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- Джон Стейнбек
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- Стр. 526/563
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The
people
moved
quickly
out
into
the
cotton
field
and
took
their
rows
.
They
tied
the
bags
to
their
waists
and
they
slapped
their
hands
together
to
warm
stiff
fingers
that
had
to
be
nimble
.
The
dawn
colored
over
the
eastern
hills
,
and
the
wide
line
moved
over
the
rows
.
And
from
the
highway
the
cars
still
moved
in
and
parked
in
the
barnyard
until
it
was
full
,
and
they
parked
along
the
road
on
both
sides
.
The
wind
blew
briskly
across
the
field
.
«
I
don
’
t
know
how
you
all
found
out
,
"
the
owner
said
.
«
There
must
be
a
hell
of
a
grapevine
.
The
twenty
won
’
t
last
till
noon
.
What
name
?
Hume
?
How
many
?
»
The
line
of
people
moved
out
across
the
field
,
and
the
strong
steady
west
wind
blew
their
clothes
.
Their
fingers
flew
to
the
spilling
bolls
,
and
flew
to
the
long
sacks
growing
heavy
behind
them
.
Pa
spoke
to
the
man
in
the
row
to
his
right
.
«
Back
home
we
might
get
rain
out
of
a
wind
like
this
.
Seems
a
little
mite
frosty
for
rain
.
How
long
you
been
out
here
?
»
He
kept
his
eyes
down
on
his
work
as
he
spoke
.
His
neighbor
didn
’
t
look
up
.
«
I
been
here
nearly
a
year
.
»
«
Would
you
say
it
was
gonna
rain
?
»
«
Can
’
t
tell
,
an
’
that
ain
’
t
no
insult
,
neither
.
Folks
that
lived
here
all
their
life
can
’
t
tell
.
If
the
rain
can
git
in
the
way
of
a
crop
,
it
’
ll
rain
.
Tha
’
s
what
they
say
out
here
.
»
Pa
looked
quickly
at
the
western
hills
.
Big
gray
clouds
were
coasting
over
the
ridge
,
riding
the
wind
swiftly
.
«
Them
looks
like
rain
-
heads
,
"
he
said
.
His
neighbor
stole
a
squinting
look
.
«
Can
’
t
tell
,
"
he
said
.
And
all
down
the
line
of
rows
the
people
looked
back
at
the
clouds
.
And
then
they
bent
lower
to
their
work
,
and
their
hands
flew
to
the
cotton
.
They
raced
at
the
picking
,
raced
against
time
and
cotton
weight
,
raced
against
the
rain
and
against
each
other
—
only
so
much
cotton
to
pick
,
only
so
much
money
to
be
made
.
They
came
to
the
other
side
of
the
field
and
ran
to
get
a
new
row
.
And
now
they
faced
into
the
wind
,
and
they
could
see
the
high
gray
clouds
moving
over
the
sky
toward
the
rising
sun
.
And
more
cars
parked
along
the
roadside
,
and
new
pickers
came
to
be
checked
in
.
The
line
of
people
moved
frantically
across
the
field
,
weighed
at
the
end
,
marked
their
cotton
,
checked
the
weights
into
their
own
books
,
and
ran
for
new
rows
.
At
eleven
o
’
clock
the
field
was
picked
and
the
work
was
done
.
The
wire
-
sided
trailers
were
hooked
on
behind
wire
-
sided
trucks
,
and
they
moved
out
to
the
highway
and
drove
away
to
the
gin
.
The
cotton
fluffed
out
through
the
chicken
wire
and
little
clouds
of
cotton
blew
through
the
air
,
and
rags
of
cotton
caught
and
waved
on
the
weeds
beside
the
road
.
The
pickers
clustered
disconsolately
back
to
the
barnyard
and
stood
in
line
to
be
paid
off
.
