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- Джон Стейнбек
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- Гроздья гнева
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- Стр. 384/563
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The
cars
and
trucks
began
to
come
into
the
camp
,
and
the
men
trooped
by
toward
the
sanitary
unit
.
And
each
man
carried
clean
overalls
and
shirt
in
his
hand
.
Ma
pulled
herself
together
.
«
John
,
you
go
find
Pa
.
Get
to
the
store
.
I
want
beans
an
’
sugar
an
’
—
a
piece
of
fryin
’
meat
an
’
carrots
an
’
tell
Pa
to
get
somepin
nice
—
anything
—
but
nice
—
for
tonight
.
Tonightwe
’
ll
have
—
somepin
nice
.
»
The
migrant
people
,
scuttling
for
work
,
scrabbling
to
live
,
looked
always
for
pleasure
,
dug
for
pleasure
,
manufactured
pleasure
,
and
they
were
hungry
for
amusement
.
Sometimes
amusement
lay
in
speech
,
and
they
climbed
up
their
lives
with
jokes
.
And
it
came
about
in
the
camps
along
the
roads
,
on
the
ditch
banks
beside
the
streams
,
under
the
sycamores
,
that
the
story
teller
grew
into
being
,
so
that
the
people
gathered
in
the
low
firelight
to
hear
the
gifted
ones
.
And
they
listened
while
the
tales
were
told
,
and
their
participation
made
the
stories
great
.
I
was
a
recruit
against
Geronimo
.
And
the
people
listened
,
and
their
quiet
eyes
reflected
the
dying
fire
.
Them
Injuns
was
cute
—
slick
as
snakes
,
an
’
quiet
when
they
wanted
.
Could
go
through
dry
leaves
,
an
’
make
no
rustle
.
Try
to
do
that
sometimes
.
And
the
people
listened
and
remembered
the
crash
of
dry
leaves
under
their
feet
.
Come
the
change
of
season
an
’
the
clouds
up
.
Wrong
time
.
Ever
hear
of
the
army
doing
anything
right
?
Give
the
army
ten
chances
,
an
’
they
’
ll
stumble
along
.
Took
three
regiments
to
kill
a
hundred
braves
—
always
.
And
the
people
listened
,
and
their
faces
were
quiet
with
listening
.
The
story
tellers
,
gathering
attention
into
their
tales
,
spoke
in
great
rhythms
,
spoke
in
great
words
because
the
tales
were
great
,
and
the
listeners
became
great
through
them
.
They
was
a
brave
on
a
ridge
,
against
the
sun
.
Knowed
he
stood
out
.
Spread
his
arms
an
’
stood
.
Naked
as
morning
,
an
’
against
the
sun
.
Maybe
he
was
crazy
.
I
don
’
know
.
Stood
there
,
arms
spread
out
;
like
a
cross
he
looked
.
Four
hunderd
yards
.
An
’
the
men
—
well
,
they
raised
their
sights
an
’
they
felt
the
wind
with
their
fingers
;
an
’
then
they
jus
’
lay
there
an
’
couldn
’
shoot
.
Maybe
that
Injun
knowed
somepin
.
Knowed
we
couldn
’
shoot
.
Jes
’
laid
there
with
the
rifles
cocked
,
an
’
didn
’
even
put
’
em
to
our
shoulders
.
Lookin
’
at
him
.
Headband
,
one
feather
.
Could
see
it
,
an
’
naked
as
the
sun
.
Long
time
we
laid
there
an
’
looked
,
an
’
he
never
moved
.
An
’
then
the
captain
got
mad
.
«
Shoot
,
you
crazy
bastards
,
shoot
!
»
he
yells
.
An
’
we
jus
’
laid
there
.
«
I
’
ll
give
you
to
a
five
-
count
,
an
’
then
mark
you
down
,
"
the
captain
says
.
Well
sir
—
we
put
up
our
rifles
slow
,
an
’
ever
’
man
hoped
somebody
’
d
shoot
first
.
I
ain
’
t
never
been
so
sad
in
my
life
.
An
’
I
laid
my
sights
on
his
belly
,
’
cause
you
can
’
t
stop
a
Injun
no
other
place
—
an
’
—
then
.
Well
,
he
jest
plunked
down
an
’
rolled
.
An
’
we
went
up
.
An
’
he
wasn
’
t
big
—
he
’
d
looked
so
grand
—
up
there
.
All
tore
to
pieces
an
’
little
.
Ever
see
a
cock
pheasant
,
stiff
and
beautiful
,
ever
’
feather
drawed
an
’
painted
,
an
’
even
his
eyes
drawed
in
pretty
?
An
’
bang
!
You
pick
him
up
—
bloody
an
’
twisted
,
an
’
you
spoiled
somepin
better
’
n
you
;
an
’
eatin
’
him
don
’
t
never
make
it
up
to
you
,
’
cause
you
spoiled
somepin
in
yaself
,
an
’
you
can
’
t
never
fix
it
up
.
