Free Song of the Trees by Mildred D. Taylor

 
    “Cassie. Cassie, child, wake up now,” Big Ma called gently as the new sun peeked over the horizon.
    I looked sleepily at my grandmother and closed my eyes again.
    “Cassie! Get up, girl!” This time the voice was not so gentle.
    I jumped out of the deep feathery bed as Big Ma climbed from the other side. The room was still dark, and I stubbed my toe while stumbling sleepily about looking for my clothes.
    “Shoot! Darn ole chair,” I fussed, rubbing my injured foot.
    “Hush, Cassie, and open them curtains if you can’t see,” Big Ma said. “Prop that window open, too, and let some of that fresh morning air in here.”
    I opened the window and looked outside. The earth was draped in a cloak of gray mist as the sun chased the night away. The cotton stalks, which in another hour would glisten greenly toward the sun, were gray. The ripening corn, wrapped in jackets of emerald and gold, was gray. Even the rich brown Mississippi earth was gray.
    Only the trees of the forest were not gray. They stood dark, almost black, across the dusty road, still holding the night. A soft breeze stirred, and their voices whispered down to me in a song of morning greeting.
    “Cassie, girl, I said open that window, not stand there gazing out all morning. Now, get moving before I take something to you,” Big Ma threatened.
    I dashed to my clothes. Before Big Ma had unwoven her long braid of gray hair, my pants and shirt were on and I was hurrying into the kitchen.
    A small kerosine lamp was burning in a corner as I entered. Its light reflected on seven-year-old Christopher-John, short, pudgy and a year younger than me, sitting sleepily upon a side bench drinking a large glass of clabber milk. Mama’s back was to me. She was dipping flour from a near-empty canister, while my older brother, Stacey, built a fire in the huge iron-bellied stove.
    “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you, Christopher-John,” Mama scolded. “Getting up in the middle of the night and eating all that cornbread. Didn’t you have enough to eat before you went to bed?”
    “Yes’m,” Christopher-John murmured.
    “Lord knows I don’t want any of my babies going hungry, but times are hard, honey. Don’t you know folks all around here in Mississippi are struggling? Children crying cause they got no food to eat, and their daddies crying cause they can’t get jobs so they can feed their babies? And you getting up in the middle of the night, stuffing yourself with cornbread!”
    Her voice softened as she looked at the sleepy little boy. “Baby, we’re in a depression. Why do you think Papa’s way down in Louisiana laying tracks on the railroad? So his children can eat—but only when they’re hungry. You understand?”
    “Yes’m,” Christopher-John murmured again as his eyes slid blissfully shut.
    “Morning, Mama,” I chimed.
    “Morning, baby,” Mama said. “You wash up yet?”
    “No’m.”
    “Then go wash up and call Little Man again. Tell him he’s not dressing to meet President Roosevelt this morning. Hurry up now cause I want you to set the table.”
    Little Man, a very small six-year-old and a most finicky dresser, was brushing his hair when I entered the room he shared with Stacey and Christopher-John. His blue pants were faded, but except for a small grass stain on one knee, they were clean. Outside of his Sunday pants, these were the only pants he had, and he was always careful to keep them in the best condition possible. But one look at him and I knew that he was far from pleased with their condition this morning. He frowned down at the spot for a moment, then continued brushing.
    “Man, hurry up and get dressed,” I called. “Mama said you ain’t dressing to meet the president.”
    “See there,” he said, pointing at the stain. “You did that.”
    “I did no such thing. You fell all by yourself.”
    “You tripped me!”
    “Didn’t!”
    “Did, too!”
    “Hey, cut it out, you two!” ordered Stacey, entering the