And your fingertips pick out the fluff, and the hands go twisting into the sack between your legs.
Kids come along behind; got no bags for the kids—use a gunny sack or put it in your ol’ man’s bag.
She hangs heavy, some, now.
Lean forward, hoist ’er along.
I’m a good hand with cotton.
Finger-wise, boll-wise.
Jes’ move along talkin’, an’ maybe singin’ till the bag gets heavy.
Fingers go right to it.
Fingers know.
Eyes see the work—and don’t see it.
Talkin’ across the rows——
They was a lady back home, won’t mention no names—had a nigger kid all of a sudden.
Nobody knowed before.
Never did hunt out the nigger. Couldn’ never hold up her head no more.
But I started to tell—she was a good picker.
Now the bag is heavy, boost it along.
Set your hips and tow it along, like a work horse.
And the kids pickin’ into the old man’s sack.
Good crop here.
Gets thin in the low places, thin and stringy.
Never seen no cotton like this here California cotton.
Long fiber, bes’ damn cotton I ever seen.
Spoil the lan’ pretty soon.
Like a fella wants to buy some cotton lan’—Don’ buy her, rent her.
Then when she’s cottoned on down, move someplace new.
Lines of people moving across the fields.
Finger-wise.
Inquisitive fingers snick in and out and find the bolls. Hardly have to look.
Bet I could pick cotton if I was blind.
Got a feelin’ for a cotton boll.
Pick clean, clean as a whistle.
Sack’s full now.
Take her to the scales.
Argue.
Scale man says you got rocks to make weight.
How ’bout him?
His scales is fixed.
Sometimes he’s right, you got rocks in the sack.
Sometimes you’re right, the scales is crooked.
Sometimes both; rocks an’ crooked scales.
Always argue, always fight.
Keeps your head up.
An’ his head up.
What’s a few rocks?
Jus’ one, maybe.
Quarter pound?
Always argue.
Back with the empty sack.
Got our own book.
Mark in the weight.