1The boxcars, twelve of them, stood end to end on a little flat beside the stream. There were two rows of six each, the wheels removed. Up to the big sliding doors slatted planks ran for cat-walks. They made good houses, water-tight and draftless, room for twenty-four families, one family in each end of each car. No windows, but the wide doors stood open. In some of the cars a canvas hung down in the center of the car, while in others only the position of the door made the boundary.

2The Joads had one end of an end car. Some previous occupant had fitted up an oil can with a stovepipe, had made a hole in the wall for the stovepipe. Even with the wide door open, it was dark in the ends of the car. Ma hung the tarpaulin across the middle of the car.

3“It’s nice,” she said. “It’s almost nicer than anything we had ’cept the gov’ment camp.”

4Each night she unrolled the mattresses on the floor, and each morning rolled them up again. And every day they went into the fields and picked the cotton, and every night they had meat. On a Saturday they drove into Tulare, and they bought a tin stove and new overalls for Al and Pa and Winfield and Uncle John, and they bought a dress for Ma and gave Ma’s best dress to Rose of Sharon.

5“She’s so big,” Ma said. “Jus’ a waste of good money to get her a new dress now.”

6The Joads had been lucky. They got in early enough to have a place in the boxcars. Now the tents of the late-comers filled the little flat, and those who had the boxcars were old-timers, and in a way aristocrats.

7The narrow stream slipped by, out of the willows, and back into the willows again. From each car a hard-beaten path went down to the stream. Between the cars the clothes lines hung, and every day the lines were covered with drying clothes.

8In the evening they walked back from the fields, carrying their folded cotton bags under their arms. They went into the store which stood at the crossroads, and there were many pickers in the store, buying their supplies.

9“How much today?”

10“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.”

11And 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?”

12“Thirty cents a pound, ma’am.”

13“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.”

14Pa came close, carrying a can of sirup in his hands. “Might get this here,” he said. “Might have some hotcakes.”

15Ma frowned. “Well—well, yes. Here, we’ll take this here. Now—we got plenty lard.”

16Ruthie 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.

17“Now you put them back——”

18The tragedy began to form in Ruthie’s eyes. Pa said, “They’re on’y a nickel apiece. Them little fellas worked good today.”

19“Well—” The excitement began to steal into Ruthie’s eyes. “Awright.”

20Ruthie turned and fled. Halfway to the door she caught Winfield and rushed him out the door, into the evening.

21Uncle John fingered a pair of canvas gloves with yellow leather palms, tried them on and took them off and laid them down. He moved gradually to the liquor shelves, and he stood studying the labels on the bottles. Ma saw him. “Pa,” she said, and motioned with her head toward Uncle John.

22Pa lounged over to him. “Gettin’ thirsty, John?”

23“No, I ain’t.”

24“Jus’ wait till cotton’s done,” said Pa. “Then you can go on a hell of a drunk.”

25“ ’Tain’t sweatin’ me none,” Uncle John said. “I’m workin’ hard an’ sleepin’ good. No dreams nor nothin’.”

26“Jus’ seen you sort of droolin’ out at them bottles.”

27“I didn’ hardly see ’em. Funny thing. I wanta buy stuff. Stuff I don’t need. Like to git one a them safety razors. Thought I’d like to have some a them gloves over there. Awful cheap.”

28“Can’t pick no cotton with gloves,” said Pa.

29“I know that. An’ I don’t need no safety razor, neither. Stuff settin’ out there, you jus’ feel like buyin’ it whether you need it or not.”

30Ma called, “Come on. We got ever’thing.” She carried a bag. Uncle John and Pa each took a package. Outside Ruthie and Winfield were waiting, their eyes strained, their cheeks puffed and full of Cracker Jack.

31“Won’t eat no supper, I bet,” Ma said.

32People streamed toward the boxcar camp. The tents were lighted. Smoke poured from the stovepipes. The Joads climbed up their cat-walk and into their end of the boxcar. Rose of Sharon sat on a box beside the stove. She had a fire started, and the tin stove was wine-colored with heat. “Did ya get milk?” she demanded.

33“Yeah. Right here.”

34“Give it to me. I ain’t had any sence noon.”

35“She thinks it’s like medicine.”

36“That nurse-lady says so.”

37“You got potatoes ready?”

38“Right there—peeled.”

39“We’ll fry ’em,” said Ma. “Got pork chops. Cut up them potatoes in the new fry pan. And th’ow in a onion. You fellas go out an’ wash, an’ bring in a bucket a water. Where’s Ruthie an’ Winfiel’? They oughta wash. They each got Cracker Jack,” Ma told Rose of Sharon. “Each got a whole box.”

