Lela
When I was a little bitty baby,
When I was a little bitty baby,
my mama done rock me in the cradle,
in them old cotton fields back home.
"Cotton Fields", Leadbelly, 1940
April, 2024
The "Bootheel" of Missouri is part of the floodplain of the Mississippi River. It is flat. Its Eastern limit is in Tennessee; the Western border is in Arkansas.
At this point in the history of the continent, the river flows peacefully about five or so miles from the eastern boundary of the floodplain marked by the hills that run from Dyersburg northward. The western boundary is a string of hills running southwest to northeast, about 40 to 50 miles west of the eastern boundary which is known as Crowleys Ridge. This area is flat and includes the St. Francis river, a "yazoo" stream, running almost parallel to the Mississippi and joining it farther downstream. Levees, set at varying distances from the stream itself, limit flooding to a much narrower plain in all but the most extreme "storm of the century" cases. Several Southwest/Northeast man-made ditches, running in a straight line, take care of the excess runoff and keep these flatlands farmable. The land is fertile sandy loam, built up and nourished by the river for hundreds of years. This was (and is) cotton country. Other cash crops are grown now, but in the "good times" after WWI and before the great depression, Cotton was King and the crops were largely labor intensive.
------------------------------
Breakfast was good. They had decided to forego the "continental" breakfast that Motel 8, (or was it 6) had so graciously provided and chose instead to dine at a local diner on State Highway 84 at I-55.
Steve pushed back his chair, took another sip of coffee, "Sorry about the mixup about the exits yesterday, I had forgotten that 412 bypasses Hayti and links up with the I-155 spur going across the bridge to Dyersburg. State 84 used to be the only one."
"No problem. Where to today?"
"West on US 412 (Mo 84) to Kennett, then maybe southwest down toward Senath. This is where family as I know it starts. Ready?"
Back in the truck. Steve is pumped; recorder is running. The road is straight as an arrow and points due East and West. It is still the cool of the day; temperature still in the 60's, sun's behind them and the windows are down. The land is flat, punctuated by fencerows, drainage ditches and the occasional farmhouse. As they cross the double tracks of the Cotton Belt line and head west, he begins:
"Actually there are two towns here, Hayti and the optimistically named 'Hayti Heights'. There's not hill in twenty miles. Don't know the details, but Hayti Heights appears to be quite a story of neighborhood development. Originally a low income part of town that was not allowed to be a part of town, 'The Heights' was a classic example of 'the other side of the tracks', peopled by the remnants of the farm labor force and with no discernible infrastructure, that rose up and did something about it. They incorporated the area into a separate town, which made them eligible for state and federal grants, then proceeded to develop the much needed water and sewer systems, pave the streets and provide the services and governance of a legitimate town. The streets have names like Lincoln, Kennedy, King, etc. I suspect there are some interesting stories here about some of the 'farm' residents who woke up one morning and found themselves a resident of the new town and subject to the ordinances and taxes of the new city, whose officials were not exactly what they were used to. I may have my facts screwed up; look them up sometime, there may be some good material here for your thesis. There seems to be a large and thriving church influence here; it may have been the prime motivator."
"See those fencerows? They're important. Maybe 'hedgerows' is a better term. Didn't used to be that way, farmers kept them cleaned of weeds and trees to give more growing room for the cotton. Cotton had to be kept clean of grass. Some even used geese in the cotton fields, geese eat grass, won't touch a weed. To a goose, a cotton plant is a weed, so if you clip the primary wing feathers and install some type of fence around the field, even as simple as a tight line of sunflowers, you have yourself a genuine, first class field hand that will keep the grass out of the cotton. Half a dozen geese could take care of quite a large field. Work cheap too."
"Trouble with flat land and no hedgerows is sandstorms. Used to have them here all the time, mostly in the spring before the crops were big enough to provide ground cover. Given a steady west wind, sand dries out and begins to move, creating a fast moving flow of surface sand which can quickly saw off the young tender plants just as slick as you please, leaving you a bare field sand flat in a matter of hours. Cotton had to be planted as early as possible to take advantage of the longest possible growing season and the higher prices of the early market. Replanting may not have been an option."
