I n 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?1 Get rich, he said. Bring out those tools—get
a few dollars for them. Eighteen dollars for that plow, plus
freight—Sears Roebuck.2
1. guayule (gwy YOO lee) a desert shrub containing rubber, native to Mexico and Texas.
During the Great Depression, it was thought that guayule could be profitably processed
for rubber.
2. Sears Roebuck company that sold clothes, farm equipment, and other goods by mail
order, which supplied much of rural America.
1
ruthless (ROOTH lihs) adj.
having no compassion
or pity
2
ANCHOR TEXT | NOVEL EXCERPT
John Steinbeck
from
The Grapes of Wrath
from The Grapes of Wrath 457
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NOTESHarness, carts, seeders, 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.3
Take the little glass brow-band jewels, roses red under glass. Got
those for the bay gelding.4 ‘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 pull-straining hams5 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—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.
3. halters, collars, hames, and tugs parts of the harnesses used to attach horses to
horse‑drawn plows.
4. bay gelding reddish‑brown male horse.
5. hams back of a horse’s knee.
3
4
bitterness (BIHT uhr nihs) n.
quality of having a sharp,
unpleasant taste; condition
causing pain or sorrow
5
6
7
toil (TOYL) v. work hard and
with difficulty
sorrow (SOR oh) n. great
sadness; suffering
458 UNIT 5 • facINg adversITy
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NOTESAnd 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.
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
Indian 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
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16 doomed (doomd) adj.
destined to a bad outcome
CLOSE READ
ANNOTATE: Mark
examples of repetition
of words and phrases in
paragraph 10.
QUESTION: What ideas
are being emphasized
through repetition? Why
does the narrator keep
using the pronouns “us”
and “we”?
CONCLUDE: What can
you conclude about the
narrator by the words
he uses and ideas he
conveys?
from The Grapes of Wrath 459
Copyright © SAVVAS Learning Company LLC. All Rights Reserved.
NOTESCLOSE READ
ANNOTATE: Mark the
punctuation in paragraphs
17 and 18.
QUESTION: What patterns
are created by the
questions and statements?
What do the dashes
indicate?
CONCLUDE: What effect
do the patterns and use
of dashes create? How
do they bring to life this
unnamed narrator?
liked a book. Pilgrim’s Progress.6 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.7 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.
They sat and looked at it and burned it into their memories.
How’ll it be not to know what land’s outside the door? How if
you wake up in the night and know—and know the willow tree’s
not there? Can you live without the willow tree? Well, no, you
can’t. The willow tree is you. The pain on that mattress there—that
dreadful pain—that’s you.
And the children—if Sam takes his Indian bow an’ his long
roun’ stick, I get to take two things. I choose the fluffy pilla.
That’s mine.
Suddenly they were nervous. Got to get out quick now. Can’t
wait. We can’t wait. And they piled up the goods in the yards and
set fire to them. They stood and watched them burning, and then
frantically they loaded up the cars and drove away, drove in the
dust. The dust hung in the air for a long time after the loaded cars
had passed. ❧
1. What big change is taking place in the lives of these characters?
2. What are the men doing in paragraph 7?
3. What happens after the people burn their belongings?
1. The characters are preparing to leave their homes and journey to the west, possibly to California, in search of a new life and opportunities.
2. The men are selling and getting rid of their possessions, including farm equipment, tools, and horses, in preparation for their departure.
3. After burning their belongings and watching them burn, the characters frantically load up their cars and drive away, leaving behind a cloud of dust. They are anxious to leave and start their journey to a new beginning.