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Authors: Karen Cushman
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had dried the grass and turned the oats yellow too soon, but the berry bushes still tangled along the creek.
I quickly settled into the work. From late morning to noon I'd read in the shade of a tree. At noon I'd eat my biscuits and cold gravy. Early afternoon, yearning for the cool waters of spring, I'd stick my feet in the warm, sticky mud of the creek and read some more. Late afternoon would find me running from bush to bush, grabbing frantically at whatever berries I could reach. And at night I'd try and explain to Mama why berry picking was going so slow.
After several days of this I reached an especially exciting part of the book, and before I knew it, late afternoon was almost gone and the first evening stars were getting ready to come out. I jumped up and ran for the buckets.
They were full.
From a bush came a voice, slow and soft: "Don't be scared, missy. I noted that you looked to be running out of daylight afore you run out of book, so I thought to lend a hand."
"Thank you," I whispered, and took off for home, buckets bouncing and spilling berries all the way, wondering was it elves or fairies or was God speaking to me from a bush the way He spoke to Moses.
The next day I looked around a little for tiny footprints or signs of burning before I sat down to read.
"Morning, missy," said the voice from the bush. "Looks like we're in the same business, you hunting God's bounty in the bushes and me in the creeks."
The stranger parted the bushes and looked through. He was no elf or fairy. He was a grown man with curly hair and whiskers. And he was brown. Very brown. Not like the sailors from the Sandwich Islands we had seen in San Francisco. Browner. He was not an Indian, for he wore more clothes than the Indians I'd seen around Lucky Diggins. Nor was he from South America like Friday in
Robinson Crusoe,
for his hair was not long and straight like Friday's.
I had never met a brown man before. There were none in our small Massachusetts town. I had heard that the barber in Acorn was the kind of brown man called colored man. Was this a colored man like the barber? My thoughts were so busy I stood stock-still and stared.
The brown man came out from behind the bush, lifted his pan in a salute, and walked down to the creek, where he swished that pan in the muddy ooze all day trying to wash gold from the gravel. I picked some and then ran home to help Mama make soap.
"Mama," I said, carrying out a bucket of meat scraps and bacon grease, "I saw a brown man. A colored man."
Mama looked up from the bubbling tub but said nothing. I could barely see her for the smoke from the fire and the steam rising from the kettle.
"Why are some people brown?" I asked her.
"Some people are brown like some people got red hair. We all belong to God," Mama said, stirring the boiling fat and ashes in the kettle.
"Are colored people same as us?"
"Probably have harder lives but otherwise I reckon so, though not everybody agrees. Some people think what you look like makes you what you are." Mama straightened up and stretched. "Only have to know Jimmy Whiskers to know that ain't so, such a good gentle heart in such an ugly bear of a man."
I saw the brown man every day as I continued picking berries and soon came to trust his soft voice, sad eyes, and kind face behind the scruffy beard. Sometimes he spoke, sometimes not. Sometimes he left me berries or greens, pigweed or miner's lettuce, which I took home for supper.
His name was Joe. He sang while he worked, songs full of sadness and longing.
"What you readin' there, missy?" he asked once.
"A tale of romance and adventure," I said.
Well, nothing would do then but for him to join me. Soon we were both sitting with our feet in the mud of Ranger Creek, swapping stories. He told me of Anansi the Spider, old John and the Devil, and Bruh Rabbit,
who was puny but smart. Then I would read out loud a spell. He greatly admired my reading and asked all the right questions: "Lord, what made him do
I quickly settled into the work. From late morning to noon I'd read in the shade of a tree. At noon I'd eat my biscuits and cold gravy. Early afternoon, yearning for the cool waters of spring, I'd stick my feet in the warm, sticky mud of the creek and read some more. Late afternoon would find me running from bush to bush, grabbing frantically at whatever berries I could reach. And at night I'd try and explain to Mama why berry picking was going so slow.
After several days of this I reached an especially exciting part of the book, and before I knew it, late afternoon was almost gone and the first evening stars were getting ready to come out. I jumped up and ran for the buckets.
They were full.
From a bush came a voice, slow and soft: "Don't be scared, missy. I noted that you looked to be running out of daylight afore you run out of book, so I thought to lend a hand."
"Thank you," I whispered, and took off for home, buckets bouncing and spilling berries all the way, wondering was it elves or fairies or was God speaking to me from a bush the way He spoke to Moses.
The next day I looked around a little for tiny footprints or signs of burning before I sat down to read.
"Morning, missy," said the voice from the bush. "Looks like we're in the same business, you hunting God's bounty in the bushes and me in the creeks."
The stranger parted the bushes and looked through. He was no elf or fairy. He was a grown man with curly hair and whiskers. And he was brown. Very brown. Not like the sailors from the Sandwich Islands we had seen in San Francisco. Browner. He was not an Indian, for he wore more clothes than the Indians I'd seen around Lucky Diggins. Nor was he from South America like Friday in
Robinson Crusoe,
for his hair was not long and straight like Friday's.
I had never met a brown man before. There were none in our small Massachusetts town. I had heard that the barber in Acorn was the kind of brown man called colored man. Was this a colored man like the barber? My thoughts were so busy I stood stock-still and stared.
The brown man came out from behind the bush, lifted his pan in a salute, and walked down to the creek, where he swished that pan in the muddy ooze all day trying to wash gold from the gravel. I picked some and then ran home to help Mama make soap.
"Mama," I said, carrying out a bucket of meat scraps and bacon grease, "I saw a brown man. A colored man."
Mama looked up from the bubbling tub but said nothing. I could barely see her for the smoke from the fire and the steam rising from the kettle.
"Why are some people brown?" I asked her.
"Some people are brown like some people got red hair. We all belong to God," Mama said, stirring the boiling fat and ashes in the kettle.
"Are colored people same as us?"
"Probably have harder lives but otherwise I reckon so, though not everybody agrees. Some people think what you look like makes you what you are." Mama straightened up and stretched. "Only have to know Jimmy Whiskers to know that ain't so, such a good gentle heart in such an ugly bear of a man."
I saw the brown man every day as I continued picking berries and soon came to trust his soft voice, sad eyes, and kind face behind the scruffy beard. Sometimes he spoke, sometimes not. Sometimes he left me berries or greens, pigweed or miner's lettuce, which I took home for supper.
His name was Joe. He sang while he worked, songs full of sadness and longing.
"What you readin' there, missy?" he asked once.
"A tale of romance and adventure," I said.
Well, nothing would do then but for him to join me. Soon we were both sitting with our feet in the mud of Ranger Creek, swapping stories. He told me of Anansi the Spider, old John and the Devil, and Bruh Rabbit,
who was puny but smart. Then I would read out loud a spell. He greatly admired my reading and asked all the right questions: "Lord, what made him do
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