The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck | What are the men doing in paragraph 7?

7. Well, take it-all junk-and give me five dollars. You're not buying only junk, you're buying junked lives. And more-you'll see-you're buying bitterness. Buying a plow to plow your own children under, buying the arms and spirits that might have saved you. Five dollars, not four. I can't haul 'em back-Well, take 'em for four. Now, what'll you give me for the team and wagon? Those fine bays, matched they are, matched in color, matched the wat they walk, stride to stride. In the stiff pull-straining hams and buttocks, split-second timed together. And in the morning, the light on them, bay light. They look over the fence sniffing for us, and the stiff ears swivel to hear us, and the black forelocks! I've got a girl. She likes to braid the manes and forelocks, puts little red bows on them. Likes to do it. Not any more. I could tell you a funny story about that girl and that off bay. Would make you laugh. Off horse is eight, near is ten, but might have been twin colts the way they work together. See? The teeth. Sound all over. Deep lungs. Feet fair and clean. How much? Ten dollars? For both? And the wagon-I'd shoot 'em for dog feed first. Oh, take 'em! Take 'em quick, mister. You're buying a little girl plaiting the forcelocks, taking off her hair ribbon to make bows, standing back, head cocked, rubbing the soft noses with her cheek. You're buying a sorrow that can't talk. But watch it, mister. There's a premium goes with this pile of junk and the bay horses-so beautiful-a packet of bitterness to grow in your house and to flower, some day. We could have saved you, but you cut us down, and soon you will be cut down and there'll be none of us to save you.