".....We went on. It didn't matter to hurry now. There wasn't no sound
nowhere; it was that time in the early afternoon in November when don't
nothing move or cry, not even birds, the peckerwoods and yellowhammers
and jays, and it seemed to me like I could see all three of us- me and
Mister Ernest and Dan - and Eagle, and the other dogs, and the big old
buck, moving through the quiet woods in the same direction, headed for the
same place, not running now but walking, that had all run the fine race
the best we knowed how, and all three of us now turned like on
a agreement to walk back home, not together in a bunch because
we didn't want to worry or tempt one another, because what we had
all three spent this morning doing was no playacting jest for
fun, but was serious, and all three of us was still what we
was - that old buck that had to run, not because he was skeered,
but because running was what he done the best and was proudest at; and
Eagle and the dogs that chased him, not because they hated or feared him,
but because that was the thing they done the best and was proudest at;
and me and Mister Ernest and Dan, that run him not because we wanted his
meat, which would be too tough to eat anyhow, or his head to hand on a
wall, but because now we could go back and work hard for eleven months
making a crop, so we would have the right to come back here next November
- all three of us going back home now, peaceful and separate, but still
side by side, until next year, next time."
William Faulkner