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- Джон Стейнбек
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- Гроздья гнева
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- Стр. 407/563
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Behind
the
fruitfulness
are
men
of
understanding
and
knowledge
,
and
skill
,
men
who
experiment
with
seed
,
endlessly
developing
the
techniques
for
greater
crops
of
plants
whose
roots
will
resist
the
million
enemies
of
the
earth
:
the
molds
,
the
insects
,
the
rusts
,
the
blights
.
These
men
work
carefully
and
endlessly
to
perfect
the
seed
,
the
roots
.
And
there
are
the
men
of
chemistry
who
spray
the
trees
against
pests
,
who
sulphur
the
grapes
,
who
cut
out
disease
and
rots
,
mildews
and
sicknesses
.
Doctors
of
preventive
medicine
,
men
at
the
borders
who
look
for
fruit
flies
,
for
Japanese
beetle
,
men
who
quarantine
the
sick
trees
and
root
them
out
and
burn
them
,
men
of
knowledge
.
The
men
who
graft
the
young
trees
,
the
little
vines
,
are
the
cleverest
of
all
,
for
theirs
is
a
surgeon
’
s
job
,
as
tender
and
delicate
;
and
these
men
must
have
surgeons
’
hands
and
surgeons
’
hearts
to
slit
the
bark
,
to
place
the
grafts
,
to
bind
the
wounds
and
cover
them
from
the
air
.
These
are
great
men
.
Along
the
rows
,
the
cultivators
move
,
tearing
the
spring
grass
and
turning
it
under
to
make
a
fertile
earth
,
breaking
the
ground
to
hold
the
water
up
near
the
surface
,
ridging
the
ground
in
little
pools
for
the
irrigation
,
destroying
the
weed
roots
that
may
drink
the
water
away
from
the
trees
.
And
all
the
time
the
fruit
swells
and
the
flowers
break
out
in
long
clusters
on
the
vines
.
And
in
the
growing
year
the
warmth
grows
and
the
leaves
turn
dark
green
.
The
prunes
lengthen
like
little
green
bird
’
s
eggs
,
and
the
limbs
sag
down
against
the
crutches
under
the
weight
.
And
the
hard
little
pears
take
shape
,
and
the
beginning
of
the
fuzz
comes
out
on
the
peaches
.
Grape
blossoms
shed
their
tiny
petals
and
the
hard
little
beads
become
green
buttons
,
and
the
buttons
grow
heavy
.
The
men
who
work
in
the
fields
,
the
owners
of
the
little
orchards
,
watch
and
calculate
.
The
year
is
heavy
with
produce
.
And
the
men
are
proud
,
for
of
their
knowledge
they
can
make
the
year
heavy
.
They
have
transformed
the
world
with
their
knowledge
.
The
short
,
lean
wheat
has
been
made
big
and
productive
.
Little
sour
apples
have
grown
large
and
sweet
,
and
that
old
grape
that
grew
among
the
trees
and
fed
the
birds
its
tiny
fruit
has
mothered
a
thousand
varieties
,
red
and
black
,
green
and
pale
pink
,
purple
and
yellow
;
and
each
variety
with
its
own
flavor
.
The
men
who
work
in
the
experimental
farms
have
made
new
fruits
:
nectarines
and
forty
kinds
of
plums
,
walnuts
with
paper
shells
.
And
always
they
work
,
selecting
,
grafting
,
changing
,
driving
themselves
,
driving
the
earth
to
produce
.
And
first
the
cherries
ripen
.
Cent
and
a
half
a
pound
.
Hell
,
we
can
’
t
pick
’
em
for
that
.
Black
cherries
and
red
cherries
,
full
and
sweet
,
and
the
birds
eat
half
of
each
cherry
and
the
yellowjackets
buzz
into
the
holes
the
birds
made
.
And
on
the
ground
the
seeds
drop
and
dry
with
black
shreds
hanging
from
them
.
The
purple
prunes
soften
and
sweeten
.
My
God
,
we
can
’
t
pick
them
and
dry
and
sulphur
them
.
We
can
’
t
pay
wages
,
no
matter
what
wages
.
And
the
purple
prunes
carpet
the
ground
.
And
first
the
skins
wrinkle
a
little
and
swarms
of
flies
come
to
feast
,
and
the
valley
is
filled
with
the
odor
of
sweet
decay
.
The
meat
turns
dark
and
the
crop
shrivels
on
the
ground
.
And
the
pears
grow
yellow
and
soft
.
Five
dollars
a
ton
.
Five
dollars
for
forty
fifty
-
pound
boxes
;
trees
pruned
and
sprayed
,
orchards
cultivated
—
pick
the
fruit
,
put
it
in
boxes
,
load
the
trucks
,
deliver
the
fruit
to
the
cannery
—
forty
boxes
for
five
dollars
.
We
can
’
t
do
it
.
And
the
yellow
fruit
falls
heavily
to
the
ground
and
splashes
on
the
ground
.
The
yellowjackets
dig
into
the
soft
meat
,
and
there
is
a
smell
of
ferment
and
rot
.
Then
the
grapes
—
we
can
’
t
make
good
wine
.
People
can
’
t
buy
good
wine
.
Rip
the
grapes
from
the
vines
,
good
grapes
,
rotten
grapes
,
wasp
-
stung
grapes
.
Press
stems
,
press
dirt
and
rot
.
