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- Джон Стейнбек
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- Стр. 67/563
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In
the
little
houses
the
tenant
people
sifted
their
belongings
and
the
belongings
of
their
fathers
and
of
their
grandfathers
.
Picked
over
their
possessions
for
the
journey
to
the
west
.
The
men
were
ruthless
because
the
past
had
been
spoiled
,
but
the
women
knew
how
the
past
would
cry
to
them
in
the
coming
days
.
The
men
went
into
the
barns
and
the
sheds
.
That
plow
,
that
harrow
,
remember
in
the
war
we
planted
mustard
?
Remember
a
fella
wanted
us
to
put
in
that
rubber
bush
they
call
guayule
?
Get
rich
,
he
said
.
Bring
out
those
tools
—
get
a
few
dollars
for
them
.
Eighteen
dollars
for
that
plow
,
plus
freight
—
Sears
Roebuck
.
Harness
,
carts
,
seeders
,
little
bundles
of
hoes
.
Bring
em
out
.
Pile
’
em
up
.
Load
’
em
in
the
wagon
.
Take
’
em
to
town
.
Sell
’
em
for
what
you
can
get
.
Sell
the
team
and
the
wagon
,
too
.
No
more
use
for
anything
.
Fifty
cents
isn
’
t
enough
to
get
for
a
good
plow
.
That
seeder
cost
thirty
-
eight
dollars
.
Two
dollars
isn
’
t
enough
.
Can
’
t
haul
it
all
back
—
Well
,
take
it
,
and
a
bitterness
with
it
.
Take
the
well
pump
and
the
harness
.
Take
halters
,
collars
,
hames
,
and
tugs
.
Take
the
little
glass
brow
-
band
jewels
,
roses
red
under
glass
.
Got
those
for
the
bay
gelding
.
’
Member
how
he
lifted
his
feet
when
he
trotted
?
Junk
piled
up
in
a
yard
.
Can
’
t
sell
a
hand
plow
any
more
.
Fifty
cents
for
the
weight
of
the
metal
.
Disks
and
tractors
,
that
’
s
the
stuff
now
.
Well
,
take
it
—
all
junk
—
and
give
me
five
dollars
.
You
’
re
not
buying
only
junk
,
you
’
re
buying
junked
lives
.
And
more
—
you
’
ll
see
—
you
’
re
buying
bitterness
.
Buying
a
plow
to
plow
your
own
children
under
,
buying
the
arms
and
spirits
that
might
have
saved
you
.
Five
dollars
,
not
four
.
I
can
’
t
haul
’
em
back
—
Well
,
take
’
em
for
four
.
But
I
warn
you
,
you
’
re
buying
what
will
plow
your
own
children
under
.
And
you
won
’
t
see
.
You
can
’
t
see
.
Take
’
em
for
four
.
Now
,
what
’
ll
you
give
for
the
team
and
wagon
?
Those
fine
bays
,
matched
they
are
,
matched
in
color
,
matched
the
way
they
walk
,
stride
to
stride
.
In
the
stiff
pullstraining
hams
and
buttocks
,
split
-
second
timed
together
.
And
in
the
morning
,
the
light
on
them
,
bay
light
.
They
look
over
the
fence
sniffing
for
us
,
and
the
stiff
ears
swivel
to
hear
us
,
and
the
black
forelocks
!
I
’
ve
got
a
girl
.
She
likes
to
braid
the
manes
and
forelocks
,
puts
little
red
bows
on
them
.
Likes
to
do
it
.
Not
any
more
.
I
could
tell
you
a
funny
story
about
that
girl
and
that
off
bay
.
Would
make
you
laugh
.
Off
horse
is
eight
,
near
is
ten
,
but
might
of
been
twin
colts
the
way
they
work
together
.
See
?
The
teeth
.
Sound
all
over
.
Deep
lungs
.
Feet
fair
and
clean
.
How
much
?
Ten
dollars
?
For
both
?
And
the
wagon
—
Oh
,
Jesus
Christ
!
I
’
d
shoot
’
em
for
dog
feed
first
.
Oh
,
take
’
em
!
Take
’
em
quick
,
mister
.
You
’
re
buying
a
little
girl
plaiting
the
forelocks
,
taking
off
her
hair
ribbon
to
make
bows
,
standing
back
,
head
cocked
,
rubbing
the
soft
noses
with
her
cheek
.
You
’
re
buying
years
of
work
,
toil
in
the
sun
;
you
’
re
buying
a
sorrow
that
can
’
t
talk
.
But
watch
it
,
mister
.
There
’
s
a
premium
goes
with
this
pile
of
junk
and
the
bay
horses
—
so
beautiful
—
a
packet
of
bitterness
to
grow
in
your
house
and
to
flower
,
some
day
.
We
could
have
saved
you
,
but
you
cut
us
down
,
and
soon
you
will
be
cut
down
and
there
’
ll
be
none
of
us
to
save
you
.
And
the
tenant
men
came
walking
back
,
hands
in
their
pockets
,
hats
pulled
down
.
Some
bought
a
pint
and
drank
it
fast
to
make
the
impact
hard
and
stunning
.
But
they
didn
’
t
laugh
and
they
didn
’
t
dance
.
They
didn
’
t
sing
or
pick
the
guitars
.
They
walked
back
to
the
farms
,
hands
in
pockets
and
heads
down
,
shoes
kicking
the
red
dust
up
.
Maybe
we
can
start
again
,
in
the
new
rich
land
—
in
California
,
where
the
fruit
grows
.
We
’
ll
start
over
.