40The men went out to wash in the stream. Rose of Sharon sliced the potatoes into the frying pan and stirred them about with the knife point.

41Suddenly the tarpaulin was thrust aside. A stout perspiring face looked in from the other end of the car. “How’d you all make out, Mis’ Joad?”

42Ma swung around. “Why, evenin’, Mis’ Wainwright. We done good. Three an’ a half. Three fifty-seven, exact.”

43“We done four dollars.”

44“Well,” said Ma. “ ’Course they’s more of you.”

45“Yeah. Jonas is growin’ up. Havin’ pork chops, I see.”

46Winfield crept in through the door. “Ma!”

47“Hush a minute. Yes, my men jus’ loves pork chops.”

48“I’m cookin’ bacon,” said Mrs. Wainwright. “Can you smell it cookin’?”

49“No—can’t smell it over these here onions in the potatoes.”

50“She’s burnin’!” Mrs. Wainwright cried, and her head jerked back.

51“Ma,” Winfield said.

52“What? You sick from Cracker Jack?”

53“Ma—Ruthie tol’.”

54“Tol’ what?”

55“ ’Bout Tom.”

56Ma stared. “Tol’?” Then she knelt in front of him. “Winfiel’, who’d she tell?”

57Embarrassment seized Winfield. He backed away. “Well, she on’y tol’ a little bit.”

58“Winfiel’! Now you tell what she said.”

59“She—she didn’ eat all her Cracker Jack. She kep’ some, an’ she et jus’ one piece at a time, slow, like she always done, an’ she says, ‘Bet you wisht you had some lef’.”

60“Winfiel’!” Ma demanded. “You tell now.” She looked back nervously at the curtain. “Rosasharn, you go over talk to Mis’ Wainwright so she don’ listen.”

61“How ’bout these here potatoes?”

62“I’ll watch ’em. Now you go. I don’ want her listenin’ at that curtain.” The girl shuffled heavily down the car and went around the side of the hung tarpaulin.

63Ma said, “Now, Winfiel’, you tell.”

64“Like I said, she et jus’ one little piece at a time, an’ she bust some in two so it’d las’ longer.”

65“Go on, hurry up.”

66“Well, some kids come aroun’, an’ ’course they tried to get some, but Ruthie, she jus’ nibbled an’ nibbled, an’ wouldn’ give ’em none. So they got mad. An’ one kid grabbed her Cracker Jack box.”

67“Winfiel’, you tell quick about the other.”

68“I am,” he said. “So Ruthie got mad an’ chased ’em, an’ she fit one, an’ then she fit another, an’ then one big girl up an’ licked her. Hit ’er a good one. So then Ruthie cried, an’ she said she’d git her big brother, an’ he’d kill that big girl. An’ that big girl said, Oh, yeah? Well, she got a big brother too.” Winfield was breathless in his telling. “So then they fit, an’ that big girl hit Ruthie a good one, an’ Ruthie said her brother’d kill that big girl’s brother. An’ that big girl said how about if her brother kil’t our brother. An’ then—an’ then, Ruthie said our brother already kil’t two fellas. An’—an’—that big girl said, ‘Oh, yeah! You’re jus’ a little smarty liar.’ An’ Ruthie said, Oh, yeah? Well, our brother’s a-hidin’ right now from killin’ a fella, an’ he can kill that big girl’s brother too. An’ then they called names an’ Ruthie throwed a rock, an’ that big girl chased her, an’ I come home.”

69“Oh, my!” Ma said wearily. “Oh! My dear sweet Lord Jesus asleep in a manger! What we goin’ to do now?” She put her forehead in her hand and rubbed her eyes. “What we gonna do now?” A smell of burning potatoes came from the roaring stove. Ma moved automatically and turned them.

70“Rosasharn!” Ma called. The girl appeared around the curtain. “Come watch this here supper. Winfiel’, you go out an’ you fin’ Ruthie an’ bring her back here.”

71“Gonna whup her, Ma?” he asked hopefully.

72“No. This here you couldn’ do nothin’ about. Why, I wonder, did she haf’ to do it? No. It won’t do no good to whup her. Run now, an’ find her an’ bring her back.”

73Winfield ran for the car door, and he met the three men tramping up the cat-walk, and he stood aside while they came in.

74Ma said softly, “Pa, I got to talk to you. Ruthie tol’ some kids how Tom’s a-hidin’.”

75“What?”

76“She tol’. Got in a fight an’ tol’.”

77“Why, the little bitch!”

