Imagery

Lennie's closed fist was lost in Lennie's big hand.

Well, you keep your place then, Nigger. I could get you strung up on a tree so easy it ain’t even funny.

If we could keep Curley in, we might. But Curley’s gonna want to shoot ’im. Curley’s still mad about his hand. An’ s’pose they lock him up an’ strap him down and put him in a cage. That ain’t no good, George.

Coulda been in the movies, an’ had nice clothes—all them nice clothes like they wear. An’ I coulda sat in them big hotels, an’ had pitchers took of me.

George raised the gun and his hand shook, and he dropped his hand to the ground again.

And then from out of Lennie’s head there came a little fat old woman. She wore thick bull’s–eye glasses and she wore a huge gingham apron with pockets, and she was starched and clean.

Lennie jarred, and then settled slowly forward to the sand, and he lay without quivering.

A silent head and beak lanced down and plucked it out by the head, and the beak swallowed the little snake while its tail waved frantically.

The red light dimmed on the coals.

The water is warm too, for it has slipped twinkling over the yellow sands in the sunlight before reaching the narrow pool.