The Grapes of Wrath

by John Steinbeck

The light of the dawn was a little sharper now. It paled the lanterns a little. Al came back with Grampa struggling and limping by his side. “He wasn’t sleepin’,’’ Al said. “He was settin’ out back of the barn. They’s somepin wrong with ’im.’’ Grampa’s eyes had dulled, and there was none of the old meanness in them. “Ain’t nothin’ the matter with me,’’ he said. “I jus’ ain’t a-goin’.’’ “Not goin’?’’ Pa demanded. “What you mean you ain’t a-goin’? Why, here we’re all packed up, ready. We got to go. We got no place to stay.’’ “I ain’t sayin’ for you to stay,’’ said Grampa. “You go right on along. Me—I’m stayin’. I give her a goin’-over all night mos’ly. This here’s my country. I b’long here. An’ I don’t give a goddamn if they’s oranges an’ grapes crowdin’ a fella outa bed even. I ain’t a-goin’. This country ain’t no good, but it’s my country. No, you all go ahead. I’ll jus’ stay right here where I b’long.’’