"Sand could and did infiltrate everything, the house, the food, their clothing, when the wind blew. There primarily two ways to combat it. In the short term the farmer could mask himself and his team of mules in an effort to keep the sand out of the nose and mouth, then plow continuously, creating furrows which in turn would stop the sand flow and keep the plants from being destroyed. The furrows would soon fill and the flow would return; one had to keep plowing so long as the wind blew. For the long haul, the hedgerows did the trick. They were let grow, and sandstorms are now just a memory for the older folk. They just don't happen anymore."
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Stopped at a traffic light at city limits of Kennett, Jim notes that the signs indicate a split in the two routes they're on. US 412 veers left; State 84 continues West. He looks at Steve, questioning. "Stay with 412, couple of miles, look for Local road "Y", and turn left again. Want to show you something. 'Maybe two more miles, you'll see county road 549C, small sign. Go right; probably still a dirt road."
They missed 549 on the first try, backtracked and turned west on the hard packed sand and dirt. After about a quarter mile, and after passing a small, well kept cemetery on the left, the road turned left along the western edge of the cemetery. Near the cemetery's southern border, an ageing gateway with a rusted proclaimed this to be Friendship Cemetery. "Pull in the gate and drive all the way back."
Steve was out of the truck, almost before it stopped rolling, circling the tailgate and walking briskly toward the center, obviously searching for something. Jim followed, a few steps behind.
Steve stopped, surveyed the area, then looked down at a small stone. Most of the headstones were quite old, dating back to the early 1900's. This one, however was of newer vintage and of a modern style. It read simply, " Margie Lea, infant dau. of H.I and L.M., Oct 26, 1920 - Oct 10, 1921".
"My older sister", Steve says, without looking up, "First child",
"Stone doesn't look like 1921."
" 't isn't. More like 1940's. My uncle Bud and his wife also lived over here in the early 20's; had two children, boys I think; lost both of them at around the same time; never had any more. They were buried here too until sometime in the 1940's when they moved them to Piggott. My dad came with the workmen who moved them, mostly to see just what remained. Maybe Margie could also be moved. He said there was only a shovelful of darkened earth and a couple of buckles from the casket; nothing more; nothing to move, She was gone, so they had the stone placed there and left her in peace. I think he did right."
She was alone; everyone else had gone to supper.
.
There was no hurry; no one waited for her at the house. He wasn't back yet; maybe there was a long line at the gin.
She had just finished her last two rows of cotton and struggled to add the stuffed sack to the pile of those left by the neighbors with whom they traded work and the few field hands they had been able to get from the "colored" section of town. He had taken the latest wagon load to the gin; near fifteen hundred pounds, the amount required to produce a five hundred pound bale, the understood "standard". The sacks, each marked with its owner's name or initials, would be weighed in the morning and the pounds gathered (picked) by each person duly recorded. There would be cash from selling the cotton; he would pay the pickers tomorrow. This would be the last picking of the year; maybe one more bale in the field. With a little luck it would all be out by Thanksgiving.
Maybe he had been robbed. Or hurt. Maybe -----.
She covered the pile of sacks with a tarp to keep off the morning dew, took off the bonnet, loosed the tight bun of waist length hair, wiped her face and neck with the apron and began a slow walk to the house. She liked the quiet time, but the encroaching darkness made it sad as well.
She missed her baby.
Not quite a year old, and now she was gone. Margie had been a happy and healthy baby. Coal black hair like her parents, nice smile, and growing fast. Thirteen pounds at three weeks of age, measured by the cotton scales. Born at picking time last year. (That had been their first crop as tenant farmers on a farm of several hundred acres, parceled out to the sharecroppers, usually forty acres to a family, more if the family was large. Landowner would furnish housing, finance the seed, fertilizer groceries other necessities then collect at harvest time along with his share of the sales.)
The house was dark, unlocked. Still enough light to find the coal oil lamp and the matches. She lit the wick, adjusted its height for maximum light, returned the globe and set it in the center of their small table, pulled one of the cane seat ladder back chairs and sat down for a rare moment of quiet. Staring at the flickering flame of the lamp, she replayed the recent past.
"Where is that man? I should be doing the evening chores. Guess it can wait a few minutes, I'll help when he gets home."
