Song of the Trees

  PRAISE FOR

  SONG OF THE TREES

  “A triumphant book . . . A true story truly told.”

  —The New York Times

  “Brings to light the incredible fight for respect and honor still facing black families in the United States in the twentieth century.”

  —Children’s Literature

  “A moving story that manifests two simple, strongly felt emotions: a love of nature and a sense of self-respect.”

  —Booklist

  “The simple story has been written with great conviction and strength, and Cassie’s descriptions of the trees add a poetic touch.”

  —The Horn Book

  WINNER OF THE COUNCIL ON INTERRACIAL BOOKS AWARD

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  First published in the United States of America by Dial Books for Young Readers, a division of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 1975

  Published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 2003

  This edition published by Puffin Books, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2016

  Text copyright © 1975 by Mildred D. Taylor

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE DIAL BOOKS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Taylor, Mildred D., Song of the trees.

  [1. Trees—Fiction. 2. Depressions—1929—Fiction.]

  I. Pinkney, Jerry, ill. II. Title.

  PZ7.T21723So [Fic] 74-18598

  ISBN: 978-1-101-66627-2

  Book design by Cara Petrus

  Version_1

  This book is dedicated:

  To my mother, Mrs. Deletha M. Taylor, the quiet, lovely one, who urged perseverance;

  To my father, Mr. Wilbert L. Taylor, the strong, steadfast one, who wove the tales of history;

  To my sister, Miss Wilma M. Taylor, the beautiful, laughing one, who lifted my spirits high;

  and

  To my grandparents, Mrs. Lee Annie Bryant, Mr. Hugh Taylor, and Mrs. Lou Emma Taylor, the wise ones, who bridged the generations between slavery and freedom;

  and

  To the Family, who fought and survived.

  Table of Contents

  Praise for Song of the Trees

  Logan Family Tree

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Song of the Trees

  Excerpt from Mildred D. Taylor’s Newbery Award–Winning Novel—

  1

  About the Author

  This book is based on a true story, one that actually happened in my family. As a small child, I often listened to my father recount his adventures growing up in rural Mississippi during the Depression. His vivid description of the giant trees, the coming of the lumbermen, and the events that followed made me feel that I too was present. I hope my readers will be as moved by the story as I was.

  Mildred D. Taylor

  October 1974

  “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 room. “You fought over that stupid stain yesterday. Now get moving, both of you. We gotta go pick blackberries before the sun gets too high. Little Man, you go gather the eggs while Christopher-John and me milk the cows.”

  Little Man and I decided to settle our dispute later when Stacey wasn’t around. With Papa away, eleven-year-old Stacey thought of himself as the man
of the house, and Mama had instructed Little Man, Christopher-John, and me to mind him. So, like it or not, we humored him. Besides, he was bigger than we were.

  I ran to the back porch to wash. When I returned to the kitchen, Mama was talking to Big Ma.

  “We got about enough flour for two more meals,” Mama said, cutting the biscuit dough. “Our salt and sugar are practically down to nothing and ——” She stopped when she saw me. “Cassie, baby, go gather the eggs for Mama.”

  “Little Man’s gathering the eggs.”

  “Then go help him.”

  “But I ain’t set the table yet.”

  “Set it when you come back.”

  I knew that I was not wanted in the kitchen. I looked suspiciously at my mother and grandmother, then went to the back porch to get a basket.

  Big Ma’s voice drifted through the open window. “Mary, you oughta write David and tell him somebody done opened his letter and stole that ten dollars he sent,” she said.

  “No, Mama. David’s got enough on his mind. Besides, there’s enough garden foods so we won’t go hungry.”

  “But what ’bout your medicine? You’re all out of it and the doctor told you good to ——”

  “Shhhh!” Mama stared at the window. “Cassie, I thought I told you to go gather those eggs!”

  “I had to get a basket, Mama!” I hurried off the porch and ran to the barn.

  After breakfast when the sun was streaking red across the sky, my brothers and I ambled into the coolness of the forest leading our three cows and their calves down the narrow cow path to the pond. The morning was already muggy, but the trees closed out the heat as their leaves waved restlessly, high above our heads.

