Which best describes the tone of this excerpt?

Sure, cried the tenant men, but it’s our land. We measured it and broke it up. We were born on it and we got killed on it, died on it. Even if it’s no good, it’s still ours.

Can’t we just hang on? Maybe the next year will be a good year. God knows how much cotton next year. And with all the wars God knows what price cotton will bring . . . Next year, maybe.

After a time perhaps the tenant men looked about at the pump put in ten years ago . . . at the chopping block where a thousand chickens had been killed, at the hand plow lying in the shed, and the patent crib hanging in the rafters over it.