Life had been a whirlwind the last two years. Married around Christmas, year before last, with no honeymoon to speak of, gathering some basic farming equipment and meager furniture, bedding and supplies, packing and shipping everything including the mules (by rail, no less) from Dexter down to Senath, then cleaning and moving into the small three room "shotgun" tenant house. Before the spring planting they had discovered her pregnancy, so by harvest time she was no longer able to help in the fields. Normally he would be in the field at sunup and she would have spent the morning preparing and serving a hearty breakfast. After clearing and cleaning up, she would straighten
up the house and prepare dinner, the mid-day meal. After clearing the dinner and washing dishes she would join her husband in the field, "chopping" cotton and hoeing corn or other crops along with the field hands or neighbors. Supper, the evening meal, usually after dark, would often be cold leftovers.
Carrying the added cumbersome weight of pregnancy, her participation in the field work was limited as the year wore on. Was able to work some in the first picking, but the stooping required was difficult and by early October her field work ended.
Margie was born near the end of the month with an older neighbor lady serving as midwife. She ate well and grew rapidly: by Spring she could accompany her mother to the fields, taking her afternoon nap in the shade while her mother worked nearby. This Spring had been rough; late frost, help was hard to find, too much rain, and then the sandstorm. Sand in everything, food, drinks, clothes, everything. Crops were "laid by" by the end of June and there was time to regroup, relax and repair, getting ready for the Fall and harvest. July saw the first blooms on the cotton plants and by September the bolls were matured and beginning to crack open. Picking would probably start before the end of the month.
Margie became ill. High fever, vomiting, unchecked diarrhea. Nothing seemed to help. An infant's tolerance for dehydration is limited; there is no reserve of liquids. Advice of neighbors, lady at the store in Caruth, and finally the doctor in Senath, all to no avail. She died in early October, just after the first picking.
The tenant's share for the first bale of cotton went to the funeral director. Cheap wood casket, one day visitation, short service by a local minister at the funeral home. Henry, with the help of neighbors, had dug her grave in the soft, sandy soil of Friendship Cemetery, and there, on a hot, Sunday afternoon in October, surrounded by cotton fields and just short of her first birthday, Margie Lea was laid to rest.
Dear God, she thought, that was hardly a month ago.
The sound of the team and wagon on the road broke into her thoughts. Due to the late hour, he had come straight home instead of parking the wagon in the field and bringing the team to the barn. Do that in the morning. With the milk pail in one hand and the "slop" bucket in the other, she went to help with the chores. Team to be unhitched, unharnessed and fed, pigs to be fed, cow to be fed and milked; it was done in less than half an hour and they retired to the still quiet house. She examined the cupboard and produced the available food. "Got some cornbread left from dinner, half an apple pie from Sunday, plenty of milk, will that do?
"Sure, that's fine". He had seated himself at the table and was nervously emptying his pockets. In the manner of most farmers, he wore a long sleeved denim shirt and overalls. The lower pockets of the loose fitting overalls might hold a pocket knife, a bandana handkerchief and some often needed tools, pliers, small adjustable wrench, or maybe just a 7/16"-1/2" open end. Things of value, such as a snap open pocketbook or wallet, record book, pencil, tickets, receipts and other paper would be in the bib pocket, where they were somewhat protected from sweat and did not encumber or interfere with movement.
He spread the papers on the table. "Got a good price for the cotton."
"Took long enough, I was beginning to worry."
"Went on in to the Senath gin; they're payin' 2 or 3 cents more on the pound."
"Gin at Caruth is the landlord's; he ain't gonna like your goin' to Senath."
"Only if he finds out."
"He'll find out, not to worry! What took so long? Did you get the money for the pickers?"
He ignored the first question. "Took it all in cash."
She placed the food on the table, poured a glass of milk for each of them.
"And?" She examined the papers from the gin. "What did you do with the rest of the money? I maybe didn't get that far in school, but I can add and subtract."
"Got you that icebox you been wantin'; Iceman can drop off the ice and it'll keep things cool for days. I found a good used one, at a good price; it's in the wagon."
"Good price for the seller, maybe; You must have spent twenty or twenty five dollars of the cotton money; icebox, new wouldn't have been more than ten."
She came closer. "Let me smell your breath."
"'thought so, you been drinkin' haven't you? And what's this bruise on your face? You been in a fight?"
"I - I don't remember."
"You don't remember? How can you not remember?.