  “Good morning, Mr. Trees,” I shouted. They answered me with a soft, swooshing sound. “Hear ’em, Stacey? Hear ’em singing?”

  “Ah, cut that out, Cassie. Them trees ain’t singing. How many times I gotta tell you that’s just the wind?” He stopped at a sweet alligator gum, pulled out his knife and scraped off a glob of gum that had seeped through its cracked bark. He handed me half.

  As I stuffed the gooey wad into my mouth, I patted the tree and whispered, “Thank you, Mr. Gum Tree.”

  Stacey frowned at me, then looked back at Christopher-John and Little Man walking far behind us, munching on their breakfast biscuits.

  “Man! Christopher-John! Come on, now,” he yelled. “If we finish the berry picking early, we can go wading before we go back.”

  Christopher-John and Little Man ran to catch up with us. Then, resuming their leisurely pace, they soon fell behind again.

  A large gray squirrel scurried across our path and up a walnut tree. I watched until it was settled amidst the tree’s featherlike leaves; then, poking one of the calves, I said, “Stacey, is Mama sick?”

  “Sick? Why you say that?”

  “Cause I heard Big Ma asking her ’bout some medicine she’s supposed to have.”

  Stacey stopped, a worried look on his face. “If she’s sick, she ain’t bad sick,” he decided. “If she was bad sick, she’d been in bed.”

  We left the cows at the pond and, taking our berry baskets, delved deeper into the forest looking for the wild blackberry bushes.

  “I see one!” I shouted.

  “Where?” cried Christopher-John, eager for the sweet berries.

  “Over there! Last one to it’s a rotten egg!” I yelled, and off I ran.

  Stacey and Little Man followed at my heels. But Christopher-John puffed far behind. “Hey, wait for me,” he cried.

  “Let’s hide from Christopher-John,” Stacey suggested.

  The three of us ran in different directions. I plunged behind a giant old pine and 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, counting the 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 no say in it. Besides, I guess I oughta know how to handle David Logan. After all, there are ways . . . .

  “Now, you get on back to my place and get some boys and start chopping down these tre
es,” Mr. Andersen said. “I’ll go talk to the old woman.” He looked up at the sky. “We can almost get a full day’s work in if we hurry.”

  Mr. Andersen turned to walk away, but Tom stopped him. “Mr. Andersen, you really gonna chop all the trees?”

  “If I need to. These folks ain’t got no call for them. I do. I got me a good contract for these trees and I aim to fulfill it.”

  Tom watched Mr. Andersen walk away; then, looking sorrowfully up at the trees, he shook his head and disappeared into the depths of the forest.

  “What we gonna do, Stacey?” I asked anxiously. “They can’t just cut down our trees, can they?”

  “I don’t know. Papa’s gone . . .” Stacey muttered to himself, trying to decide what we should do next.

  “Boy, if Papa was here, them ole white men wouldn’t be messing with our trees,” Little Man declared.

  “Yeah!” Christopher-John agreed. “Just let Papa get hold of ’em and he gonna turn ’em every which way but loose.”

  “Christopher-John, Man,” Stacey said finally, “go get the cows and take them home.”

  “But we just brought them down here,” Little Man protested.

  “And we gotta pick the berries for dinner,” said Christopher-John mournfully.

  “No time for that now. Hurry up. And stay clear of them white men. Cassie, you come with me.”

  We ran, brown legs and feet flying high through the still forest.

  By the time Stacey and I arrived at the house, Mr. Andersen’s car was already parked in the dusty drive. Mr. Andersen himself was seated comfortably in Papa’s rocker on the front porch. Big Ma was seated too, but Mama was standing.

  Stacey and I eased quietly to the side of the porch, unnoticed.

  “Sixty-five dollars. That’s an awful lot of money in these hard times, Aunt Caroline,” Mr. Andersen was saying to Big Ma.

  I could see Mama’s thin face harden.

  “You know,” Mr. Andersen said, rocking familiarly in Papa’s chair, “that’s more than David can send home in two months.”

  “We do quite well on what David sends home,” Mama said coldly.

  Mr. Andersen stopped rocking. “I suggest you encourage Aunt Caroline to sell them trees, Mary. You know, David might not always be able to work so good. He could possibly have . . . an accident.”