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- Джон Стейнбек
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- Стр. 248/563
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He
drove
his
old
car
into
a
town
.
He
scoured
the
farms
for
work
.
Where
can
we
sleep
the
night
?
Well
,
there
’
s
Hooverville
on
the
edge
of
the
river
.
There
’
s
a
whole
raft
of
Okies
there
.
He
drove
his
old
car
to
Hooverville
.
He
never
asked
again
,
for
there
was
a
Hooverville
on
the
edge
of
every
town
.
The
rag
town
lay
close
to
water
;
and
the
houses
were
tents
,
and
weed
-
thatched
enclosures
,
paper
houses
,
a
great
junk
pile
.
The
man
drove
his
family
in
and
became
a
citizen
of
Hooverville
—
always
they
were
called
Hooverville
.
The
man
put
up
his
own
tent
as
near
to
water
as
he
could
get
;
or
if
he
had
no
tent
,
he
went
to
the
city
dump
and
brought
back
cartons
and
built
a
house
of
corrugated
paper
.
And
when
the
rains
came
the
house
melted
and
washed
away
.
He
settled
in
Hooverville
and
he
scoured
the
countryside
for
work
,
and
the
little
money
he
had
went
for
gasoline
to
look
for
work
.
In
the
evening
the
men
gathered
and
talked
together
.
Squatting
on
their
hams
they
talked
of
the
land
they
had
seen
.
There
’
s
thirty
thousan
’
acres
,
out
west
of
here
.
Layin
’
there
.
Jesus
,
what
I
could
do
with
that
,
with
five
acres
of
that
!
Why
,
hell
,
I
’
d
have
ever
’
thing
to
eat
.
Notice
one
thing
?
They
ain
’
t
no
vegetables
nor
chickens
nor
pigs
at
the
farms
.
They
raise
one
thing
—
cotton
,
say
,
or
peaches
,
or
lettuce
.
’
Nother
place
’
ll
be
all
chickens
.
They
buy
the
stuff
they
could
raise
in
the
dooryard
.
Jesus
,
what
I
could
do
with
a
couple
pigs
!
Well
,
it
ain
’
t
yourn
,
an
’
it
ain
’
t
gonna
be
yourn
.
What
we
gonna
do
?
The
kids
can
’
t
grow
up
this
way
.
In
the
camps
the
word
would
come
whispering
,
There
’
s
work
at
Shafter
.
And
the
cars
would
be
loaded
in
the
night
,
the
highways
crowded
—
a
gold
rush
for
work
.
At
Shafter
the
people
would
pile
up
,
five
times
too
many
to
do
the
work
.
A
gold
rush
for
work
.
They
stole
away
in
the
night
,
frantic
for
work
.
And
along
the
roads
lay
the
temptations
,
the
fields
that
could
bear
food
.
That
’
s
owned
.
That
ain
’
t
our
’
n
.
