The Color of Your Skin Ain’t the Color of Your Heart by Michael Phillips Read Free Book Online Page A

yere wagon hitched up!”
    Jeremiah looked at me and without another word we both started running for the house to fetch a horse.
    Suddenly a terrific blast of thunder exploded above us.
    “Hurry, Jeremiah—we ain’t got no time ter lose.—Miz Kathleen,” he called to Katie, “come wiff me … we gots ter git dat udder wagon under cover!”
    Within seconds a few huge drops of rain began to fall on my face. Jeremiah and I reached the barn well ahead of Henry and Katie, who were hurrying as quickly as they could. Jeremiah glanced around. I grabbed his hand and led him to the corral. Three minutes later we were racing back to the field with horse and harness. At the same time Henry and Katie were just beginning to hitch up another horse to pull the full wagon of cotton we’d already baled into the barn and out of the rain.
    As Jeremiah and I fussed with the harness, already my face was wet. Then another clap of thunder sounded and all at once the sky seemed to open. I jumped up onto the seat and grabbed the reins. Jeremiah leapt up beside me. I yelled at the horse and off we clattered toward the house as the rain poured down in torrents. By the time we flew into the wide-open doors, Jeremiah and I were soaked to the skin. My dress was clinging to me and water was dripping from my hair and ears and chin. The two horses were in a frenzy of excitement from the rain and sudden exertion and the close quarters of the barn. It was all we could do to calm them down and prevent them from hurting themselves, or one of us. Henry hurried quickly to them and began talking to them and stroking their noses one at a time while Jeremiah and I unfastened the harnesses and got them free from the wagons.
    Ten minutes later the two horses were back in their stalls munching on some oats. Katie had just run back from the house with a handful of towels and we all dried our hands and faces. She was exuberant and flushed with the excitement of it all, still not aware of the danger.
    After wiping his hands, Henry was leaning over the rail of the wagon of loose cotton, running his hand through it, reaching down to the bottom and pulling out handful after handful to feel how wet it was. Gradually Katie began to realize how serious Henry’s expression was.
    “It’s all right, isn’t it, Henry?” she asked.
    “I reckon we got it in time though we shuldn’t a waited so long,” he said thoughtfully. “Effen dere’s one thing cotton don’ like it’s gettin’ too wet an’ gettin’ full er mildew. But dis is loose an’ it’ll dry up. An’ fer dese bales,” he said, now walking over to the other wagon and running his hand over the edge of one of the bales, “hit’s tight enuff to a kep’ much rain gittin’ to it. I reckon Mr. Watson’ll take it—he’s a good man.”
    He sighed and glanced around, then walked to the big open doors and took a couple steps outside, where he stood under the overhang of the roof and stared out. The rain was pouring down in sheets so hard you could barely see the house a hundred and fifty feet away.
    “Unforturnat’ly, Miz Kathleen,” he said as he stood staring out into the storm, “hit ain’t dis yere cotton I’m a worryin’ ’bout.”
    “What do you mean, Henry?” asked Katie, walking up beside him and glancing up into his face.
    “I mean hit’s da cotton still out dere in dem fields dat we gotter be worried ’bout.”
    “Why … can’t we just pick the rest of it when the rain stops?”
    “Effen da rain stop soon, I reckon we might at dat,” said Henry. “But it’s gotter stop real soon, Miz Kathleen— real soon. Effen it rain like dis fer jes’ anudder hour er two an’ dat cotton goes down, den it’s no good an’ da whole crop be los’.”
    “Lost!” gasped Katie.
    “Effen it gits soakin’ wet an’ full er mud an’ hit’s jest layin’ dere in da dirt, ain’t dat cotton no good ter nobody. Hit can’t be picked den, Miz Kathleen—not when hit’s down.”
    “But …