78“No, she didn’ know what she was a-doin’. Now look, Pa. I want you to stay here. I’m goin’ out an’ try to fin’ Tom an’ tell him. I got to tell ’im to be careful. You stick here, Pa, an’ kinda watch out for things. I’ll take ’im some dinner.”

79“Awright,” Pa agreed.

80“Don’ you even mention to Ruthie what she done. I’ll tell her.”

81At that moment Ruthie came in, with Winfield behind her. The little girl was dirtied. Her mouth was sticky, and her nose still dripped a little blood from her fight. She looked shamed and frightened. Winfield triumphantly followed her. Ruthie looked fiercely about, but she went to a corner of the car and put her back in the corner. Her shame and fierceness were blended.

82“I tol’ her what she done,” Winfield said.

83Ma was putting two chops and some fried potatoes on a tin plate. “Hush, Winfiel’,” she said. “They ain’t no need to hurt her feelings no more’n what they’re hurt.”

84Ruthie’s body hurtled across the car. She grabbed Ma around the middle and buried her head in Ma’s stomach, and her strangled sobs shook her whole body. Ma tried to loosen her, but the grubby fingers clung tight. Ma brushed the hair on the back of her head gently, and she patted her shoulders. “Hush,” she said. “You didn’ know.”

85Ruthie raised her dirty, tear-stained, bloody face. “They stoled my Cracker Jack!” she cried. “That big son-of-a-bitch of a girl, she belted me—” She went off into hard crying again.

86“Hush!” Ma said. “Don’ talk like that. Here. Let go. I’m a-goin’ now.”

87“Whyn’t ya whup her, Ma? If she didn’t git snotty with her Cracker Jack ’twouldn’ a happened. Go on, give her a whup.”

88“You jus’ min’ your business, mister,” Ma said fiercely. “You’ll git a whup yourself. Now leggo, Ruthie.”

89Winfield retired to a rolled mattress, and he regarded the family cynically and dully. And he put himself in a good position of defense, for Ruthie would attack him at the first opportunity, and he knew it. Ruthie went quietly, heart-brokenly to the other side of the car.

90Ma put a sheet of newspaper over the tin plate. “I’m a-goin’ now,” she said.

91“Ain’t you gonna eat nothin’ yourself?” Uncle John demanded.

92“Later. When I come back. I wouldn’ want nothin’ now.” Ma walked to the open door; she steadied herself down the steep, cleated cat-walk.

93On the stream side of the boxcars, the tents were pitched close together, their guy ropes crossing one another, and the pegs of one at the canvas line of the next. The lights shone through the cloth, and all the chimneys belched smoke. Men and women stood in the doorways talking. Children ran feverishly about. Ma moved majestically down the line of tents. Here and there she was recognized as she went by. “Evenin’, Mis’ Joad.”

94“Evenin’.”

95“Takin’ somepin out, Mis’ Joad?”

96“They’s a frien’. I’m takin’ back some bread.”

97She came at last to the end of the line of tents. She stopped and looked back. A glow of light was on the camp, and the soft overtone of a multitude of speakers. Now and then a harsher voice cut through. The smell of smoke filled the air. Someone played a harmonica softly, trying for an effect, one phrase over and over.

98Ma stepped in among the willows beside the stream. She moved off the trail and waited, silently, listening to hear any possible follower. A man walked down the trail toward the camp, boosting his suspenders and buttoning his jeans as he went. Ma sat very still, and he passed on without seeing her. She waited five minutes and then she stood up and crept on up the trail beside the stream. She moved quietly, so quietly that she could hear the murmur of the water above her soft steps on the willow leaves. Trail and stream swung to the left and then to the right again until they neared the highway. In the gray starlight she could see the embankment and the black round hole of the culvert where she always left Tom’s food. She moved forward cautiously, thrust her package into the hole, and took back the empty tin plate which was left there. She crept back among the willows, forced her way into a thicket, and sat down to wait. Through the tangle she could see the black hole of the culvert. She clasped her knees and sat silently. In a few moments the thicket crept to life again. The field mice moved cautiously over the leaves. A skunk padded heavily and unself-consciously down the trail, carrying a faint effluvium with him. And then a wind stirred the willows delicately, as though it tested them, and a shower of golden leaves coasted down to the ground. Suddenly a gust boiled in and racked the trees, and a cricking downpour of leaves fell. Ma could feel them on her hair and on her shoulders. Over the sky a plump black cloud moved, erasing the stars. The fat drops of rain scattered down, splashing loudly on the fallen leaves, and the cloud moved on and unveiled the stars again. Ma shivered. The wind blew past and left the thicket quiet, but the rushing of the trees went on down the stream. From back at the camp came the thin penetrating tone of a violin feeling about for a tune.