"I don't, honest. I'm sorry. I took out twenty dollars, bought the icebox from a guy at the gin, bought a pint of Jack Daniels and stopped to talk with a bunch from south of town who were waiting to unload. I woke up beside my wagon with a sore jaw and the rest of the twenty gone. So I came home. That's all I know."
"I don't believe you. I'm going to bed."
He could hear her quiet sobbing as he put the things away.
Things were cooler at breakfast time. She spoke calmly and quietly. "You can't do this. First the bad Spring, then the sand, then Margie, now this; I've had about all I can stand."
"I said I don't remember;"
"I know, and maybe you can't, but if you can't then you've got no business drinkin'. Promise me you will leave it alone. We are not going to spend our whole life as sharecroppers and drunks."
"OK, OK, I understand, I will do my best."
And he did, for the most part. And the wounds healed, for the most part. But on the rare occasion when she spoke of Margie, you could see a certain sadness in her eyes.
Steve turned from the headstone, stared at the horizon for a moment, cleared his throat.
"Ready?"
"Where to?"
"Back to the road; go on south, should be able to get through to the east-west road in about a quarter of a mile, State road Y for a ways then it becomes P. Go west. Used to be a little community called Caruth at the crossroads; general store and maybe a cotton gin, mostly gone now, but once a center of activity. Couple of miles further we should hit 412; go right; avoid Senath and head for Kennett, we'll pickup state Y, go left up to 84, missing all the traffic of downtown Kennett. West on 84 will take us to Arkansas."
"You've been here before, haven't you?"
"Couple of times, but I cheated; ran the Google maps before I left home.
Jim switched on the recorder. "So this is where your parents started out?"
"Yep, Interesting couple, they were, both from "broken" families, their respective mothers having died when they were very young. Lela was born in Oklahoma, last of a family of nine kids born to the Texas girl her father had married when he went west to make his fortune. Her mother died with her youngest still an infant; Lela came back to Missouri with her father, and, as a teenager, worked as a live-in domestic. Henry, also from a large family that lost the mother early, was just back from the war and probably working as an extra "hand" on some farm. I'm guessing he may have been sort of an apprentice, he always seemed to know how to deal with most any farm situation."
They farmed here, mostly cotton. Two more children followed in the next two years. Must have done quite well, 'cause when the moved to their own farm in Arkansas, sometime in the late 20's, they traded a new automobile as part of the purchase price. Dad sometimes spoke of excessive drinking, even to the point of not remembering some of his actions. Times were good, they fought the sandstorms and the hot steamy summers, but crops were good, cotton was high; they saved and bought a place in Clay County and moved there.* Eighty acres, half hills, half flat. Not the rich sandy loam of the Mississippi floodplain, but the red clay and gumbo of hill country gravel and 'edge of the swamp' flatlands. Then came the Great Depression, but that's another story; several stories, actually."
"Why don't we layover in Kennett tonight and get an early start in the morning? There is no Hilton in Piggott. Dry county. I could use some lunch."
* See "Runaway".
"My older sister", Steve says, without looking up, "First child",
"Stone doesn't look like 1921."
" 't isn't. More like 1940's. My uncle Bud and his wife also lived over here in the early 20's; had two children, boys I think; lost both of them at around the same time; never had any more. They were buried here too until sometime in the 1940's when they moved them to Piggott. My dad came with the workmen who moved them, mostly to see just what remained. Maybe Margie could also be moved. He said there was only a shovelful of darkened earth and a couple of buckles from the casket; nothing more; nothing to move, She was gone, so they had the stone placed there and left her in peace. I think he did right."
----------------------------------------
November, 1921
The sun had gone down half an hour ago.She was alone; everyone else had gone to supper.
.
There was no hurry; no one waited for her at the house. He wasn't back yet; maybe there was a long line at the gin.
She had just finished her last two rows of cotton and struggled to add the stuffed sack to the pile of those left by the neighbors with whom they traded work and the few field hands they had been able to get from the "colored" section of town. He had taken the latest wagon load to the gin; near fifteen hundred pounds, the amount required to produce a five hundred pound bale, the understood "standard". The sacks, each marked with its owner's name or initials, would be weighed in the morning and the pounds gathered (picked) by each person duly recorded. There would be cash from selling the cotton; he would pay the pickers tomorrow. This would be the last picking of the year; maybe one more bale in the field. With a little luck it would all be out by Thanksgiving.
Maybe he had been robbed. Or hurt. Maybe -----.
