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- Джон Стейнбек
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«
We
’
re
doin
’
fine
.
We
made
three
and
a
half
today
.
Wisht
she
’
d
keep
up
.
Them
kids
is
gettin
’
to
be
good
pickers
.
Ma
’
s
worked
’
em
up
a
little
bag
for
each
.
They
couldn
’
tow
a
growed
-
up
bag
.
Dump
into
ours
.
Made
bags
outa
a
couple
old
shirts
.
Work
fine
.
»
And
Ma
went
to
the
meat
counter
,
her
forefinger
pressed
against
her
lips
,
blowing
on
her
finger
,
thinking
deeply
.
«
Might
get
some
pork
chops
,
"
she
said
.
«
How
much
?
»
«
Thirty
cents
a
pound
,
ma
’
am
.
»
«
Well
,
lemme
have
three
poun
’
s
.
An
’
a
nice
piece
a
boilin
’
beef
.
My
girl
can
cook
it
tomorra
.
An
’
a
bottle
a
milk
for
my
girl
.
She
dotes
on
milk
.
Gonna
have
a
baby
.
Nurse
-
lady
tol
’
her
to
eat
lots
a
milk
.
Now
,
le
’
s
see
,
we
got
potatoes
.
»
Pa
came
close
,
carrying
a
can
of
sirup
in
his
hands
.
«
Might
get
this
here
,
"
he
said
.
«
Might
have
some
hotcakes
.
»
Ma
frowned
.
«
Well
—
well
,
yes
.
Here
,
we
’
ll
take
this
here
.
Now
—
we
got
plenty
lard
.
»
Ruthie
came
near
,
in
her
hands
two
large
boxes
of
Cracker
Jack
,
in
her
eyes
a
brooding
question
,
which
on
a
nod
or
a
shake
of
Ma
’
s
head
might
become
tragedy
or
joyous
excitement
.
«
Ma
?
»
She
held
up
the
boxes
,
jerked
them
up
and
down
to
make
them
attractive
.
«
Now
you
put
them
back
—
"
The
tragedy
began
to
form
in
Ruthie
’
s
eyes
.
Pa
said
,
«
They
’
re
on
’
y
a
nickel
apiece
.
Them
little
fellas
worked
good
today
.
»
