The migrant people, scuttling for work, scrabbling to live, looked always for pleasure, dug for pleasure, manufactured pleasure, and they were hungry for amusement. Sometimes amusement lay in speech, and they climbed up their lives with jokes. And it came about in the camps along the roads, on the ditch banks beside the streams, under the sycamores, that the story teller grew into being, so that the people gathered in the low firelight to hear the gifted ones. And they listened while the tales were told, and their participation made the stories great.

I was a recruit against Geronimo——

And the people listened, and their quiet eyes reflected the dying fire.

Them Injuns was cute—slick as snakes, an’ quiet when they wanted. Could go through dry leaves, an’ make no rustle. Try to do that sometime.

And the people listened and remembered the crash of dry leaves under their feet.

Come the change of season an’ the clouds up. Wrong time. Ever hear of the army doing anything right? Give the army ten chances, an’ they’ll stumble along. Took three regiments to kill a hundred braves—always.

And the people listened, and their faces were quiet with listening. The story tellers, gathering attention into their tales, spoke in great rhythms, spoke in great words because the tales were great, and the listeners became great through them.

They was a brave on a ridge, against the sun. Knowed he stood out. Spread his arms an’ stood. Naked as morning, an’ against the sun. Maybe he was crazy. I don’ know. Stood there, arms spread out; like a cross he looked. Four hunderd yards. An’ the men—well, they raised their sights an’ they felt the wind with their fingers; an’ then they jus’ lay there an’ couldn’ shoot. Maybe that Injun knowed somepin. Knowed we couldn’ shoot. Jes’ laid there with the rifles cocked, an’ didn’ even put ’em to our shoulders. Lookin’ at him. Head-band, one feather. Could see it, an’ naked as the sun. Long time we laid there an’ looked, an’ he never moved. An’ then the captain got mad. “Shoot, you crazy bastards, shoot!” he yells. An’ we jus’ laid there. “I’ll give you to a five-count, an’ then mark you down,” the captain says. Well, sir—we put up our rifles slow, an’ ever’ man hoped somebody’d shoot first. I ain’t never been so sad in my life. An’ I laid my sights on his belly, ’cause you can’t stop a Injun no other place—an’—then. Well, he jest plunked down an’ rolled. An’ we went up. An’ he wasn’ big—he’d looked so grand—up there. All tore to pieces an’ little. Ever see a cock pheasant, stiff and beautiful, ever’ feather drawed an’ painted, an’ even his eyes drawed in pretty? An’ bang! You pick him up—bloody an’ twisted, an’ you spoiled somepin better’n you; an’ eatin’ him don’t never make it up to you, ’cause you spoiled somepin in yaself, an’ you can’t never fix it up.

And the people nodded, and perhaps the fire spurted a little light and showed their eyes looking in on themselves.

Against the sun, with his arms out. An’ he looked big—as God.

And perhaps a man balanced twenty cents between food and pleasure, and he went to a movie in Marysville or Tulare, in Ceres or Mountain View. And he came back to the ditch camp with his memory crowded. And he told how it was:

They was this rich fella, an’ he makes like he’s poor, an’ they’s this rich girl, an’ she purtends like she’s poor too, an’ they meet in a hamburg’ stan’.

Why?

I don’t know why—that’s how it was.

Why’d they purtend like they’s poor?

Well, they’re tired of bein’ rich.

Horseshit!

You want to hear this, or not?

Well, go on then. Sure, I wanta hear it, but if I was rich, if I was rich I’d git so many pork chops—I’d cord ’em up aroun’ me like wood, an’ I’d eat my way out. Go on.

Well, they each think the other one’s poor. An’ they git arrested an’ they git in jail, an’ they don’ git out ’cause the other one’d find out the first one is rich. An’ the jail keeper, he’s mean to ’em ’cause he thinks they’re poor. Oughta see how he looks when he finds out. Jes’ nearly faints, that’s all.

What they git in jail for?

Well, they git caught at some kind a radical meetin’ but they ain’t radicals. They jes’ happen to be there. An’ they don’t each one wanta marry fur money, ya see.

So the sons-of-bitches start lyin’ to each other right off.

Well, in the pitcher it was like they was doin’ good. They’re nice to people, you see.

I was to a show oncet that was me, an’ more’n me; an’ my life, an’ more’n my life, so ever’thing was bigger.

Well, I git enough sorrow. I like to git away from it.

Sure—if you can believe it.

So they got married, an’ then they foun’ out, an’ all them people that’s treated ’em mean. They was a fella had been uppity, an’ he nearly fainted when this fella come in with a plug hat on. Jes’ nearly fainted. An’ they was a newsreel with them German soldiers kickin’ up their feet—funny as hell.



And always, if he had a little money, a man could get drunk. The hard edges gone, and the warmth. Then there was no loneliness, for a man could people his brain with friends, and he could find his enemies and destroy them. Sitting in a ditch, the earth grew soft under him. Failures dulled and the future was no threat. And hunger did not skulk about, but the world was soft and easy, and a man could reach the place he started for. The stars came down wonderfully close and the sky was soft. Death was a friend, and sleep was death’s brother. The old times came back—a girl with pretty feet, who danced one time at home—a horse—a long time ago. A horse and a saddle. And the leather was carved. When was that? Ought to find a girl to talk to. That’s nice. Might lay with her, too. But warm here. And the stars down so close, and sadness and pleasure so close together, really the same thing. Like to stay drunk all the time. Who says it’s bad? Who dares to say it’s bad? Preachers—but they got their own kinda drunkenness. Thin, barren women, but they’re too miserable to know. Reformers—but they don’t bite deep enough into living to know. No—the stars are close and dear and I have joined the brotherhood of the worlds. And everything’s holy—everything, even me.