99Ma heard a stealthy step among the leaves far to her left, and she grew tense. She released her knees and straightened her head, the better to hear. The movement stopped, and after a long moment began again. A vine rasped harshly on the dry leaves. Ma saw a dark figure creep into the open and draw near to the culvert. The black round hole was obscured for a moment, and then the figure moved back. She called softly, “Tom!” The figure stood still, so still, so low to the ground that it might have been a stump. She called again, “Tom, oh, Tom!” Then the figure moved.

100“That you, Ma?”

101“Right over here.” She stood up and went to meet him.

102“You shouldn’ of came,” he said.

103“I got to see you, Tom. I got to talk to you.”

104“It’s near the trail,” he said. “Somebody might come by.”

105“Ain’t you got a place, Tom?”

106“Yeah—but if—well, s’pose somebody seen you with me—whole fambly’d be in a jam.”

107“I got to, Tom.”

108“Then come along. Come quiet.” He crossed the little stream, wading carelessly through the water, and Ma followed him. He moved through the brush, out into a field on the other side of the thicket, and along the plowed ground. The blackening stems of the cotton were harsh against the ground, and a few fluffs of cotton clung to the stems. A quarter of a mile they went along the edge of the field, and then he turned into the brush again. He approached a great mound of wild blackberry bushes, leaned over and pulled a mat of vines aside. “You got to crawl in,” he said.

109Ma went down on her hands and knees. She felt sand under her, and then the black inside of the mound no longer touched her, and she felt Tom’s blanket on the ground. He arranged the vines in place again. It was lightless in the cave.

110“Where are you, Ma?”

111“Here. Right here. Talk soft, Tom.”

112“Don’t worry. I been livin’ like a rabbit some time.”

113She heard him unwrap his tin plate.

114“Pork chops,” she said. “And fry potatoes.”

115“God Awmighty, an’ still warm.”

116Ma could not see him at all in the blackness, but she could hear him chewing, tearing at the meat and swallowing.

117“It’s a pretty good hide-out,” he said.

118Ma said uneasily, “Tom—Ruthie tol’ about you.” She heard him gulp.

119“Ruthie? What for?”

120“Well, it wasn’ her fault. Got in a fight, an’ says her brother’ll lick that other girl’s brother. You know how they do. An’ she tol’ that her brother killed a man an’ was hidin’.”

121Tom was chuckling. “With me I was always gonna get Uncle John after ’em, but he never would do it. That’s jus’ kid talk, Ma. That’s awright.”

122“No, it ain’t,” Ma said. “Them kids’ll tell it aroun’ an’ then the folks’ll hear, an’ they’ll tell aroun’, an’ pretty soon, well, they liable to get men out to look, jus’ in case. Tom, you got to go away.”

123“That’s what I said right along. I was always scared somebody’d see you put stuff in that culvert, an’ then they’d watch.”

124“I know. But I wanted you near. I was scared for you. I ain’t seen you. Can’t see you now. How’s your face?”

125“Gettin’ well quick.”

126“Come clost, Tom. Let me feel it. Come clost.” He crawled near. Her reaching hand found his head in the blackness and her fingers moved down to his nose, and then over his left cheek. “You got a bad scar, Tom. An’ your nose is all crooked.”

127“Maybe tha’s a good thing. Nobody wouldn’t know me, maybe. If my prints wasn’t on record, I’d be glad.” He went back to his eating.

128“Hush,” she said. “Listen!”

129“It’s the wind, Ma. Jus’ the wind.” The gust poured down the stream, and the trees rustled under its passing.

130She crawled close to his voice. “I wanta touch ya again, Tom. It’s like I’m blin’, it’s so dark. I wanta remember, even if it’s on’y my fingers that remember. You got to go away, Tom.”

131“Yeah! I knowed it from the start.”

132“We made purty good,” she said. “I been squirrelin’ money away. Hol’ out your han’, Tom. I got seven dollars here.”

133“I ain’t gonna take ya money,” he said. “I’ll get ’long all right.”

134“Hol’ out ya han’, Tom. I ain’t gonna sleep none if you got no money. Maybe you got to take a bus, or somepin. I want you should go a long ways off, three-four hunderd miles.”

135“I ain’t gonna take it.”

136“Tom,” she said sternly. “You take this money. You hear me? You got no right to cause me pain.”

137“You ain’t playin’ fair,” he said.

138“I thought maybe you could go to a big city. Los Angeles, maybe. They wouldn’ never look for you there.”

