ᎤᏟᏍᏔ ᎠᏇᏅᏒ Cranshaw, ᎠᏆᏛᎦᎾ ᎤᏂᎩᏒ ᎤᎩᏓᏟᏅᏯ, ᏥᏩᏛᎲ ᎨᎵ ᎤᏂᎦᎸ ᎧᏁᏌᎢ ᎦᏟᏅᎥᏍᎬ ᎤᏂᎾᎥ, ᎠᏂᎱᏣ ᎠᎾᏨᏏᏰᏍᎬ, ᎠᏫᏌᏅ ᎨᏍᏗ ᎣᏍᏓ ᏯᏛᏍᎨ, ᎤᏂᏅᎫᎯᏍᏗ, ᏩᎩᎦ, ᎢᏯ, ᎬᎩᏍᏗ, ᎤᏍᏗ ᎤᏬᏰᏅ ᏂᎬᎸ, ᎦᏄᎸ ᎠᏓᏔᏍᎩ ᏥᏆ ᎤᎾᎵᏍᏔᏴᏗ ᎠᏙᏩᏗᏍᏗᏍᎬ ᎠᏫᏌᏅ.
I rushed to Cranshaw, after I heard Featherstone was gone, and found Claire bitter amid the wreckage of packing crates, slaves milling about directionless, fields untended, ragweed knee-deep among the cornstalks, suckers overwhelming the tomatoes, squash and pumpkins and melons growing tiny and pale as babies’ fists in the shade of rampant chickweed.