Song of the Trees Read Online Free

plunger.”
    “One thing you can’t seem to understand, Andersen,” Papa said, “is that a black man’s always gotta be ready to die. And it don’t make me any difference if I die today ortomorrow. Just as long as I die right.”
    Mr. Andersen laughed uneasily. The lumbermen moved nervously away.
    “I mean what I say,” Papa said. “Ask anyone. I always mean what I say.”
    “He sure do, Mr. Andersen,” Claude said, eyeing the black box. “He always do.”
    “Shut up!” Mr. Andersen snapped. “And the rest of y’all stay put.” Then turning back to Papa, he smiled cunningly. “I’m sure you and me can work something out, David.”
    “Ain’t nothing to be worked out,” said Papa.
    “Now, look here, David, your mama and me, we got us a contract . . .”
    “There ain’t no more contract,” Papa replied coldly. “Now, either you get out or I blow it up. That’s it.”
    “He means it, Mr. Andersen,” another frightened lumberman ventured. “He’s crazy and he sure ’nough means it.”
    “You know what could happen to you, boy?” Mr. Andersen exploded, his face beet-red again. “Threatening a white man like this?”
    Papa said nothing. He just stood there, his hands firmly on the plunger, staring down at Mr. Andersen.
    Mr. Andersen could not bear the stare. He turned away, cursing Papa. “You’re a fool, David. A crazy fool.” Then he looked around at the lumbermen. They shifted their eyes and would not look at him.
    “Maybe we better leave, Mr. Andersen,” Tom said quietly.
    Mr. Andersen glanced at Tom, then turned back to Papa and said as lightly as he could, “All right, David, all right. It’s your land. We’ll just take the logs we got cut and get out.” He motioned to the men. “Hey, let’s get moving and get these logs out of here before this crazy fool gets us all killed.”
    “No,” Papa said.
    Mr. Andersen stopped, knowing that he could not have heard correctly. “What you say?”
    “You ain’t taking one more stick out of this forest.”
    “Now, look here ——”
    “You heard me.”
    “But you can’t sell all these logs, David,” Mr. Andersen exclaimed incredulously.
    Papa said nothing. Just cast that piercing look on Mr. Andersen.
    “Look, I’m a fair man. I tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you another thirty-five dollars. An even hundred dollars. Now, that’s fair, ain’t it?”
    “I’ll see them rot first.”
    “But ——”
    “That’s my last word,” Papa said, tightening his grip on the plunger.
    Mr. Andersen swallowed hard. “You won’t always have that black box, David,” he warned. “You know that, don’t you?”
    “That may be. But it won’t matter none. Cause I’ll always have my self-respect.”
    Mr. Andersen opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. Tom and the lumbermen were quietly moving away, putting their gear in the empty lumber wagons. Mr. Andersen looked again at the black box. Finally, his face ashen, he too walked away.
    Papa stood unmoving until the wagons and the men were gone. Then, when the sound of the last wagon rolling over the dry leaves could no longer be heard and ahollow silence filled the air, he slowly removed his hands from the plunger and looked up at the remaining trees standing like lonely sentries in the morning.
    “Dear, dear old trees,” I heard him call softly, “will you ever sing again?”
    I waited. But the trees gave no answer.



Text copyright © 1976 by Mildred D. Taylor

1
    “Little Man, would you come on? You keep it up and you’re gonna make us late.”
    My youngest brother paid no attention to me. Grasping more firmly his newspaper-wrapped notebook and his tin-can lunch of cornbread and oil sausages, he continued to concentrate on the dusty road. He lagged several feet behind my other brothers, Stacey and Christopher-John, and me, attempting to keep the rusty Mississippi dust from swelling with each step and drifting back upon his shiny black shoes and the cuffs of his