139“Hm-m,” he said. “Lookie, Ma. I been all day an’ all night hidin’ alone. Guess who I been thinkin’ about? Casy! He talked a lot. Used ta bother me. But now I been thinkin’ what he said, an’ I can remember—all of it. Says one time he went out in the wilderness to find his own soul, an’ he foun’ he didn’ have no soul that was his’n. Says he foun’ he jus’ got a little piece of a great big soul. Says a wilderness ain’t no good, ’cause his little piece of a soul wasn’t no good ’less it was with the rest, an’ was whole. Funny how I remember. Didn’ think I was even listenin’. But I know now a fella ain’t no good alone.”

140“He was a good man,” Ma said.

141Tom went on, “He spouted out some Scripture once, an’ it didn’ soun’ like no hell-fire Scripture. He tol’ it twicet, an’ I remember it. Says it’s from the Preacher.”

142“How’s it go, Tom?”

143“Goes, ‘Two are better than one, because they have a good reward for their labor. For if they fall, the one will lif’ up his fellow, but woe to him that is alone when he falleth, for he hath not another to help him up.’ That’s part of her.”

144“Go on,” Ma said. “Go on, Tom.”

145“Jus’ a little bit more. ‘Again, if two lie together, then they have heat: but how can one be warm alone? And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him, and a three-fold cord is not quickly broken.’ ”

146“An’ that’s Scripture?”

147“Casy said it was. Called it the Preacher.”

148“Hush—listen.”

149“On’y the wind, Ma. I know the wind. An’ I got to thinkin’, Ma—most of the preachin’ is about the poor we shall have always with us, an’ if you got nothin’, why, jus’ fol’ your hands an’ to hell with it, you gonna git ice cream on gol’ plates when you’re dead. An’ then this here Preacher says two get a better reward for their work.”

150“Tom,” she said. “What you aimin’ to do?”

151He was quiet for a long time. “I been thinkin’ how it was in that gov’ment camp, how our folks took care a theirselves, an’ if they was a fight they fixed it theirself; an’ they wasn’t no cops wagglin’ their guns, but they was better order than them cops ever give. I been a-wonderin’ why we can’t do that all over. Throw out the cops that ain’t our people. All work together for our own thing—all farm our own lan’.”

152“Tom,” Ma repeated, “what you gonna do?”

153“What Casy done,” he said.

154“But they killed him.”

155“Yeah,” said Tom. “He didn’ duck quick enough. He wasn’ doing nothin’ against the law, Ma. I been thinkin’ a hell of a lot, thinkin’ about our people livin’ like pigs, an’ the good rich lan’ layin’ fallow, or maybe one fella with a million acres, while a hunderd thousan’ good farmers is starvin’. An’ I been wonderin’ if all our folks got together an’ yelled, like them fellas yelled, only a few of ’em at the Hooper ranch——”

156Ma said, “Tom, they’ll drive you, an’ cut you down like they done to young Floyd.”

157“They gonna drive me anyways. They drivin’ all our people.”

158“You don’t aim to kill nobody, Tom?”

159“No. I been thinkin’, long as I’m a outlaw anyways, maybe I could— Hell, I ain’t thought it out clear, Ma. Don’ worry me now. Don’ worry me.”

160They sat silent in the coal-black cave of vines. Ma said, “How’m I gonna know ’bout you? They might kill ya an’ I wouldn’ know. They might hurt ya. How’m I gonna know?”

161Tom laughed uneasily, “Well, maybe like Casy says, a fella ain’t got a soul of his own, but on’y a piece of a big one—an’ then——”

162“Then what, Tom?”

163“Then it don’ matter. Then I’ll be all aroun’ in the dark. I’ll be ever’where—wherever you look. Wherever they’s a fight so hungry people can eat, I’ll be there. Wherever they’s a cop beatin’ up a guy, I’ll be there. If Casy knowed, why, I’ll be in the way guys yell when they’re mad an’—I’ll be in the way kids laugh when they’re hungry an’ they know supper’s ready. An’ when our folks eat the stuff they raise an’ live in the houses they build—why, I’ll be there. See? God, I’m talkin’ like Casy. Comes of thinkin’ about him so much. Seems like I can see him sometimes.”

164“I don’ un’erstan’,” Ma said. “I don’ really know.”

165“Me neither,” said Tom. “It’s jus’ stuff I been thinkin’ about. Get thinkin’ a lot when you ain’t movin’ aroun’. You got to get back, Ma.”

166“You take the money then.”

167He was silent for a moment. “Awright,” he said.

