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- Джон Стейнбек
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But
you
can
’
t
start
.
Only
a
baby
can
start
.
You
and
me
—
why
,
we
’
re
all
that
’
s
been
.
The
anger
of
a
moment
,
the
thousand
pictures
,
that
’
s
us
.
This
land
,
this
red
land
,
is
us
;
and
the
flood
years
and
the
dust
years
and
the
drought
years
are
us
.
We
can
’
t
start
again
.
The
bitterness
we
sold
to
the
junk
man
—
he
got
it
all
right
,
but
we
have
it
still
.
And
when
the
owner
men
told
us
to
go
,
that
’
s
us
;
and
when
the
tractor
hit
the
house
,
that
’
s
us
until
we
’
re
dead
.
To
California
or
any
place
—
every
one
a
drum
major
leading
a
parade
of
hurts
,
marching
with
our
bitterness
.
And
some
day
—
the
armies
of
bitterness
will
all
be
going
the
same
way
.
And
they
’
ll
all
walk
together
,
and
there
’
ll
be
a
dead
terror
from
it
.
The
tenant
men
scuffed
home
to
the
farms
through
the
red
dust
.
When
everything
that
could
be
sold
was
sold
,
stoves
and
bedsteads
,
chairs
and
tables
,
little
corner
cupboards
,
tubs
and
tanks
,
still
there
were
piles
of
possessions
;
and
the
women
sat
among
them
,
turning
them
over
and
looking
off
beyond
and
back
,
pictures
,
square
glasses
,
and
here
’
s
a
vase
.
Now
you
know
well
what
we
can
take
and
what
we
can
’
t
take
.
We
’
ll
be
camping
out
—
a
few
pots
to
cook
and
wash
in
,
and
mattresses
and
comforts
,
lantern
and
buckets
,
and
a
piece
of
canvas
.
Use
that
for
a
tent
.
This
kerosene
can
.
Know
what
that
is
?
That
’
s
the
stove
.
And
clothes
—
take
all
the
clothes
.
And
—
the
rifle
?
Wouldn
’
t
go
out
naked
of
a
rifle
.
When
shoes
and
clothes
and
food
,
when
even
hope
is
gone
,
we
’
ll
have
the
rifle
.
When
grampa
came
—
did
I
tell
you
?
—
he
had
pepper
and
salt
and
a
rifle
.
Nothing
else
.
That
goes
.
And
a
bottle
for
water
.
That
just
about
fills
us
.
Right
up
the
sides
of
the
trailer
,
and
the
kids
can
set
in
the
trailer
,
and
granma
on
a
mattress
.
Tools
,
a
shovel
and
saw
and
wrench
and
pliers
.
An
ax
,
too
.
We
had
that
ax
forty
years
.
Look
how
she
’
s
wore
down
.
And
ropes
,
of
course
.
The
rest
?
Leave
it
-
or
burn
it
up
.
And
the
children
came
.
If
Mary
takes
that
doll
,
that
dirty
rag
doll
,
I
got
to
take
my
Injun
bow
.
I
got
to
.
An
’
this
roun
’
stick
—
big
as
me
.
I
might
need
this
stick
.
I
had
this
stick
so
long
—
a
month
,
or
maybe
a
year
.
I
got
to
take
it
.
And
what
’
s
it
like
in
California
?
The
women
sat
among
the
doomed
things
,
turning
them
over
and
looking
past
them
and
back
.
This
book
.
My
father
had
it
.
He
liked
a
book
.
Pilgrim
’
s
Progress
Used
to
read
it
.
Got
his
name
in
it
.
And
his
pipe
—
still
smells
rank
.
And
this
picture
—
an
angel
.
I
looked
at
that
before
the
fust
three
come
—
didn
’
t
seem
to
do
much
good
.
Think
we
could
get
this
china
dog
in
?
Aunt
Sadie
brought
it
from
the
St
.
Louis
Fair
.
See
?
Wrote
right
on
it
.
No
,
I
guess
not
.
Here
’
s
a
letter
my
brother
wrote
the
day
before
he
died
.
Here
’
s
an
old
-
time
hat
.
These
feathers
—
never
got
to
use
them
.
No
,
there
isn
’
t
room
.
How
can
we
live
without
our
lives
?
How
will
we
know
it
’
s
us
without
our
past
?
No
.
Leave
it
.
Burn
it
.