She covered the pile of sacks with a tarp to keep off the morning dew, took off the bonnet, loosed the tight bun of waist length hair, wiped her face and neck with the apron and began a slow walk to the house. She liked the quiet time, but the encroaching darkness made it sad as well.
She missed her baby.
Not quite a year old, and now she was gone. Margie had been a happy and healthy baby. Coal black hair like her parents, nice smile, and growing fast. Thirteen pounds at three weeks of age, measured by the cotton scales. Born at picking time last year. (That had been their first crop as tenant farmers on a farm of several hundred acres, parceled out to the sharecroppers, usually forty acres to a family, more if the family was large. Landowner would furnish housing, finance the seed, fertilizer groceries other necessities then collect at harvest time along with his share of the sales.)
The house was dark, unlocked. Still enough light to find the coal oil lamp and the matches. She lit the wick, adjusted its height for maximum light, returned the globe and set it in the center of their small table, pulled one of the cane seat ladder back chairs and sat down for a rare moment of quiet. Staring at the flickering flame of the lamp, she replayed the recent past.
"Where is that man? I should be doing the evening chores. Guess it can wait a few minutes, I'll help when he gets home."
Life had been a whirlwind the last two years. Married around Christmas, year before last, with no honeymoon to speak of, gathering some basic farming equipment and meager furniture, bedding and supplies, packing and shipping everything including the mules (by rail, no less) from Dexter down to Senath, then cleaning and moving into the small three room "shotgun" tenant house. Before the spring planting they had discovered her pregnancy, so by harvest time she was no longer able to help in the fields. Normally he would be in the field at sunup and she would have spent the morning preparing and serving a hearty breakfast. After clearing and cleaning up, she would straighten
up the house and prepare dinner, the mid-day meal. After clearing the dinner and washing dishes she would join her husband in the field, "chopping" cotton and hoeing corn or other crops along with the field hands or neighbors. Supper, the evening meal, usually after dark, would often be cold leftovers.
Carrying the added cumbersome weight of pregnancy, her participation in the field work was limited as the year wore on. Was able to work some in the first picking, but the stooping required was difficult and by early October her field work ended.
Margie was born near the end of the month with an older neighbor lady serving as midwife. She ate well and grew rapidly: by Spring she could accompany her mother to the fields, taking her afternoon nap in the shade while her mother worked nearby. This Spring had been rough; late frost, help was hard to find, too much rain, and then the sandstorm. Sand in everything, food, drinks, clothes, everything. Crops were "laid by" by the end of June and there was time to regroup, relax and repair, getting ready for the Fall and harvest. July saw the first blooms on the cotton plants and by September the bolls were matured and beginning to crack open. Picking would probably start before the end of the month.
Margie became ill. High fever, vomiting, unchecked diarrhea. Nothing seemed to help. An infant's tolerance for dehydration is limited; there is no reserve of liquids. Advice of neighbors, lady at the store in Caruth, and finally the doctor in Senath, all to no avail. She died in early October, just after the first picking.
The tenant's share for the first bale of cotton went to the funeral director. Cheap wood casket, one day visitation, short service by a local minister at the funeral home. Henry, with the help of neighbors, had dug her grave in the soft, sandy soil of Friendship Cemetery, and there, on a hot, Sunday afternoon in October, surrounded by cotton fields and just short of her first birthday, Margie Lea was laid to rest.
Dear God, she thought, that was hardly a month ago.
The sound of the team and wagon on the road broke into her thoughts. Due to the late hour, he had come straight home instead of parking the wagon in the field and bringing the team to the barn. Do that in the morning. With the milk pail in one hand and the "slop" bucket in the other, she went to help with the chores. Team to be unhitched, unharnessed and fed, pigs to be fed, cow to be fed and milked; it was done in less than half an hour and they retired to the still quiet house. She examined the cupboard and produced the available food. "Got some cornbread left from dinner, half an apple pie from Sunday, plenty of milk, will that do?
"Sure, that's fine". He had seated himself at the table and was nervously emptying his pockets. In the manner of most farmers, he wore a long sleeved denim shirt and overalls. The lower pockets of the loose fitting overalls might hold a pocket knife, a bandana handkerchief and some often needed tools, pliers, small adjustable wrench, or maybe just a 7/16"-1/2" open end. Things of value, such as a snap open pocketbook or wallet, record book, pencil, tickets, receipts and other paper would be in the bib pocket, where they were somewhat protected from sweat and did not encumber or interfere with movement.