168“An’, Tom, later—when it’s blowed over, you’ll come back. You’ll find us?”

169“Sure,” he said. “Now you better go. Here, gimme your han’.” He guided her toward the entrance. Her fingers clutched his wrist. He swept the vines aside and followed her out. “Go up to the field till you come to a sycamore on the edge, an’ then cut acrost the stream. Good-by.”

170“Good-by,” she said, and she walked quickly away. Her eyes were wet and burning, but she did not cry. Her footsteps were loud and careless on the leaves as she went through the brush. And as she went, out of the dim sky the rain began to fall, big drops and few, splashing on the dry leaves heavily. Ma stopped and stood still in the dripping thicket. She turned about—took three steps back toward the mound of vines; and then she turned quickly and went back toward the boxcar camp. She went straight out to the culvert and climbed up on the road. The rain had passed now, but the sky was overcast. Behind her on the road she heard footsteps, and she turned nervously. The blinking of a dim flashlight played on the road. Ma turned back and started for home. In a moment a man caught up with her. Politely, he kept his light on the ground and did not play it in her face.

171“Evenin’,” he said.

172Ma said, “Howdy.”

173“Looks like we might have a little rain.”

174“I hope not. Stop the pickin’. We need the pickin’.”

175“I need the pickin’ too. You live at the camp there?”

176“Yes, sir.” Their footsteps beat on the road together.

177“I got twenty acres of cotton. Little late, but it’s ready now. Thought I’d go down and try to get some pickers.”

178“You’ll get ’em awright. Season’s near over.”

179“Hope so. My place is only a mile up that way.”

180“Six of us,” said Ma. “Three men an’ me an’ two little fellas.”

181“I’ll put out a sign. Two miles—this road.”

182“We’ll be there in the mornin’.”

183“I hope it don’t rain.”

184“Me too,” said Ma. “Twenty acres won’ las’ long.”

185“The less it lasts the gladder I’ll be. My cotton’s late. Didn’ get it in till late.”

186“What you payin’, mister?”

187“Ninety cents.”

188“We’ll pick. I hear fellas say nex’ year it’ll be seventy-five or even sixty.”

189“That’s what I hear.”

190“They’ll be trouble,” said Ma.

191“Sure. I know. Little fella like me can’t do anything. The Association sets the rate, and we got to mind. If we don’t—we ain’t got a farm. Little fella gets crowded all the time.”

192They came to the camp. “We’ll be there,” Ma said. “Not much pickin’ lef’.” She went to the end boxcar and climbed the cleated walk. The low light of the lantern made gloomy shadows in the car. Pa and Uncle John and an elderly man squatted against the car wall.

193“Hello,” Ma said. “Evenin’, Mr. Wainwright.”

194He raised a delicately chiseled face. His eyes were deep under the ridges of his brows. His hair was blue-white and fine. A patina of silver beard covered his jaws and chin. “Evenin’, ma’am,” he said.

195“We got pickin’ tomorra,” Ma observed. “Mile north. Twenty acres.”

196“Better take the truck, I guess,” Pa said. “Get in more pickin’.”

197Wainwright raised his head eagerly. “S’pose we can pick?”

198“Why, sure. I walked a piece with the fella. He was comin’ to get pickers.”

199“Cotton’s nearly gone. Purty thin, these here seconds. Gonna be hard to make a wage on the seconds. Got her pretty clean the fust time.”

200“Your folks could maybe ride with us,” Ma said. “Split the gas.”

201“Well—that’s frien’ly of you, ma’am.”

202“Saves us both,” said Ma.

203Pa said, “Mr. Wainwright—he’s got a worry he come to us about. We was a-talkin’ her over.”

204“What’s the matter?”

205Wainwright looked down at the floor. “Our Aggie,” he said. “She’s a big girl—near sixteen, an’ growed up.”

206“Aggie’s a pretty girl,” said Ma.

207“Listen ’im out,” Pa said.

208“Well, her an’ your boy Al, they’re a-walkin’ out ever’ night. An’ Aggie’s a good healthy girl that oughta have a husban’, else she might git in trouble. We never had no trouble in our family. But what with us bein’ so poor off, now, Mis’ Wainwright an’ me, we got to worryin’. S’pose she got in trouble?”

209Ma rolled down a mattress and sat on it. “They out now?” she asked.

210“Always out,” said Wainwright. “Ever’ night.”

211“Hm. Well, Al’s a good boy. Kinda figgers he’s a dung-hill rooster these days, but he’s a good steady boy. I couldn’ want for a better boy.”

