Song of the Trees by Mildred D. Taylor Read Free Book Online Page B

hugged its warm trunk as I waited for Christopher-John.
    Christopher-John puffed to a stop; then, looking all around, called, “Hey, Stacey! Cassie! Hey, Man! Y’all cut that out!”
    I giggled and Christopher-John heard me.
    “I see you, Cassie!” he shouted, starting toward me as fast as his chubby legs would carry him. “You’re it!”
    “Not ’til you tag me,” I laughed. As I waited for him to get closer, I glanced up into the boughs of my wintry-smelling hiding tree expecting a song of laughter. But the old pine only tapped me gently with one of its long, low branches. I turned from the tree and dashed away.
    “You can’t, you can’t, you can’t catch me,” I taunted, dodging from one beloved tree to the next. Around shaggy-bark hickories and sharp-needled pines, past blue-gray beeches and sturdy black walnuts I sailed while my laughter resounded through the ancient forest, filling every chink. Overhead, the boughs of the giant trees hovered protectively, but they did not join in my laughter.
    Deeper into the forest I plunged.
    Christopher-John, unable to keep up, plopped on the ground in a pant. Little Man and Stacey, emerging from their hiding places, ran up to him.
    “Ain’t you caught her yet?” Little Man demanded, more than a little annoyed.
    “He can’t catch the champ,” I boasted, stopping to rest against a hickory tree. I slid my back down the tree’s shaggy trunk and looked up at its long branches, heavy with sweet nuts and slender green leaves, perfectly still. I looked around at the leaves of the other trees. They were still also. I stared at the trees, aware of an eerie silence descending over the forest.
    Stacey walked toward me. “What’s the matter with you, Cassie?” he asked.
    “The trees, Stacey,” I said softly, “they ain’t singing no more.”
    “Is that all?” He looked up at the sky. “Come on, y’all. It’s getting late. We’d better go pick them berries.” He turned and walked on.
    “But, Stacey, listen. Little Man, Christopher-John, listen.”
    The forest echoed an uneasy silence.
    “The wind just stopped blowing, that’s all,” said Stacey. “Now stop fooling around and come on.”
    I jumped up to follow Stacey, then cried, “Stacey, look!” On a black oak a few yards away was a huge white X. “How did that get there?” I exclaimed, running to the tree.
    “There’s another one!” Little Man screamed.
    “I see one too!” shouted Christopher-John.
    Stacey said nothing as Christopher-John, Little Man and I ran wildly through the forest counting the ghostlike marks.
    “Stacey, they’re on practically all of them,” I said when he called us back. “Why?”
    Stacey studied the trees, then suddenly pushed us down.
    “My clothes!” Little Man wailed indignantly.
    “Hush, Man, and stay down,” Stacey warned. “Somebody’s coming.”
    Two white men emerged. We looked at each other. We knew to be silent.
    “You mark them all down here?” one of the men asked.
    “Not the younger ones, Mr. Andersen.”
    “We might need them, too,” said Mr. Andersen, countingthe X’s. “But don’t worry ’bout marking them now, Tom. We’ll get them later. Also them trees up past the pond toward the house.”
    “The old woman agree to you cutting these trees?”
    “I ain’t been down there yet,” Mr. Andersen said.
    “Mr. Andersen . . .” Tom hesitated a moment, looked up at the silent trees, then back at Mr. Andersen. “Maybe you should go easy with them,” he cautioned. “You know that David can be as mean as an ole jackass when he wanna be.”
    “He’s talking about Papa,” I whispered.
    “Shhhh!” Stacey hissed.
    Mr. Andersen looked uneasy. “What’s that gotta do with anything?”
    “Well, he just don’t take much to any dealings with white folks.” Again, Tom looked up at the trees. “He ain’t afraid like some.”
    Mr. Andersen laughed weakly. “Don’t worry ’bout that, Tom. The land belongs to his mama. He don’t have