, just a block from the Yazoo River and four blocks from the courthouse. Their house looks like a smaller version of the White House in Washington,
D.C., without so many pillars in front and not nearly so tall and wide.
It's the most comfortable place in the world. Gramma had a few wicker chairs out on the front porch and a porch swing to one side. When it was cool enough, we'd sit out there after dinner, but usually Grampa liked sitting in the living room in his big wing-back chair napping or reading the paper. I liked the kitchen best. It's behind the dining room, and you can find your way there by following your nose. Gramma always seemed to have something baking: biscuits, corn bread, cookies, cake, pies. If I wandered in, she'd tell me to sit at the kitchen table while she found me "something suitably sweet to tide you over till supper," and after she set a slice of pie or plate of cookies in front of me, she'd open the icebox and get me a cold drink of milk or lemonade.
The kitchen was a small room with a large window over the sink that looks out onto the Remingtons' backyard. Gramma had a wooden table in the middle of the kitchen where she did most of her "cutting, kneading, and rolling." When it was just Gramma, Grampa, and me for supper, we ate in the kitchen. When Mom or anyone else was there, Gramma insisted we "eat proper in the dining room."
My bedroom, Dad's old room, was directly above the kitchen. It had a squeaky old bed with four high corner posts and a wooden floor that creaked when I walked on it. If I lay quietly on the bed, I could usually hear the muffled clatter of stirring spoons, pots, and pans down in the
kitchen. And of course I could always smell what Gramma was cooking.
Evenings Grampa would sit in the wide living room in the front of the house and read The Greenwood Commonwealth. He relied on the paper to keep up on the news of his old friends in the South and especially in Greenwood, Mississippi.
"Don't care much for the rest of the world," he told me once. "Didn't like Harlan going off to the Navy. American boys have no business fighting other people's wars. We've got our way of doing things right here, and we've got our own problems to take care of, so it's no kettle of ours if commies or Nazis or anybody else wants to go killing each other. They can rot in Hades for all I care."
I was used to Grampa ranting about things in the paper and I just kept quiet. I'd sit on the floor, looking over the last few days of The Greenwood Commonwealth, rereading Li'1 Abner and other comics I liked. From the kitchen came the sounds and smells of Gramma cooking. I could hear the sizzle of meat frying on the stove and the open-and-close of the oven as she checked the biscuits or corn bread or pie or whatever she was baking for supper.
One evening, Grampa had been reading the paper for a while. Then he swore and snapped it down on the footstool in front of him. "Hiram, boy, I don't know what this country is coming to. Now the war's over, these damn Yankees are trying to tell us how to run the South. You're still little, but you remember this, son. Our way of life is precious. It's the
way I live, the way my daddy lived, my granddaddy, and his daddy before him. It's going to be the way you live too, if I have anything to say about it."
I had no idea what he was talking about, but I didn't say anything because he had that mad look in his eye that he usually had when he argued with Dad. He went on about the South until Gramma called us in for supper.
Gramma could tell Grampa was stirred up about something when she sat down to eat, so before he could even start, she said, "Now, Earl, you remember our rule: No talking politics at the supper table."
"Fine, Florence. I'll just hold all this frustration and nonsense in until tomorrow morning, but don't you go blaming me if I pop open and spray you all like a hot can of beer." His face flushed, and he frowned. Then he looked at me and sighed. "I guess there's no need getting little Hiram all upset. Say the blessing, son, and let's plow into Gramma's supper. And Hiram, ask God Almighty if he might shed a little wisdom on them harebrained Yankees and their Mr. Harry Truman."
After we finished supper, Grampa went back to his paper in the living room, and Gramma started cleaning up. I helped carry the plates and things to the sink, but she shooed me out of the kitchen. "I do appreciate your help, Hiram, but I can manage just fine now. Why don't you go on outside and see if you can find R.C. somewhere."
R. C. Rydell lived way down River Road, along the Yazoo, in a dilapidated old house that he claimed had been in
Greenwood since before the Civil War. At nine, he was two years older than me, but he was one of the few boys my age who always seemed to be outside the same time I was. That night, I swung open the back door and hopped down the steps into the yard. A faint breeze rustled the magnolia tree and azaleas in the backyard, and even though the sun had not yet set, outside was cooler than Gramma's kitchen. I pitched a rock at a stray cat prowling through our bushes. I missed it, but when the rock rustled through the branches, the gray cat dropped low to the ground, arched its back, and hissed. I launched another rock its way.