212“Oh, we ain’t complainin’ about Al as a fella! We like him. But what scares Mis’ Wainwright an’ me—well, she’s a growed-up woman-girl. An’ what if we go away, or you go away, an’ we find out Aggie’s in trouble? We ain’t had no shame in our family.”

213Ma said softly, “We’ll try an’ see that we don’t put no shame on you.”

214He stood up quickly. “Thank you, ma’am. Aggie’s a growed-up woman-girl. She’s a good girl—jes’ as nice an’ good. We’ll sure thank you, ma’am, if you’ll keep shame from us. It ain’t Aggie’s fault. She’s growed up.”

215“Pa’ll talk to Al,” said Ma. “Or if Pa won’t, I will.”

216Wainwright said, “Good night, then, an’ we sure thank ya.” He went around the end of the curtain. They could hear him talking softly in the other end of the car, explaining the result of his embassy.

217Ma listened a moment, and then, “You fellas,” she said. “Come over an’ set here.”

218Pa and Uncle John got heavily up from their squats. They sat on the mattress beside Ma.

219“Where’s the little fellas?”

220Pa pointed to a mattress in the corner. “Ruthie, she jumped Winfiel’ an’ bit ’im. Made ’em both lay down. Guess they’re asleep. Rosasharn, she went to set with a lady she knows.”

221Ma sighed. “I foun’ Tom,” she said softly. “I—sent ’im away. Far off.”

222Pa nodded slowly. Uncle John dropped his chin on his chest. “Couldn’ do nothin’ else,” Pa said. “Think he could, John?”

223Uncle John looked up. “I can’t think nothin’ out,” he said. “Don’t seem like I’m hardly awake no more.”

224“Tom’s a good boy,” Ma said; and then she apologized, “I didn’ mean no harm a-sayin’ I’d talk to Al.”

225“I know,” Pa said quietly. “I ain’t no good any more. Spen’ all my time a-thinkin’ how it use’ ta be. Spen’ all my time thinkin’ of home, an’ I ain’t never gonna see it no more.”

226“This here’s purtier—better lan’,” said Ma.

227“I know. I never even see it, thinkin’ how the willow’s los’ its leaves now. Sometimes figgerin’ to mend that hole in the south fence. Funny! Woman takin’ over the fambly. Woman sayin’ we’ll do this here, an’ we’ll go there. An’ I don’ even care.”

228“Woman can change better’n a man,” Ma said soothingly. “Woman got all her life in her arms. Man got it all in his head. Don’ you mind. Maybe—well, maybe nex’ year we can get a place.”

229“We got nothin’, now,” Pa said. “Comin’ a long time—no work, no crops. What we gonna do then? How we gonna git stuff to eat? An’ I tell you Rosasharn ain’t so far from due. Git so I hate to think. Go diggin’ back to a ol’ time to keep from thinkin’. Seems like our life’s over an’ done.”

230“No, it ain’t,” Ma smiled. “It ain’t, Pa. An’ that’s one more thing a woman knows. I noticed that. Man, he lives in jerks—baby born an’ a man dies, an’ that’s a jerk—gets a farm an’ loses his farm, an’ that’s a jerk. Woman, it’s all one flow, like a stream, little eddies, little waterfalls, but the river, it goes right on. Woman looks at it like that. We ain’t gonna die out. People is goin’ on—changin’ a little, maybe, but goin’ right on.”

231“How can you tell?” Uncle John demanded. “What’s to keep ever’thing from stoppin’; all the folks from jus’ gittin’ tired an’ layin’ down?”

232Ma considered. She rubbed the shiny back of one hand with the other, pushed the fingers of her right hand between the fingers of her left. “Hard to say,” she said. “Ever’thing we do—seems to me is aimed right at goin’ on. Seems that way to me. Even gettin’ hungry—even bein’ sick; some die, but the rest is tougher. Jus’ try to live the day, jus’ the day.”

233Uncle John said, “If on’y she didn’ die that time——”

234“Jus’ live the day,” Ma said. “Don’ worry yaself.”

235“They might be a good year nex’ year, back home,” said Pa.

236Ma said, “Listen!”

237There were creeping steps on the cat-walk, and then Al came in past the curtain. “Hullo,” he said. “I thought you’d be sleepin’ by now.”

238“Al,” Ma said. “We’re a-talkin’. Come set here.”

239“Sure—O.K. I wanta talk too. I’ll hafta be goin’ away pretty soon now.”

240“You can’t. We need you here. Why you got to go away?”

241“Well, me an’ Aggie Wainwright, we figgers to get married, an’ I’m gonna git a job in a garage, an’ we’ll have a rent’ house for a while, an’—” He looked up fiercely. “Well, we are, an’ they ain’t nobody can stop us!”

