The Land by Mildred D. Taylor Read Free Book Online

place, and it was Mitchell who got me out of it. Those boys came along and started picking on me. There were four of them, and since my brothers weren’t around and, at the moment, neither was Mitchell, I suppose they figured they could get away with it.
    â€œJus’ look at that little nigger white boy sittin’ there on the bank got nothin’ t’ do,” said a boy I recognized as R. T. Roberts. “Got nothin’ t’ do but sit there lookin’ at some fool book.”
    â€œWell, if I had me a white daddy who own the place, ’spect I wouldn’t have nothin’ t’ do neither,” said another.
    I glanced up at them, but I said nothing.
    â€œLet’s see jus’ what ya got there, nigger white boy,” said R.T. Then he grabbed the book right out of my hands. That’s when I jumped up, but I still said nothing. “Now, let’s see what this here is.” R.T. flipped through the pages.
    â€œGot no pictures,” observed one of the boys.
    â€œWhat’s them words?” asked another, peering over.
    â€œDon’t know,” said R.T. “Jus’ know they white folks’ words.” Then he looked at me. “What ya doin’ usin’ white folks’ words, boy?” he barked at me, imitating the way I’d heard white men speak to black folks. He and the other boys broke into laughter.
    â€œIt’s called English,” I said, breaking my silence. “Anybody wants to read it can learn to read it.”
    The boys scoffed at my words. “So, maybe you want t’ teach us, same as you teachin’ Mitchell, huh?”
    I shrugged. “You want to learn, I will.”
    â€œYeah . . .” sneered another. “We got our own schools now, and we wanted t’ learn any of that stuff, we’d be goin’ there. We’d hardly be takin’ any teachin’ from the likes of you. You with yo’ white daddy.”
    By now I was tired of folks putting me down because of my daddy. My daddy was a white man and there was nothing I could do about it, so I figured I might as well make use of the fact. “That’s right,” I said. “I’ve got a white daddy, all right, and you’re standing on his land. Maybe you’d like to get off it.”
    The boy who had made the remark about my daddy stepped toward me, but R.T. put up his hand and stopped him. “Now wait a minute, wait a minute,” he said. “Maybe this here boy Paul gots a point ’bout readin’. Maybe he can teach us somethin’. Let’s see now . . . maybe he can teach us how t’ read this here—” He tore a page from the book and thrust it at me.
    â€œDon’t do that!” I cried.
    â€œOr maybe this one here.” Another boy ripped out a second page.
    â€œStop it!”
    â€œYa know somethin’?” said R.T. “I don’t much like this book no ways, seein’ it ain’t got no pictures, and what I don’t like, I don’t tolerate!” Then he grabbed a handful of pages and tore them from the binding.
    With that I threw myself at R.T., punching him with all my might. I had learned how to fight well enough to defend myself, but I certainly wasn’t capable of fighting four boys at once, and they let me know that too. They laughed and all of them had a shot at me—that is, until Mitchell Thomas came along. There was a sudden silence before I even knew Mitchell was there. All I knew was that R.T., who was beating at my face, was suddenly jerked away, and laid out flat to the ground with a thunderous pop. Then I saw Mitchell through the slit of my swollen eye. He stood over R.T. and pointed to me. “Now, anybody want at this boy’ll hafta fight me,” he said calmly.
    All the boys were silent at first, then one of them laughed nervously. “Ah, we was jus’ joshin’ wit’ him, Mitchell.”
    â€œYeah,” said another.