"Hey, watch what you're doin'!" R.C. stepped through the bushes and into our yard. He had on the same torn and oversized black high-top Keds he always wore. His shirt and jeans were rumpled and dirty, his red hair a tangled mess. He scowled at me like the cat had. "You'bout put my eye out, Hiram. Ain't your grandaddy taught you 'bout throwin' rocks round people?"
"Sorry, R.C., I was trying to chase that old tomcat out of our yard; he gets into Gramma's garbage cans."
"Ya'll want to be getting rid of a cat, you need a good BB gun, not a rock. A hot BB in the butt'll help that old cat remember to stay out of your yard. I'd borrow you mine, but you're too little to be handlin' a gun."
I'd never seen R.C. with a BB gun, but I didn't question him. He always told more than he had. "So what were you doing up in those bushes?" I asked. "You find a nest or something?"
"Don't you know nothin', Hiram Hillburn? No bird with half a brain would build a nest in a 'zalea bush. Naw, I was just in there so I could get a good look at the Remingtons. They's dancing again."
Ralph and Ronnie Remington lived behind our house. A couple of brothers who had never married, they lived alone in a Southern mansion that probably used to be fancy but was now rundown and surrounded by weeds. R.C. said they were crazy. Grampa said they were addle-brained but harmless. Gramma said they were two lonely old bachelors who drank too much. I'd never spoken to Ralph or Ronnie even though I saw one or the other almost every day. Ralph looked older, his hair had streaks of gray, and he always had a worried look on his face when I'd see him hustling down the sidewalk from downtown with a narrow brown paper bag under his arm. He'd walk down River Road to his house. Then instead of going up the front steps and in the front door, he'd follow a path he'd worn in the grass around the side of the house to the back door.
Ronnie was heavier than Ralph, and his dark hair covered only the sides of his head; Grampa said he looked like a fat monk. He usually wore a baggy Army uniform with no insignias. "Likely he got that uniform from the Salvation Army shop," said Grampa, "because even the U.S. Army knows better than to let a knucklehead like Ronnie anywhere close to their business. If Ronnie Remington'd been in the war, we'd all be speaking German and Japanese right now."
Sometimes I'd see Ronnie down at the courthouse carrying mail and papers from one office to another. Charity work, Grampa called it. Neither of the Remingtons was allowed to drive, so Ronnie walked everywhere in town. He was slow and sort of ambled from one place to another, usually looking for people he knew so he could ask to borrow a nickel. Gramma said he spent all his money on ice cream and cookies, and I guess she was right, because when I saw him strolling home some afternoons, he usually had a small grocery sack clutched to his chest. When Ronnie got near the Remington house, he never walked up the front sidewalk. He had his own path worn through the grass and weeds. It angled from the corner of their yard to the front steps. Funny thing about the Remingtons: Ronnie would only use his path and enter through the front door; Ralph would only use his path and enter through the back.
"Shhh," hissed R.C. "They's dancing. Look." He pointed through an opening in the azaleas that gave us a clear view through one of their back windows. Stripped down to their boxer shorts and tank top undershirts, Ronnie and Ralph waltzed by the window. Before R.C. started giggling, I could hear the faint strains of waltz music from their record player. They passed by again and did a slow, awkward turn in front of the window. While Ralph planted both feet, braced himself, and strained to keep his balance, Ronnie leaned back in a deep dip, letting his thick left arm swing wide and high, his pinky finger extended. Shaking with effort, Ralph managed to pull Ronnie out of the dip and
continue their 1-2-3 around the room, and I swear I could hear their floor creaking and sagging. When they came by the window again, I could see Ronnie's sweating face framed in concentration, counting out the waltz steps while Ralph struggled to lead his fat younger brother around the room. They moved like two old cows up on their hind legs.
R.C. could stand it no longer and fell to the ground, snorting and choking, trying to stifle his laughter. "Oh my Bawd," he sputtered, "can you believe those two hippos dancing? They oughta put them in the county fair!" He laughed and snorted louder.
"Quiet, R.C.! Dang it, if they hear us, I'm gonna be in big trouble with Gramma. You know she thinks we ought not bother Ralph and Ronnie."
