Гроздья гнева

           Intheyardwasalitter,piledfurniture,thebladesandmotorofthewindmill,bedsteads,chairs,tables."HolyChrist,they’refixin’togo!"Joadsaid.Atruckstoodintheyard,atruckwithhighsides,butastrangetruck,forwhilethefrontofitwasasedan,thetophadbeencutoffinthemiddleandthetruckbedfittedon.Andastheydrewnear,themencouldhearpoundingfromtheyard,andastherimoftheblindingsuncameupoverthehorizon,itfellonthetruck,andtheysawamanandtheflashofhishammerasitroseandfell.Andthesunflashedonthewindowsofthehouse.Theweatheredboardswerebright.Tworedchickensonthegroundflamedwithreflectedlight.

           "Don’tyell,"saidTom."Let’screepupon’em,like,"andhewalkedsofastthatthedustrosehighashiswaist.Andthenhecametotheedgeofthecottonfield.Nowtheywereintheyardproper,earthbeatenhard,shinyhard,andafewdustycrawlingweedsontheground.AndJoadslowedasthoughhefearedtogoon.Thepreacher,watchinghim,slowedtomatchhisstep.Tomsaunteredforward,sidledembarrassedlytowardthetruck.ItwasaHudsonSuper-Sixsedan,andthetophadbeenrippedintwowithacoldchisel.OldTomJoadstoodinthetruckbedandhewasnailingonthetoprailsofthetrucksides.Hisgrizzled,beardedfacewaslowoverhiswork,andabunchofsix-pennynailsstuckoutofhismouth.Hesetanailandhishammerthundereditin.Fromthehousecametheclashofalidonthestoveandthewailofachild.