OVER THE HIGH COAST mountains and over the valleys the gray clouds marched
in from the ocean. The wind blew fiercely and silently, high in the air, and it swished
in the brush, and it roared in the forests. The clouds came in brokenly, in puffs, in
folds, in gray crags; and they piled in together and settled low over the west. And then
the wind stopped and left the clouds deep and solid. The rain began with gusty
showers, pauses and downpours; and then gradually it settled to a single tempo, small
drops and a steady beat, rain that was gray to see through, rain that cut midday light to
evening. And at first the dry earth sucked the moisture down and blackened. For two
days the earth drank the rain, until the earth was full. Then puddles formed, and in the
low places little lakes formed in the fields. The muddy lakes rose higher, and the
steady rain whipped the shining water. At last the mountains were full, and the
hillsides spilled into the streams, built them to freshets, and sent them roaring down the
canyons into the valleys. The rain beat on steadily. And the streams and the little rivers
edged up to the bank sides and worked at willows and tree roots, bent the willows deep
in the current, cut out the roots of cottonwoods and brought down the trees. The muddy
water whirled along the bank sides and crept up the banks until at last it spilled over,
into the fields, into the orchards, into the cotton patches where the black stems stood.
Level fields became lakes, broad and gray, and the rain whipped up the surfaces. Then
the water poured over the highways, and cars moved slowly, cutting the water ahead,
and leaving a boiling muddy wake behind. The earth whispered under the beat of the
rain, and the streams thundered under the churning freshets.
When the first rain started, the migrant people huddled in their tents, saying, It'll
soon be over, and asking, How long's it likely to go on?
And when the puddles formed, the men went out in the rain with shovels and built
little dikes around the tents. The beating rain worked at the canvas until it penetrated
and sent streams down. And then the little dikes washed out and the water came inside,
and the streams wet the beds and the blankets. The people sat in wet clothes. They set
up boxes and put planks on the boxes. Then, day and night, they sat on the planks.
Beside the tents the old cars stood, and water fouled the ignition wires and water
fouled the carburetors. The little gray tents stood in lakes. And at last the people had to
move. Then the cars wouldn't start because the wires were shorted; and if the engines
would run, deep mud engulfed the wheels. And the people waded away, carrying their
wet blankets in their arms. They splashed along, carrying the children, carrying the
very old, in their arms. And if a barn stood on high ground, it was filled with people,
shivering and hopeless.
Then some went to the relief offices, and they came sadly back to their own people.
They's rules—you got to be here a year before you can git relief. They say the
gov'ment is gonna help. They don' know when.
And gradually the greatest terror of all came along.
They ain't gonna be no kinda work for three months.
In the barns, the people sat huddled together; and the terror came over them, and
their faces were gray with terror. The children cried with hunger, and there was no
food.
Then the sickness came, pneumonia, and measles that went to the eyes and to the
mastoids.
And the rain fell steadily, and the water flowed over the highways, for the culverts
could not carry the water.
Then from the tents, from the crowded barns, groups of sodden men went out, their
clothes slopping rags, their shoes muddy pulp. They splashed out through the water, to
the towns, to the country stores, to the relief offices, to beg for food, to cringe and beg
for food, to beg for relief, to try to steal, to lie. And under the begging, and under the
cringing, a hopeless anger began to smolder. And in the little towns pity for the sodden
men changed to anger, and anger at the hungry people changed to fear of them. Then
sheriffs swore in deputies in droves, and orders were rushed for rifles, for tear gas, for
ammunition. Then the hungry men crowded the alleys behind the stores to beg for
bread, to beg for rotting vegetables, to steal when they could.
Frantic men pounded on the doors of the doctors; and the doctors were busy. And
sad men left word at country stores for the coroner to send a car. The coroners were not
too busy. The coroners' wagons backed up through the mud and took out the dead.
And the rain pattered relentlessly down, and the streams broke their banks and
spread out over the country.
Huddled under sheds, lying in wet hay, the hunger and the fear bred anger. Then
boys went out, not to beg, but to steal; and men went out weakly, to try to steal.
The sheriffs swore in new deputies and ordered new rifles; and the comfortable
people in tight houses felt pity at first and then distaste, and finally hatred for the
migrant people.
In the wet hay of leaking barns babies were born to women who panted with
pneumonia. And old people curled up in corners and died that way, so that the coroners
could not straighten them. At night, the frantic men walked boldly to hen roosts and
carried off the squawking chickens. If they were shot at, they did not run, but splashed
sullenly away; and if they were hit, they sank tiredly in the mud.
The rain stopped. On the fields the water stood, reflecting the gray sky, and the land
whispered with moving water. And the men came out of the barns, out of the sheds.
They squatted on their hams and looked out over the flooded land. And they were
silent. And sometimes they talked very quietly.
No work till spring. No work.
And if no work—no money, no food.
Fella had a team of horses, had to use 'em to plow an' cultivate an' mow, wouldn'
think a turnin' 'em out to starve when they wasn't workin'.
Them's horses—we're men.
The women watched the men, watched to see whether the break had come at last.
The women stood silently and watched. And where a number of men gathered
together, the fear went from their faces, and anger took its place. And the women
sighed with relief, for they knew it was all right—the break had not come; and the
break would never come as long as fear could turn to wrath.
Tiny points of grass came through the earth, and in a few days the hills were pale
green with the beginning year.