"Quit being a sisbaby. We ain't doing nothing wrong. They's the weirdos dancing around in their underwear." "Gramma says it's not our business what they do long as they don't bother us. She told me I had to be neighborly and polite and stay out of their way."
R.C. picked up a rock and moved through the azalea bushes toward their house.
"R.C., no!" I hissed as loud as I dared. "We're gonna be in big trouble if you do."
Crouched low and partially hidden by the evening's shadows, R.C. wound up and chucked his rock. It cracked against the house just above their window when they waltzed by again. Ralph stumbled and disappeared from view while Ronnie looked pale and stunned for a moment
before coming to the window. "What's that? Who's there? You scat now and leave us be. Who's there?"
R.C., still hidden by shadows, let out a loud, low, "Mooaah, mooaah, mooaah, you old cows..." and sprinted around their house and down River Road, laughing and mooing all the way.
"Who's there? Who's there?" called out Ronnie nervously. "You just go on and leave us be. Just you scat you and leave us be!"
I ducked back through the bushes and into our yard. Sometimes I didn't like how R.C. played, even if he was older than me. It didn't seem funny at all when Ralph had looked hurtful surprised and Ronnie looked scared.
I trudged up the back steps to the kitchen, hoping Gramma would offer me another slice of apple pie when I got inside.
Maybe that'd get rid of the bad taste in my mouth. August, a month after my eighth birthday. Grampa and I had been following our summer routine pretty faithfully. Some days, though, I'd stay home and go fishing with R.C. down on the Yazoo. He was a good fisherman even though he always used a cane pole. "I got a nice rod and reel down home, but my daddy don't want me using it without him around. 'Sides, I do just fine with this old cane pole. I bet those fish get scared just knowing I'm coming."
I'd walk the one or two miles out to the edge of town to R.C. s house, and from there we'd walk a couple miles farther down River Road where the trees and brush cleared away from the riverbanks. Gramma would pack me up a lunch, food enough for two men.
"Gramma," I told her the first time she made the lunch, "you know I don't get that hungry; I don't think I can eat all of this."
"Darling, you never know how hungry fishing might make you; I don't want to be worrying about my only grandson starving down there on the Yazoo. Believe me, it'll all get eaten." She wrapped six gingersnap cookies in wax paper and tucked them into the top of my lunch sack. "When you get to the Rydells' house, you find that little girl Naomi and give these to her. Poor thing probably hasn't had a treat since Christmas."
R.C. little sister, Naomi, was my age but I never saw her in town except during the school year, and even then she only came once in a while. She always seemed skittish, kind of like a cat that's been kicked around too many times. I'd liked her from the first time I met her, and Gramma knew it. Gramma used to ask about her, if I'd seen her or how she looked, and when I'd hear her talking to Grampa about Naomi, she always called her a "poor little thing" and would tell Grampa, "It's a crime what's going on out there, Earl. A crime. Since that little girl's mother died, I don't think one nice thing has happened to her, and now's she being mother and daughter in that house."
R.C. was waiting for me on his rickety front porch, and the first thing he noticed was the canvas lunch bag I had slung over my shoulder.
"Whatcha got there, Hiram?" "Gramma made me a lunch."
"Granny made you a lunch? What a sisbaby! We ain't going camping, we're going fishing, and nobody takes no lunch on a little fishing trip. That big old bag's gonna be in our way all day long." He reached for it. "Let me see what your granny packed."
"These are for Naomi," I said as I pulled out the cookies and handed the bag to R.C. "She around?"
"Naomi!" R.C. yelled. "Hey, Naomi, get yourself out here!" He snatched the cookies out of my hand. "Your boyfriend brung you something."
My face turned red. "I'm not her boyfriend, R.C.," I said, even though I wished I was, "Gramma sent those for her." R.C. ignored me and waited for Naomi to open the front door.
When she came out on the porch, she looked mad. "R.C., would you just shush up? Pa's still sleeping." She had her hair in pigtails, as always, and wore the same faded flour sack dress I'd seen her in at school. "Hey, Hiram." She smiled when she saw me, and I felt my face turn red again.
"Hey, Naomi. My gramma sent something for you." I pointed to the wax paper bundle R.C. held in one hand. "Sweets from your sweetie," R.C. teased. "Ain't Hiram a regular old Romeo? Your other boyfriends gonna be jealous they find out about this, Naomi "
Naomi walked down the front steps to R.C. and held out her hand. With anybody else, R.C. would've eaten the cookies himself, or crumbled them up, or tossed them