242They were staring at him. “Al,” Ma said at last, “we’re glad. We’re awful glad.”

243“You are?”

244“Why, ’course we are. You’re a growed man. You need a wife. But don’ go right now, Al.”

245“I promised Aggie,” he said. “We got to go. We can’t stan’ this no more.”

246“Jus’ stay till spring,” Ma begged. “Jus’ till spring. Won’t you stay till spring? Who’d drive the truck?”

247“Well——”

248Mrs. Wainwright put her head around the curtain. “You heard yet?” she demanded.

249“Yeah! Jus’ heard.”

250“Oh, my! I wisht—I wisht we had a cake. I wisht we had—a cake or somepin.”

251“I’ll set on some coffee an’ make up some pancakes,” Ma said. “We got sirup.”

252“Oh, my!” Mrs. Wainwright said. “Why—well. Look, I’ll bring some sugar. We’ll put sugar in them pancakes.”

253Ma broke twigs into the stove, and the coals from the dinner cooking started them blazing. Ruthie and Winfield came out of their bed like hermit crabs from shells. For a moment they were careful; they watched to see whether they were still criminals. When no one noticed them, they grew bold. Ruthie hopped all the way to the door and back on one foot, without touching the wall.

254Ma was pouring flour into a bowl when Rose of Sharon climbed the cat-walk. She steadied herself and advanced cautiously. “What’s a matter?” she asked.

255“Why, it’s news!” Ma cried. “We’re gonna have a little party ’count a Al an’ Aggie Wainwright is gonna get married.”

256Rose of Sharon stood perfectly still. She looked slowly at Al, who stood there flustered and embarrassed.

257Mrs. Wainwright shouted from the other end of the car, “I’m puttin’ a fresh dress on Aggie. I’ll be right over.”

258Rose of Sharon turned slowly. She went back to the wide door, and she crept down the cat-walk. Once on the ground, she moved slowly toward the stream and the trail that went beside it. She took the way Ma had gone earlier—into the willows. The wind blew more steadily now, and the bushes whished steadily. Rose of Sharon went down on her knees and crawled deep into the brush. The berry vines cut her face and pulled at her hair, but she didn’t mind. Only when she felt the bushes touching her all over did she stop. She stretched out on her back. And she felt the weight of the baby inside of her.

259In the lightless car, Ma stirred, and then she pushed the blanket back and got up. At the open door of the car the gray starlight penetrated a little. Ma walked to the door and stood looking out. The stars were paling in the east. The wind blew softly over the willow thickets, and from the little stream came the quiet talking of the water. Most of the camp was still asleep, but in front of one tent a little fire burned, and people were standing about it, warming themselves. Ma could see them in the light of the new dancing fire as they stood facing the flames, rubbing their hands; and then they turned their backs and held their hands behind them. For a long moment Ma looked out, and she held her hands clasped in front of her. The uneven wind whisked up and passed, and a bite of frost was in the air. Ma shivered and rubbed her hands together. She crept back and fumbled for the matches, beside the lantern. The shade screeched up. She lighted the wick, watched it burn blue for a moment and then put up its yellow, delicately curved ring of light. She carried the lantern to the stove and set it down while she broke the brittle dry willow twigs into the fire box. In a moment the fire was roaring up the chimney.

260Rose of Sharon rolled heavily over and sat up. “I’ll git right up,” she said.

261“Whyn’t you lay a minute till it warms?” Ma asked.

262“No, I’ll git.”

263Ma filled the coffee pot from the bucket and set it on the stove, and she put on the frying pan, deep with fat, to get hot for the pones. “What’s over you?” she said softly.

264“I’m a-goin’ out,” Rose of Sharon said.

265“Out where?”

266“Goin’ out to pick cotton.”

267“You can’t,” Ma said. “You’re too far along.”

268“No, I ain’t. An’ I’m a-goin’.”

269Ma measured coffee into the water. “Rosasharn, you wasn’t to the pancakes las’ night.” The girl didn’t answer. “What you wanta pick cotton for?” Still no answer. “Is it ’cause of Al an’ Aggie?” This time Ma looked closely at her daughter. “Oh. Well, you don’ need to pick.”

270“I’m goin’.”

271“Awright, but don’ you strain yourself.”

272“Git up, Pa! Wake up, git up!”

273Pa blinked and yawned. “Ain’t slep’ out,” he moaned. “Musta been on to eleven o’clock when we went down.”

274“Come on, git up, all a you, an’ wash.”