Гроздья гнева
Chapter 27
Thisisgoodwork.Kidsrunnin’aroun’.Heard’boutthecotton-pickin’machine?Yeah,Iheard.Thinkit’llevercome?Well,ifitcomes—fellasaysit’llputhan’pickin’out.Comenight.Alltired.Goodpickin’,though.Gotthreedollars,mean’theol’womanan’thekids.
Thecarsmovetothecottonfields.Thecottoncampssetup.Thescreenedhightrucksandtrailersarepiledhighwithwhitefluff.Cottonclingstothefencewires,andcottonrollsinlittleballsalongtheroadwhenthewindblows.Andcleanwhitecotton,goingtothegin.Andthebig,lumpybalesstanding,goingtothecompress.Andcottonclingingtoyourclothesandstucktoyourwhiskers.Blowyournose,there’scottoninyournose.
Hunchalongnow,fillupthebag’foredark.Wisefingersseekinginthebolls.Hipshunchingalong,draggingthebag.Kidsaretirednow,intheevenin’.Theytripovertheirfeetinthecultivatedearth.Andthesunisgoingdown.
Wishtitwouldlast.Itain’tmuchmoney,Godknows,butIwishtitwouldlast.Onthehighwaytheoldcarspilingin,drawnbythehandbills.Gotacottonbag?No.Costyaadollar,then.Iftheywason’yfiftyofus,wecouldstayawhile,butthey’sfivehunderd.Shewon’tlasthardlyatall.Iknowedafellaneverdidgithisbagpaidout.Ever’jobhegotanewbag,an’ever’fiel’wasdone’forehegothisweight.
TryforGod’ssaketasavealittlemoney!Winter’scomin’fast.Theyain’tnoworkatallinCaliforniainthewinter.Fillupthebag’foreit’sdark