Subjective Criteria

Illustrations: No support

Dialog: Multiple speakers

Dialog: Broken dialogue

Dialog: Unlabeled Speaker

Vocabulary: Many difficult words

Language: Many descriptive words

Sentences: Many Long Complex

Text structure: Story/Poem

Inferences: Several Implications

Complexity: Several unrelated ideas

Concepts: Abstract/Complex Social

Chapters

Features

Character traits

Character development

Integral Setting - Cultural/Regional

Complex Problem/Solution

Complex plot

First Person

Dialect/Accents

Topic

Fathers

Laws

*Community

African Americans

Conflicts

Crime

*Citizenship & Laws

*Family & Friends

Prejudice

Relationships

Low Frequency Words

addle	almighty	ambled	angled	appreciate
approached	arched	aroma	aromas	azalea
azaleas	bachelors	backbreaking	bawd	biscuits
blaming	borrow	boyfriends	brained	brung
butt'll	cautiously	charity	chucked	cigar
college	commies	commonwealth	concentration	courthouse
coveralls	crouched	crusader	decision	dilapidated
doin'	dunno	elementary	emmett	eskimo
exploring	florence	flushed	followin	forearms
fragrance	furrowed	furrows	german	giggling
gila	gingersnap	gonna	gramma	gramma's
grampa	gran'child	greenwood	gripped	grocery
gulped	hades	handlin	happiness	hardin
harebrained	hatred	heavier	hellish	hind
hitler	hoeing	hoping	hurtful	hustling
ignored	imagined	insignias	intended	irwin
ivory	japanese	jealous	jeans	kneading
knocking	knotted	knowing	knucklehead	language
laughter	lemonade	liberty	lifebuoy	likely
lingered	lobby	lowered	magnolia	manage
mansion	meandered	mellow	methodically	mildew
mississippi	monk	mooaah	mooing	muffled
muscle	naomi	napping	navy	naw
nazis	negroes	neighborly	nervously	nook
nothin	occupy	ole	ought	oughta
oversized	oxford	pacific	partially	particular
paused	pillars	pleasure	politics	preached
preaching	precious	prejudice	prowling	pursuit
racism	ranting	reel	relied	remington
remington'd	remingtons	rereading	rewarded	rhythmically
rickety	riverbanks	ronnie	ronnie's	routine
rowheads	rumpled	rustled	rydell	rydells
sagging	salvation	scent	scowled	section
senseless	separate	sermon	sermons	shaded
shelves	sisbaby	sizzle	skittish	slathering
slung	snatched	southern	spicy	stifle
stirred	stirring	straightening	stripped	stroll
strolling	studied	stunned	suitably	surely
surrounded	swear	sweat	sweating	sweetie
swept	tangled	tarantulas	that'll	thermos
they's	throwin	tolerate	tomcat	transom
trudged	undershirts	underwear	upright	waltz
waltzed	wandered	weirdness	what'll	whatcha
wicker	wisdom	wonderin	worth	would've
wrapper	ya'll	yankees	yessir	you'bout
younger	zalea