The fertile earth, the straight tree rows, the sturdy trunks, and the ripe fruit. There is a failure here that topples all our success. There is a sorrow here that weeping cannot symbolize. There is a crime here that goes beyond denunciation. Slaughter the pigs and bury them, and let the putrescence drip down into the earth. Dump potatoes in the rivers and place guards along the banks to keep the hungry people from fishing them out. Burn corn to keep warm, it makes a hot fire. A million people hungry, needing the fruit- and kerosene sprayed over the golden mountains. How would they buy oranges at twenty cents a dozen if they could drive out and pick them up? And men with hoses squirt kerosene on the oranges, and they are angry at the crime, angry at the people who have come to take the fruit. The people came for miles to take the fruit, but this could not be. Carloads of oranges dumped on the ground.
“The works of the roots of the vines, of the trees, must be destroyed to keep up the price, and this is the saddest, bitterest thing of all.
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