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only the ripe peppers, not damaging the greater number of developing ones; other crews would harvest
those in other months.
I went to work on my segment, and Joe Hill had one adjacent. I watched him picking, to get a clear
notion of how it was done, then proceeded. Each plant had one ripe pepper, readily distinguishable by its
bright red color; I took hold of it and broke it free of its stem with a quick twist and set it in the pail. That
was important, too, we had been cautioned; we were not to bruise the peppers by tossing them in. There
were farmhands patrolling the rows, watching to see that no plants or fruits were abused. They did no
harvesting, they just watched.
I thought I was making good time, but I was last to bring my first bucket in to Gallows for my ticket. I
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was torture. But I had to keep picking, for everyone else was, and I was falling behind.
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anyway; the fatigue of my limbs and discomfort of my body drowned it out. The curving landscape
blurred; only the nearest bushes remained in focus. I was no longer concerned about future days, or even
future hours; my life was measured only by the bucketful. My two hands moved of their own volit