Aharmonica is easy to carry. Take it out of your hip pocket, knock it against your palm to shake out the dirt and pocket fuzz and bits of tobacco. Now it’s ready. You can do anything with a harmonica: thin reedy single tone, or chords, or melody with rhythm chords. You can mold the music with curved hands, making it wail and cry like bagpipes, making it full and round like an organ, making it as sharp and bitter as the reed pipes of the hills. And you can play and put it back in your pocket. It is always with you, always in your pocket. And as you play, you learn new tricks, new ways to mold the tone with your hands, to pinch the tone with your lips, and no one teaches you. You feel around—sometimes alone in the shade at noon, sometimes in the tent door after supper when the women are washing up. Your foot taps gently on the ground. Your eyebrows rise and fall in rhythm. And if you lose it or break it, why, it’s no great loss. You can buy another for a quarter.

A guitar is more precious. Must learn this thing. Fingers of the left hand must have callus caps. Thumb of the right hand a horn of callus. Stretch the left-hand fingers, stretch them like a spider’s legs to get the hard pads on the frets.

This was my father’s box. Wasn’t no bigger’n a bug first time he give me C chord. An’ when I learned as good as him, he hardly never played no more. Used to set in the door, an’ listen an’ tap his foot. I’m tryin’ for a break, an’ he’d scowl mean till I get her, an’ then he’d settle back easy, an’ he’d nod. “Play,” he’d say. “Play nice.” It’s a good box. See how the head is wore. They’s many a million songs wore down that wood an’ scooped her out. Some day she’ll cave in like a egg. But you can’t patch her nor worry her no way or she’ll lose tone. Play her in the evening, an’ they’s a harmonica player in the nex’ tent. Makes it pretty nice together.

The fiddle is rare, hard to learn. No frets, no teacher.

Jes’ listen to a ol’ man an’ try to pick it up. Won’t tell how to double. Says it’s a secret. But I watched. Here’s how he done it.

Shrill as a wind, the fiddle, quick and nervous and shrill.

She ain’t much of a fiddle. Give two dollars for her. Fella says they’s fiddles four hundred years old, and they git mellow like whisky. Says they’ll cost fifty-sixty thousan’ dollars. I don’t know. Soun’s like a lie. Harsh ol’ bastard, ain’t she? Wanta dance? I’ll rub up the bow with plenty rosin. Man! Then she’ll squawk. Hear her a mile.

These three in the evening, harmonica and fiddle and guitar. Playing a reel and tapping out the tune, and the big deep strings of the guitar beating like a heart, and the harmonica’s sharp chords and the skirl and squeal of the fiddle. People have to move close. They can’t help it. “Chicken Reel” now, and the feet tap and a young lean buck takes three quick steps, and his arms hang limp. The square closes up and the dancing starts, feet on the bare ground, beating dull, strike with your heels. Hands ’round and swing. Hair falls down, and panting breaths. Lean to the side now.

Look at that Texas boy, long legs loose, taps four times for ever’ damn step. Never seen a boy swing aroun’ like that. Look at him swing that Cherokee girl, red in her cheeks an’ her toe points out. Look at her pant, look at her heave. Think she’s tired? Think she’s winded? Well, she ain’t. Texas boy got his hair in his eyes, mouth’s wide open, can’t get air, but he pats four times for ever’ darn step, an’ he’ll keep a-going’ with the Cherokee girl.

The fiddle squeaks and the guitar bongs. Mouth-organ man is red in the face. Texas boy and the Cherokee girl, pantin’ like dogs an’ a-beatin’ the groun’. Ol’ folks stan’ a-pattin’ their han’s. Smilin’ a little, tappin’ their feet.

Back home—in the schoolhouse, it was. The big moon sailed off to the westward. An’ we walked, him an’ me—a little ways. Didn’ talk ’cause our throats was choked up. Didn’ talk none at all. An’ purty soon they was a haycock. Went right to it and laid down there. Seein’ the Texas boy an’ that girl a-steppin’ away into the dark—think nobody seen ’em go. Oh, God! I wisht I was a-goin’ with that Texas boy. Moon’ll be up ’fore long. I seen that girl’s ol’ man move out to stop ’em, an’ then he didn’. He knowed. Might as well stop the fall from comin’, and might as well stop the sap from movin’ in the trees. An’ the moon’ll be up ’fore long.

Play more—play the story songs—“As I Walked through the Streets of Laredo.”

The fire’s gone down. Be a shame to build her up. Little ol’ moon’ll be up ’fore long.



Beside an irrigation ditch a preacher labored and the people cried. And the preacher paced like a tiger, whipping the people with his voice, and they groveled and whined on the ground. He calculated them, gauged them, played on them, and when they were all squirming on the ground he stooped down and of his great strength he picked each one up in his arms and shouted, Take ’em, Christ! and threw each one in the water. And when they were all in, waist deep in the water, and looking with frightened eyes at the master, he knelt down on the bank and he prayed for them; and he prayed that all men and women might grovel and whine on the ground. Men and women, dripping, clothes sticking tight, watched; then gurgling and sloshing in their shoes they walked back to the camp, to the tents, and they talked softly in wonder:

We been saved, they said. We’re washed white as snow. We won’t never sin again.

And the children, frightened and wet, whispered together:

We been saved. We won’t sin no more.

Wisht I knowed what all the sins was, so I could do ’em.



The migrant people looked humbly for pleasure on the roads.