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They
was
a
lady
back
home
,
won
’
t
mention
no
names
—
had
a
nigger
kid
all
of
a
sudden
.
Nobody
knowed
before
.
Never
did
hunt
out
the
nigger
.
Couldn
’
never
hold
up
her
head
no
more
.
But
I
started
to
tellshe
was
a
good
picker
.
Now
the
bag
is
heavy
,
boost
it
along
.
Set
your
hips
and
tow
it
along
,
like
a
work
horse
.
And
the
kids
pickin
’
into
the
old
man
’
s
sack
.
Good
crop
here
.
Gets
thin
in
the
low
places
,
thin
and
stringy
.
Never
seen
no
cotton
like
this
here
California
cotton
.
Long
fiber
,
bes
’
damn
cotton
I
ever
seen
.
Spoil
the
lan
’
pretty
soon
.
Like
a
fella
wants
to
buy
some
cotton
lan
’
—
Don
’
buy
her
,
rent
her
.
Then
when
she
’
s
cottoned
on
down
,
move
someplace
new
.
Lines
of
people
moving
across
the
fields
.
Fingerwise
.
Inquisitive
fingers
snick
in
and
out
and
find
the
bolls
.
Hardly
have
to
look
.
Bet
I
could
pick
cotton
if
I
was
blind
.
Got
a
feelin
’
for
a
cotton
boll
.
Pick
clean
,
clean
as
a
whistle
.
Sack
’
s
full
now
.
Take
her
to
the
scales
.
Argue
.
Scale
man
says
you
got
rocks
to
make
weight
.
How
’
bout
him
?
His
scales
is
fixed
.
Sometimes
he
’
s
right
,
you
got
rocks
in
the
sack
.
Sometimes
you
’
re
right
,
the
scales
is
crooked
.
Sometimes
both
;
rocks
an
’
crooked
scales
.
Always
argue
,
always
fight
.
Keeps
your
head
up
.
An
’
his
head
up
.
What
’
s
a
few
rocks
?
Jus
’
one
,
maybe
.
Quarter
pound
?
Always
argue
.
Back
with
the
empty
sack
.
Got
our
own
book
.
Mark
in
the
weight
.
Got
to
.
If
they
know
you
’
re
markin
’
,
then
they
don
’
t
cheat
.
But
God
he
’
p
ya
if
ya
don
’
keep
your
own
weight
.
This
is
good
work
.
Kids
runnin
’
aroun
’
.
Heard
’
bout
the
cotton
-
pickin
’
machine
?
Yeah
,
I
heard
.
Think
it
’
ll
ever
come
?
Well
,
if
it
comes
—
fella
says
it
’
ll
put
han
’
pickin
’
out
.
Come
night
.
All
tired
.
Good
pickin
’
,
though
.
Got
three
dollars
,
me
an
’
the
ol
’
woman
an
’
the
kids
.
The
cars
move
to
the
cotton
fields
.
The
cotton
camps
set
up
.
The
screened
high
trucks
and
trailers
are
piled
high
with
white
fluff
.
Cotton
clings
to
the
fence
wires
,
and
cotton
rolls
in
little
balls
along
the
road
when
the
wind
blows
.
And
clean
white
cotton
,
going
to
the
gin
.
And
the
big
,
lumpy
bales
standing
,
going
to
the
compress
.
And
cotton
clinging
to
your
clothes
and
stuck
to
your
whiskers
.
Blow
your
nose
,
there
’
s
cotton
in
your
nose
.
Hunch
along
now
,
fill
up
the
bag
’
fore
dark
.
Wise
fingers
seeking
in
the
bolls
.
Hips
hunching
along
,
dragging
the
bag
.
Kids
are
tired
now
,
in
the
evenin
’
.
They
trip
over
their
feet
in
the
cultivated
earth
.
And
the
sun
is
going
down
.
Wisht
it
would
last
.
It
ain
’
t
much
money
,
God
knows
,
but
I
wisht
it
would
last
.
On
the
highway
the
old
cars
piling
in
,
drawn
by
the
handbills
.
Got
a
cotton
bag
?
No
.
Cost
ya
a
dollar
,
then
.
If
they
was
on
’
y
fifty
of
us
,
we
could
stay
awhile
,
but
they
’
s
five
hunderd
.
She
won
’
t
last
hardly
at
all
.
I
knowed
a
fella
never
did
git
his
bag
paid
out
.
Ever
’
job
he
got
a
new
bag
,
an
’
ever
’
fiel
’
was
done
’
fore
he
got
his
weight
.
Try
for
God
’
s
sake
ta
save
a
little
money
!
Winter
’
s
comin
’
fast
.
They
ain
’
t
no
work
at
all
in
California
in
the
winter
.
Fill
up
the
bag
’
fore
it
’
s
dark
I
seen
that
fella
put
two
clods
in
.
