Children were climbing into the big cotton trailer, digging their toes into the chicken-wire sides. “Git off there,” the owner cried. “Come on down. You’ll tear that wire loose.” And the children climbed slowly down, embarrassed and silent. The gray dawn came. “I’ll have to take a tare for dew,” the owner said. “Change it when the sun comes out. All right, go out when you want. Light enough to see.”
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.
“Hume, James. Twenty-two cents. Ralph, thirty cents. Joad, Thomas, ninety cents. Winfield, fifteen cents.” The money lay in rolls, silver and nickels and pennies. And each man looked in his own book as he was being paid. “Wainwright, Agnes, thirty-four cents. Tobin, sixty-three cents.” The line moved past slowly. The families went back to their cars, silently. And they drove slowly away.
Joads and Wainwrights waited in the truck for the driveway to clear. And as they waited, the first drops of rain began to fall. Al put his hand out of the cab to feel them. Rose of Sharon sat in the middle, and Ma on the outside. The girl’s eyes were lusterless again.
“You shouldn’ of came,” Ma said. “You didn’ pick more’n ten-fifteen pounds.” Rose of Sharon looked down at her great bulging belly, and she didn’t reply. She shivered suddenly and held her head high. Ma, watching her closely, unrolled her cotton bag, spread it over Rose of Sharon’s shoulders, and drew her close.
At last the way was clear. Al started his motor and drove out into the highway. The big infrequent drops of rain lanced down and splashed on the road, and as the truck moved along, the drops became smaller and closer. Rain pounded on the cab of the truck so loudly that it could be heard over the pounding of the old worn motor. On the truck bed the Wainwrights and Joads spread their cotton bags over their heads and shoulders.
Rose of Sharon shivered violently against Ma’s arm, and Ma cried, “Go faster, Al. Rosasharn got a chill. Gotta get her feet in hot water.”
Al speeded the pounding motor, and when he came to the boxcar camp, he drove down close to the red cars. Ma was spouting orders before they were well stopped. “Al,” she commanded, “you an’ John an’ Pa go into the willows an’ c’lect all the dead stuff you can. We got to keep warm.”