He spread the papers on the table. "Got a good price for the cotton."
"Took long enough, I was beginning to worry."
"Went on in to the Senath gin; they're payin' 2 or 3 cents more on the pound."
"Gin at Caruth is the landlord's; he ain't gonna like your goin' to Senath."
"Only if he finds out."
"He'll find out, not to worry! What took so long? Did you get the money for the pickers?"
He ignored the first question. "Took it all in cash."
She placed the food on the table, poured a glass of milk for each of them.
"And?" She examined the papers from the gin. "What did you do with the rest of the money? I maybe didn't get that far in school, but I can add and subtract."
"Got you that icebox you been wantin'; Iceman can drop off the ice and it'll keep things cool for days. I found a good used one, at a good price; it's in the wagon."
"Good price for the seller, maybe; You must have spent twenty or twenty five dollars of the cotton money; icebox, new wouldn't have been more than ten."
She came closer. "Let me smell your breath."
"'thought so, you been drinkin' haven't you? And what's this bruise on your face? You been in a fight?"
"I - I don't remember."
"You don't remember? How can you not remember?.
"I don't, honest. I'm sorry. I took out twenty dollars, bought the icebox from a guy at the gin, bought a pint of Jack Daniels and stopped to talk with a bunch from south of town who were waiting to unload. I woke up beside my wagon with a sore jaw and the rest of the twenty gone. So I came home. That's all I know."
"I don't believe you. I'm going to bed."
He could hear her quiet sobbing as he put the things away.
Things were cooler at breakfast time. She spoke calmly and quietly. "You can't do this. First the bad Spring, then the sand, then Margie, now this; I've had about all I can stand."
"I said I don't remember;"
"I know, and maybe you can't, but if you can't then you've got no business drinkin'. Promise me you will leave it alone. We are not going to spend our whole life as sharecroppers and drunks."
"OK, OK, I understand, I will do my best."
And he did, for the most part. And the wounds healed, for the most part. But on the rare occasion when she spoke of Margie, you could see a certain sadness in her eyes.
-----------------------------------------
------
Steve turned from the headstone, stared at the horizon for a moment, cleared his throat.
"Ready?"
"Where to?"
"Back to the road; go on south, should be able to get through to the east-west road in about a quarter of a mile, State road Y for a ways then it becomes P. Go west. Used to be a little community called Caruth at the crossroads; general store and maybe a cotton gin, mostly gone now, but once a center of activity. Couple of miles further we should hit 412; go right; avoid Senath and head for Kennett, we'll pickup state Y, go left up to 84, missing all the traffic of downtown Kennett. West on 84 will take us to Arkansas."
"You've been here before, haven't you?"
"Couple of times, but I cheated; ran the Google maps before I left home.
Jim switched on the recorder. "So this is where your parents started out?"
"Yep, Interesting couple, they were, both from "broken" families, their respective mothers having died when they were very young. Lela was born in Oklahoma, last of a family of nine kids born to the Texas girl her father had married when he went west to make his fortune. Her mother died with her youngest still an infant; Lela came back to Missouri with her father, and, as a teenager, worked as a live-in domestic. Henry, also from a large family that lost the mother early, was just back from the war and probably working as an extra "hand" on some farm. I'm guessing he may have been sort of an apprentice, he always seemed to know how to deal with most any farm situation."
They farmed here, mostly cotton. Two more children followed in the next two years. Must have done quite well, 'cause when the moved to their own farm in Arkansas, sometime in the late 20's, they traded a new automobile as part of the purchase price. Dad sometimes spoke of excessive drinking, even to the point of not remembering some of his actions. Times were good, they fought the sandstorms and the hot steamy summers, but crops were good, cotton was high; they saved and bought a place in Clay County and moved there.* Eighty acres, half hills, half flat. Not the rich sandy loam of the Mississippi floodplain, but the red clay and gumbo of hill country gravel and 'edge of the swamp' flatlands. Then came the Great Depression, but that's another story; several stories, actually."
"Why don't we layover in Kennett tonight and get an early start in the morning? There is no Hilton in Piggott. Dry county. I could use some lunch."
* See "Runaway".
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